‘Coincidence? From what I’ve seen so far I think Huisman’s much more interesting. He was Lucie Muller’s boyfriend, he’s clearly a shitbag, and you yourself said you’d liked him for it at the time.’

‘I know, it’s just …’

Vermeer’s phone rings. She wipes her hands before answering.

‘What do you mean delayed? That’s not good enough. I need it now. Yeah? Really? How about this, I don’t care. I need that warrant and you’d better get it to me.’ She hangs up and goes back to her mussels.

‘They’re saying another couple of hours.’

Which gives me the opening I need.

‘How about we go and see Marianne Kleine’s father in the meantime?’

She slurps down another couple of mussels, discarded shells tinkling as they hit the bowl.

‘All right, anything to make you happy.’

‘It’ll make me ecstatic.’

When we get back to the car we’re met with the sorriest dog in the world, sitting in the back seat with a mournful look which could haunt even the stoniest soul. He perks up when I let him out and toss the remainder of the burger I’d slipped out of the bun onto the ground. On its way down I notice it has a slice of gherkin stuck to the charred flesh. It’s gone in a flash, a greasy stain on the concrete the only evidence it’d ever existed at all.

I let Kush into the back and slide into the passenger seat, only to find Vermeer wiping down the steering wheel. She looks at me like it’s my fault. We move off and Kush sits up, his head almost between ours. He’s panting, then stops suddenly. I turn to look at him just as he burps loudly. The car smells of gherkin the rest of the way.

The doorbell rings and rings. Vermeer turns and shrugs. We’re at Kleine’s property in Vinkeveense Plassen, a massive lake turned into a water sports complex just off the A2. Sporadic plots of land on the shore have been built on with the kind of properties only affordable to those living off the interest of their interest of their interest. To get to it we’d had to abandon the car and walk across a vast flat lawn dotted with large specimen trees, their leaves yellow against a grey sky. Eventually the house itself appeared, a two-storey oblong much like a gigantic shoebox, clad with wood silvered by the weather.

‘I’ll walk round,’ I tell Vermeer.

She nods and keeps her finger on the bell.