‘Yeah, embarrassing,’ I said. I was starting to feel a bit wobbly. In the past, my legs had betrayed me when others were watching and it was a misfortune I wanted to avoid with Pierce. Especially as it was all going well so far – my lateness barely remarked upon, not having to compete with Alan, Pierce proving chatty, not the surly, laconic artist-hermit I had expected. ‘He should update it.’

‘Ha, yes,’ said Pierce. ‘S.T.F.U., maybe.’

I returned to the sofa. ‘Did Alan get any pictures of you with the map?’ I asked, full of hope. It would make a great opening-spread image, Pierce against this conspiracy-theorist palimpsest, the city and the surgeon of its dark heart. What a way into the piece. It would write itself.

Pierce approached carrying a tray, on which there were two steaming mugs, a bowl of sugar and a milk jug. This struck me as a touch genteel, the little white milk jug in particular, which isn’t bad as material goes – people acting against type. What would an ‘in character’ Oliver Pierce have offered me? Supermarket whisky? A line of speed? A punch to the throat?

Mention of the map made Pierce wince again. He settled into an armchair. ‘Yeah, he did. But do you have to talk about the map? Like I say, I’ve been meaning to get rid of it.’

‘Sorry. It’s hard to ignore. Perhaps if you told me what it was for, and why it’s not needed any more … Wait, hang on.’ I didn’t want to take any chances with this, and fished my other DVR from my bag. ‘Do you mind if I record this?’

Pierce shook his head, assenting. I turned on the DVR and set it on the coffee table between us. Two DVRs, one on the table, one in my pocket – one would have to work.