She leans forward, a mixture of professional interest and gossip gateway, listening to my perfectly related sorry tale. Official version, obviously. I end with the call from DS Percy and Eileen places her notebook on the table in front of her.

‘Good God, as if you haven’t gone through enough. All you’re trying to do is build a new life and this is what you get.’ She pours another coffee. ‘You’d think that they’d have better things to do.’

I stare at her. Yes, you would. But I know you, Jack. I know how you would insist, get your fucking bent solicitor to push the police. I’m choosing another doughnut and when I look up Eileen is holding out a brown A4 envelope. At first I think it’s bad news, but she’s smiling. ‘This came for you. It was left in the common room.’

She watches as I open it. I make sure that it’s raised and facing me and it’s just as well because it’s some pictures. Of me. And the guy at the Premier Inn. Not just the guy from last night, though. The one before him. From what I can remember. How the fuck has someone taken these? I feel my pulse quicken. I flick through them and thank God that they haven’t gone as far as you. They’re of me and the men dancing and kissing, still bad but at least we’re not having sex. They’re all taken before we go to the purple room.

‘Thanks, Eileen. Just some research I requested.’

I’m guarded. Previous experience of talking while shocked has taught me to only ask very basic questions.

‘Oh. Right. So. Shall we get started?’

I pick up another doughnut and begin to eat it.

‘Yeah.’

I’m chewing and thinking. Casting my mind back two weeks. Four drunken excursions ago. Walker Street. The one with the cheap crystal light fittings behind the bar. Pissed-up me feeling like a million dollars. I’d even ordered champagne.

I swallow the last of the doughnut. Naturally, I haven’t told Eileen about my penchant for married businessmen when I’m pissed. How I sometimes drove to my destination. How I exchanged my Boden clothes for online trashy underwear and mass-produced throwaway tat, courtesy of eBay. None of this would help me keep my job, and this is what I’m here for.

Eileen fills me in on the research project and I nod in the right places. I’m itching to look at the photographs, examine them. But I need to get through this first. Eventually she’s done.

‘Right. Back to you. So what will you do about this mess? With your ex?’