‘Yeah. Just waiting for someone. Patrick Wust, you know him?’

‘I do,’ the geek says. ‘Are you the police?’

I see him looking at my Baja hoody with frank scepticism. Though it is the predominantly grey one, I suddenly realize I look like one of those painfully obvious undercover narcotics officers. Jesus. All I need is some dreads and some out-of-date street slang and I’ll be good to go.

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘Oh, riiiiiiiight. Undercover.’ He nods like he’s digging it. ‘I’m Patrick.’

Chief operating officer. Unbelievable. At his age I’d just finished at the academy and still had to wear a uniform.

He leads me into the building and up the stairs to the top floor.

‘We closed down when we heard … the news,’ he says as he fishes out a key chain. ‘But we’re planning on reopening the office tomorrow. I … oh.’

He’s seen what I’ve just spotted, that the door is open a crack.

‘That’s odd.’

I motion for him to step back. Whoever opened the door did so without a key. They used a well-aimed kick. I suddenly wish I hadn’t left Kush in the car. I toe the door open. No gunshots ring out. I step into the room and my heart’s pounding but it’s soon pretty clear that there’s no one hidden inside. The place has been trashed, though. Tables overturned, chairs jumbled up, a water cooler on its side, a large puddle darkening the floorboards. There’s also a ping-pong table which has been split in half, and a series of beanbags have been slit open, tiny white polystyrene balls dancing in the draught I’ve created.

‘Don’t think you’re going to be reopening tomorrow,’ I call out to Patrick who appears in the door frame. ‘You’ve had visitors.’

The coffee place has a mix of Patrick-lookalikes and serves a range of rare coffee from minuscule plantations in far-away and, I’m sure in some cases, made-up countries. The walls are plastered in sepia maps, the current bean menu is chalked up on a large blackboard behind the baristas, and filling the air there’s that jaunty anonymous jazz usually reserved for when you’re stuck in a lift with someone you don’t know who has clearly just farted.

Compared to Rashid’s, this place feels like it’s trying too hard. Especially when the relaxed vibe is shattered by a bearded barista telling me that no dogs are allowed inside, but we’re more than welcome to sit outside. Normally I’d take that to mean I’m more than welcome to spend my money elsewhere, but this is work so I let it slide. We grab a table and order our drinks from a waitress who’s bright and bubbly and probably cries herself to sleep at night, whilst Kush sniffs the ground and ruminates on the inequality still present in twenty-first century Holland.