‘I believe it’s on the rise. The therapy detects REM brainwaves and activates a chemical that stops you sleepwalking, apparently. They may have gone a bit beyond that, actually. I haven’t read the papers, only the abstracts.’

Reading abstracts sounds strenuous. I guess this is why I have a 2:2 from Excelsior-Barking. I struggle to apply myself.

‘Very nice, but like I told you, Mel’s problem isn’t sleepwalking. It’s the other thing, the creepy guy.’

I take a look anyway. I’m curious. O sometimes mentions Imperial, but she’s never been clear about what she did there: whether she taught, or studied, or worked. By her own admission she hasn’t got a degree and she doesn’t come up on their website. I’ve already snooped. So I’m kind of assuming she’s hacked into the alumni website, which is normal for someone like O. It must be hard for her not to hack into everyone’s everything, like Superman resisting using his X-ray vision.

‘My contact’s name is Meera Bhango. She’s very gifted and much in demand, and she has the backing of a silent partner.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Someone with deep pockets is behind this. Anything Bhango is involved in has got to be worth a look. If you click through you’ll get the company website, but they haven’t put any of what I’m telling you up publicly yet. They’re only looking for participants for their study.’

The logo is a purple Celtic spiral and the company name is Little Bird. I go to their website in case it jogs my memory, but there isn’t a lot to see. Under ‘About Us’ there are photographs of a woman – Meera, I presume – and a guy. He’s very tall, dark-haired, hirsute and serious-looking.

‘I know that guy,’ I mutter. ‘Where do I know him from? He’s so familiar. Not a client. Not from school. Not from work. How do I know him?’

O leans in to look over my shoulder. ‘Bernard Zborowski. Never heard of him.’

‘I wonder if I know him through Shandy . . . Oh, it’s so close, like I can almost get it but—’

‘Stop trying to remember. Think about something else and it will come to you.’

I gather up the plates and glasses and carry everything into the kitchen, accompanied by Edgar, presumably still rattled after Jez’s visit. I offer him a piece of cheese but he only sniffs it.

‘Do you want generic-brand-addictive-cat-treats?’ I say in my baby-cat voice. Edgar’s pupils dilate when he hears his favourite word. I get the generic-brand-addictive-cat-treats out of the tippy-top cupboard and shake two into my palm. Then it comes to me. Where I’ve seen Bernard Z before.

What a bloody coincidence. I almost can’t believe it. Excited, I raise my voice.