I don’t think he knew the details – where I was and why – but I didn’t see any reason he needed to know. ‘Well, I’ve been better, Dave, I’m not going to lie . . . but I’ve been worse an’ all, so no point belly-aching about it, is there?’

‘No, I suppose—’

‘I need a favour.’

‘Right.’ I could hear the panic in his voice. ‘What sort of favour?’

‘I need intel on a suspect.’

‘A suspect?’ He clearly knew enough.

‘On an individual, all right? Less you know about it the better . . . but I need financials, yeah? What has this woman got in the bank? Savings, mortgage, credit report, all that. Basically I need to know if she’s got more money than she should have.’

‘Right, and how exactly are you expecting me to find all this out?’

‘Oh, come on, Dave.’ If I still had access to the Police National Computer I could easily have got the information I needed myself. But that avenue of inquiry had been taken away along with everything else, which is precisely why I was asking Dinham. Why was he making it so difficult? ‘Five minutes on the PNC.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Five minutes.’

‘Look, I don’t know how long you’ve been . . . I mean have you forgotten all this stuff?’

‘I haven’t forgotten anything,’ I said.

‘In which case you know that the minute I log on I’ve left a digital fingerprint. Everything I search for is a matter of record and I’d need to provide a very good reason why I was searching for it. I couldn’t even run a number plate for you, and unless this individual gives their consent I’d need a court order to access their bank details.’

I could hear that he was breathing quite heavily. I imagined him sweating a bit, knuckles white around the steering wheel. I almost felt sorry for him. I said, ‘I need this.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Alice, it’s a sackable offence.’

‘How long have we known each other, Dave?’

‘Are you not listening—’

‘I need this.’

For almost a minute all I could hear was the rasp of his breathing again and the growl of traffic. Finally, finally, he said, ‘Look, there might be another way.’

I waited.

I ran my finger down the crack in the wall next to my wardrobe.

I pushed a fingernail in and began to dig at it . . .

‘There’s a bloke I know,’ he said. ‘Ex-Job, running a private investigation and intelligence firm.’

‘Really?’ I knew what that meant. Some boozed-up old saddo sitting in a car spying on unfaithful husbands and wives.

‘Actually, he’s got a decent set-up. I think he can find out pretty much anything. I don’t know exactly how he does it and I don’t really want to know . . . but I reckon he could get what you’re after.’