‘Thing is, by the time I’d left the animal hospital it was near enough midnight; she must’ve got bored and gone to bed.’

Though it’s strange, because she hasn’t answered any of my texts. Maybe she’s pissed that I managed to lose her keys. Maybe she just decided that she doesn’t like me. At this stage I can hardly blame her. I tap out another message but then delete it.

‘Busy day?’

‘Interviewing someone, trying to work out who burned down my houseboat, also trying not to think about all that stuff you told me last night. You’re not serious about how dangerous they are?’

‘Jaap, listen to me. You are nothing to a company like that. Nothing. And if they feel threatened they will act accordingly.’

‘So far, though, I’ve not got anything on them.’

‘You said that several people had died in a clinical trial they’d run and they covered it up? That news getting out equals a full-blown day-after-a-curry-shit in the mouth as far as they’re concerned. That’s more than enough.’

I think about that and know that he’s most likely right. Which makes it even more important we get something out of Polman when he presents himself at the station in just over two hours’ time. Assuming he presents himself, that is. I really hope he hasn’t run overnight, or hooked himself up to his car’s exhaust.

‘Oh, by the way. I gave that stuff you gave me on the compound, FAA673, a glance. From what I can tell they were trying to target serotonin receptors in the brain.’

‘So it should have made them happy?’

‘Not as simple as that. And anyway, with things like this you can never predict what’s going to happen.’

My phone rings, making me jump. It’s the animal hospital.

‘Mr Rykel?’

Female voice, soft and low.

‘Yeah,’ I say, mentally constructing a picture of her face.

‘Is that a Dutch name? I’ve never heard it before.’

Not this again. If I had a cent for every time I get asked that, I’d be thousands of euros richer than I am now.

‘It’s a seventeenth-century surname, very uncommon nowadays. How’s Kush?’

‘Some bad news I’m afraid.’

My heart goes off like a depth charge. Nausea pulses in my stomach.

‘He … he’s dead?’

Joel’s been fiddling with the coffee machine. He stops and looks across at me.

‘Dead? No, no, nothing like that. The surgery went really well and he’s up and about already. Someone should have left a message for you earlier?’

‘They didn’t.’ My heart slows down to around 200 beats per minute. ‘So what’s the bad news?’