There’s something in what Patrick’s said which has set off a small jolt somewhere in the back of my brain, but I can’t quite work out what. As I’m pondering this, walking back to the car, a man calls out to me. I turn to see the bearded barista taking a break, cigarette in hand.

‘What sort of dog is that?’ he asks, as if trying to make up for earlier. The cigarette hangs precariously from his lips whilst he lets a little bit of smoke escape like he thinks he’s Bogart or something.

‘Chihuahua,’ I tell him. ‘Pure-breed chihuahua.’

I step across to the offices, which have already been taped off, a lone junior officer standing guard. A quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything that looks significant, and I’m just about to leave when it hits me, that little jolt I’d felt when talking to Wust. Marianne Kleine’s father works for a pharma company called DH Biotech, and it strikes me that I have some distant memory of Lucie Muller’s father being on the board of a large pharma company as well.

I drive away with the question buzzing round my head: was it the same one?

Back at the station I find Vermeer in the incident room alone.

‘Lonely at the top.’

‘Hey, Kush,’ she says, ignoring me.

Kush rushes to her and she fusses over him for a minute. He laps it up, a big doggy grin on his face. It’s amazing how quickly he’s wormed his way into her affections; she’s gone from a strict no-dog policy to this in no time at all.

She finally acknowledges my presence. ‘So, what have you got?’

Well, two can play at that game.

‘In a minute.’

I locate a laptop, pull up a browser and launch into cyberspace. By the time I find what I’m looking for the room has a couple of extra people in, some I recognize, and Vermeer looks like she’s calling a meeting. I join them at the round table in the centre.

‘Any updates?’ Vermeer asks me.

‘How about this? A link between the two victims which –’

‘Who has my shoe?’ Jansen demands from the doorway.

Uh-oh. We all turn to look at him, standing there with one shoe in his hand and a bereaved look on his face.

‘What shoe?’ Vermeer fires back, visibly annoyed.

‘The other one of these. Someone’s gone into my desk and taken it and I want it back.’

For some reason he sounds just like a child on the verge of a screaming tantrum. Looks like it too.

‘I’m serious,’ Jansen says. ‘Who’s got it?’

For a moment I wonder if he’s going to burst into tears. I look around to find the man I’d tasked with buying another pair, but he’s not here.