I’m taken aback and find myself floundering on the doorstep, wondering what my next move is. What if this woman is the one who has embarked on an elaborate plan to frame me? She must have thought all her Christmases had come at once when she saw me at the door, and now I’m about to walk straight into her trap. I imagine her husband in a soundproofed room in the basement, with just a few inches of concrete between us, and know that I have to go in to make absolutely sure that he isn’t. It’s only as I step over the threshold that I wonder if I might be about to join him.

I almost expect the woman to push me to the ground as soon as she shuts the door behind me, but she directs me into the ‘drawing room on the left’ and tells me Michael will be down shortly.

All my senses are on high alert, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary. I scan the console tables for photos, but the room is too elegant for anything personal to be on show. Instead, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases are filled with tomes I can’t pronounce, let alone recognize, and the two overstuffed sofas facing each other don’t look like they’ve been sat on in years.

There’s mumbled talking from upstairs, but I can’t quite hear what’s being said, or more importantly a voice that I recognize.

What am I going to do if Michael, who I know as Jacob, walks through that door? I’m filled with panic that I may be breaching his confidence, consumed by the thought that I’ve got this all wrong. Were the police really looking for him? Was I honestly the prime suspect in his disappearance? It sounds so preposterous that in that moment, I wonder if I’ve made it all up.

As I hear a male voice getting nearer, I’m unable to separate fact from fiction in my head.

‘Hello, sorry to keep you,’ says a distinguished-looking gentleman who I don’t recognize. ‘Michael Talbot, pleased to meet you.’

A rush of relief floods through me as he shakes my hand and offers me a seat on one of the high cushions.

‘Erm,’ I say, not having anticipated how to handle this eventuality.

‘May I start off by saying that I love the work that you do,’ he says, smiling kindly. ‘And my wife and I are very keen to get involved.’

I’m not sure that I could feel any more wretched than I do now. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, because it’s all that I have to offer. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘Oh?’ he says, taken aback. ‘But I thought—’