Flames are roaring around me. And then they’re not. I’m standing on the station’s roof, looking west, the sky vast and oppressive at the same time. I don’t remember coming up here. A moment of deep panic. The urge to step forward into space almost overwhelms me. I try to calm down. Work it out, what was my last memory? I was downstairs in the incident room, and now I’m here. I check the time. I’ve lost well over an hour. I turn and walk towards the door leading back into the building on legs which feel like glass. I tell myself it was just a little episode, an after-effect of the one I’d had earlier. As I descend the stairs I sense half of me is still up there on the roof.

Twenty minutes later, minutes in which I’ve managed to calm myself down, I open the interview-room door and watch as Polman and his lawyer file past. Polman definitely looks better with his clothes on, and I’m glad to see his whole body language has none of that coke-induced-false-confidence-bravado bullshit he’d been exhibiting yesterday. His lawyer, on the other hand, is strutting around like a cockerel at dawn. He’s young, and this is clearly his first time in a police station, his act an attempt to stamp his authority on what he imagines is going to be a long and glittering career standing up for the little man against the big bad authorities. Loss stabs me out of nowhere. Am I going to miss all this too much? Then a thought, another explanation for Sabine’s absence. Could it be that her ex – what was his name? – found out where she was staying …? I push it away. I can’t think about this right now.

‘Please take a seat. Least the state can do in return for your cooperation.’

The lawyer pulls out a chair and sits. Polman hesitates.

‘You too, Mr Polman.’

‘As you well know, my client sustained some injuries yesterday at your hands, injuries for which he is very generously, and against my counsel, willing to overlook. So if he doesn’t want to sit then he –’

‘Sit down,’ I tell him.

Polman glares at me, but in a hangdog way, and pulls out a chair. It’s clearly a painful manoeuvre, so we watch him with friendly, welcoming smiles as he gingerly lowers his whipped backside onto the seat. Sometimes Vermeer and I are perfectly in tune. I wonder if I’m going to miss that too. The lawyer goes through his drivel about all information being given willingly without prejudice blah blah blah and we set out the ground rules before starting proper.

‘Tell us about the trial. How did you get involved?’