‘Look, OK, cards on the table, Danny. My editor was actually pretty insistent I get you to agree to this. That story is the only decent thing I’ve written in months and it’s sort of . . .’ He looked down at the floor and cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, I’m on my third warning and I think I might be pretty close to losing my job. I don’t know any influencers or DJs or anything, and I just don’t seem to be able to catch a break with any good stories like the others. I . . . Well, I think I might be a little bit shit for the Double, actually.’ I was immediately glad I hadn’t corrected him on the denographic thing earlier. Easy mistake. ‘When my editor forwarded me the picture your neighbour sent in’ – I bloody knew it – ‘he reckoned he could smell a story when he sniffed one and I had twenty-four hours to come up with it.’

Pete gave me another side-eye to see how he was doing. Right back at you, mate, I thought, because I was way beyond mere suspicions now that he’d taken more than a bit of licence with the truth in that story of his. And, come to think of it, he might be a little less shit than he thought if all those people were supposedly so enamoured of me.

‘Anyway, long story short, I gave your neighbour, Mr, um . . .’ Pete tapped the side of his head. ‘Dundas? Dumpstan? Anyhow, I gave him a call and went from there. By the way, heads up, dude, the guy didn’t have anything good to say about you.’ No kidding. I made a mental note to remember the Dumpstan thing. ‘But that policewoman, that PC Hanley, she was quite nice. Said you had some fascinating theories. Seemed to think the whole thing was pretty funny, actually, and apparently you were very cooperative.’ Ah, Maria, hope springs. And maybe even a little bit interesting?

‘Thing is, Danny, these letters and a possible decent follow-up story on you might be all that’s standing between me and the dole queue at the moment, so if you could see your way clear I’d honestly really appreciate it.’

Oh geez, Pete, you big soft bastard, you know where to get me.

‘Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have a look through them, see if there’s anything I can help out with. It’s just that . . .’ I looked down at the letters in my hand and tried some last-ditch excuses on for size in my head. Emergency happy hour at the Lamb? Secret mission to beyond with Buzz? Righting a couple of decades of wrongs with my sister?

Pete waved at me in a ‘hold on’ motion. ‘Of course, of course, mate. Don’t sweat it. My editor has said I can offer . . .’ It was side-eye city all over again. ‘How does two hundred and fifty pounds sound?’