Stephen shifted one leg backwards over the upper railing, to the delight of the crowd, who gave a stadium-style whoop. Turned out that suicide was a spectator sport. Who knew?

‘Good for you,’ Maclure said, waving a hand vaguely at the police. ‘Do you smoke?’

‘No,’ Stephen said.

‘Me neither. I guess it’s a standard play to offer someone in your situation, a cigarette, right?’

‘I guess,’ Stephen replied.

It was laughable really, having such an inane conversation while he stood on the suicide barrier of a bridge.

‘So, can you give me a reason why you’re doing this? That’s bound to be what interested parties will ask. Not that there even has to be a reason, I get that. Sometimes it’s just down to a feeling.’

Stephen thought about it. The truth was somewhere in between. He’d lost the will to live some time ago on a day-to-day basis but, longer-term, he had no faith in his bipolar disorder ever being effectively treated. He looked at the man with all the questions. Good-looking, athletic, black, slim, with a slight beard growth trimmed to maximise the squareness of his chin. The sort of person you both hated and wanted to be, wrapped into one.

‘I’m bipolar,’ was the answer Stephen settled for.

Maclure nodded. ‘That’s a tough one. And the treatment makes you feel like crap on the good days, so you stop taking it, then all the good days become bad days anyway. Is that about right?’

‘Something like that,’ Stephen said.

Only the truth was exactly like that and, annoyingly, he could never have put it that concisely, even though he was the one living it.

‘But you’re still alive. You’re making it work. You have a mobile phone, which means you contact people. That’s a great start. This wallet’s pretty thick, which means you’re living a normal life – credit cards, bills, driving licence, I would think, access to cash. You haven’t been reduced to life on the streets. Pretty admirable, given what you’re going through. A lot of people in your situation can’t cope within normal social boundaries at all. You should be proud of yourself.’

That was certainly a new perspective on his life. Pride. Not something many people could have applied to him, however creative they were. Rune Maclure could talk the talk.

‘I need you to tell Rosa that this isn’t her fault,’ Stephen said.

It was time to get down to business and he wasn’t enjoying standing here in the cold.

‘Rosa – girlfriend, I’m guessing. I’ll need a surname if I’m going to be able to trace her.’

‘Her contact details are in my mobile. The security code is 1066. And could you tell her the extension cable is hers. She’ll know what I mean. I just remembered.’

‘So you’ve split up?’ Maclure asked.