The nasal guy I’d spoken to on the phone isn’t quite as brave in person. He tries his best, but Vermeer just steamrolls him and soon we’re sitting down at a desk with the promise of the papers we’d asked for landing imminently. He disappears into a locked room with a double-glazed porthole and returns a few minutes later.

‘Here,’ he says, handing over a light blue folder.

Vermeer takes it and opens it up. Inside are three sheets of names, and a time and date next to each one. The period starts at midday on the day of the trial and ends forty-eight hours later. Another column has a reference number made up of two letters and four numbers.

‘I thought hospitals were supposed to try and keep people alive.’

‘Based on this they’re not doing too well.’

We scan through them, circling each name on the original list. By the time I put down the pen any exhilaration we’d felt on finding their details has faded away.

‘So many?’ Vermeer asks. ‘So many ended up dying?’

I stare at the list again. I can’t believe it either. I pull out the photos. Stephanie had said six of them had been given the experimental drug.

And it’s starting to look like FAA673 killed five of them.

It’s now hours later and we’ve just visited five of the seven people who’d either received the placebo or had been the lucky one who had survived the drug. The way it’s worked is this: by the time we’ve finished with one Jansen’s generally managed to track down the name and address of the next. And he’s just given us the name of the sixth; we’re heading there now.

So far none of them have wanted to speak to us, beyond saying that it had been a terrible experience and that they’d put it behind them. We’d been unable to force the issue and had left, crossing off faces from the sheet as we go.

The sixth is called Bastiaan Polman and we try his home, only to be told by the woman with a podgy face who answers the door and claims to be his wife that he is working late today. She’s in the middle of putting the kids to bed, but she gives us the address of a company out in Westpoort, where massive ocean freighters stacked with shipping containers glide overland via the North Sea Canal before reaching the Amsterdam docks proper.

‘I did get called to a disturbance involving cannabis once,’ Vermeer says as she turns the engine on.

I’m still angry at her holier-than-thou attitude, so it’s my turn to stay silent.