‘You can check my medical records. And ask my employers. I’ve never been diagnosed with a mental illness. All my colleagues are psychologists. Experts in mental health. Do you think I’d be allowed to work if I had? Go and ask them. So there’s nothing to trigger. I’m upset about Jack and his mother stopping me seeing my children, obviously. It isn’t fair. That’s what this is about. I’m lonely. That’s why I pick men up. But I’m not mentally ill.’

She makes a note to check my records. She’s frowning and tapping her pencil on the table.

‘Look, he’s coming after you for this bag. Tell me the truth. Have you got it or not?’

Her eyes say ‘off the record’. Her body language tells me that she’s on my side. I can understand why she’s conflicted – I’m the usual suspect, the most likely person to have the bag.

‘I haven’t got it. I can’t say I have when I haven’t.’

I need to get rid of that fucking bag. She shuts the notebook.

‘OK. I believe you. But he and his solicitor don’t. I’d advise you to get your own counsel. You’ll be called as a witness for the Premier Inn cases so it might be wise.’

She gets up and I follow her to the door. She suddenly turns around and touches my arm.

‘Look, I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what’s going on here at all. It all seems interconnected but …’

I feel the anger creep up inside me. Interconnected. I don’t want her getting ideas about you being the one who is sending the photographs to me. That you are the common denominator. I want her to keep thinking it’s about me, keep the focus on me, until Facebook proves what a fucking lying cheating piece of shit you are.

‘I know. It’s really spooking me to think that some stranger has been following me around. Then Jack accusing me of this. It makes me feel … vulnerable.’

This is the magic word to all agencies. Vulnerable. It’s an invisible signal that you are very near the point where you will accuse them of harassment or abuse. That they need to be careful because you are now sensitive to them and their methods. She stares at me again.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …’

‘No, no. You’re just doing your job. Perhaps I will get a solicitor.’

Yes, Lorraine, back the fuck off. So I can move my plan to its conclusion and we’ll all know where we are.