‘Are you actually serious? I don’t owe you anything. We’re not in a relationship, I don’t have to answer your calls, I don’t have to spend one second of my life acknowledging you exist. I told you last time I made the mistake of picking up the phone to you that I had no interest in appearing in your story or your worthless fucking newspaper, and nothing’s changed.’ I stopped, realizing that my voice had become loud. Out on the street, a man and his wife turned and looked at me. I leaned towards McCaskell. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, what story you think the world needs to hear, or what you think I have that’s worth following me around like this, but the one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that I’ll never – never – choose to work with you.’

He nodded. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘For you maybe.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘For both of us.’

I eyed him.

He’d come with a plan.

‘That case you had before Christmas …’ His teeth pressed into his bottom lip and he winced, as if he felt something genuine for me; as if, by osmosis, he too could feel the way that case had turned me inside out, the way all my cases had carved out deep troughs in my life. ‘That was when I realized that this had the potential to be big. People would want to read about this hero, this man who had suffered so much in his personal life but who still had the drive and the desire to help others. Roll in these other, huge investigations – some of which Joe Public doesn’t even realize you were involved in, let alone single-handedly solved – the fact that the Met hate you, basically see you as an enemy of the state, and, well …’ He whistled gently. ‘That’s a spicy story.’

I felt my guts twist but tried not to show it, getting into my car and pulling the door shut. As I started up the engine, he gestured to the crushed bonnet and shouted through the glass: ‘I know you’ve got secrets, David, and not the kind that are going to paint you in a flattering light. I mean, let’s take your mystery pal Bryan Kennedy as an example. He has no bank account, he’s not on the records of the utility companies, he has no National Insurance number, so he’s never been treated at a hospital anywhere, ever – and he doesn’t have a driving licence or an official passport. He’s a ghost. Your ghost.’

I shook my head, as if all of this were ludicrous.

He came forward, putting a hand on the wrinkled bonnet, on the roof, trying to get in the way of me – trying to stop me – even as I began to reverse off the driveway.