A spark of recognition in his eyes this time.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait, I think I do remember. “Just like the Twilight Zone.”’

I nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Is that the case that you think Beatrix might be tied to?’

‘Patrick Perry lived there,’ I said, by way of a reply.

‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

‘He never talked about it with you?’

‘The village? No.’

‘Okay.’ I pushed on. ‘Okay, so what about –’

The sound of a phone shattered the silence. As it rang, its tone seemed to be coming from three or four different parts of the house.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, David. I switched off my mobile, but I forgot to put the house phone on mute.’

‘Can it wait?’ I asked. ‘I’m almost done.’

‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ Zaid replied, and then he hauled himself up off the sofa. ‘There’s beer and wine in the fridge. Help yourself.’

He smiled and headed down the second hallway, towards the main bedroom at the end. As he got there, he grabbed a phone off the wall just inside the room, and I heard him say, ‘Robert Zaid,’ before pushing the door shut with the edge of his foot.

The house quietened again.

I looked at my notes for a moment, annoyed at being made to wait, and went back over what Zaid and I had just talked about. That lingering sense that something had been left unsaid didn’t go – but I couldn’t see the deceit in what I’d written down.

I took out my phone, checking for messages.

There was no signal.

There was Wi-Fi – and an invitation soon popped up to join Zaid’s home network – but it required a password I didn’t have. Other than that, I had no bars at all. How could I be right in the heart of London and have no reception?

Getting up, I went through to the garden room, standing at the doorway that led out to the lawn. Nothing. I tried the door, hoping it might open – that I might be able to go outside – but as soon as I pressed down on it, I heard a gentle beep from elsewhere and remembered how Zaid had locked up the house after I’d first arrived. At the time, it had seemed like the understandable actions of a wealthy man concerned about his security; now, being sealed in, it only fed my sense of unease.

I moved around the sunken living room, into the hallway with the gym and the shower room, trying to find a signal in there, then headed back out again. Opposite me, I could see along the hallway where Zaid had gone, the door of his bedroom still shut. Behind me was the wall of photographs, full of shots of Zaid – bigger, smaller, fatter, thinner; shaking hands, standing in front of landmarks – that I’d noticed earlier on.