The moon’s up as I step out of the station and the air has that cool autumn moisture which hints at the winter to come. I head north towards the Jordaan, the sound of traffic humming by me, a plane groaning overhead on its final descent to Schiphol and the muted thump and pump of bass from a club nearby.

And yet, for some reason, all I can really hear is Jansen’s voice saying like someone was trying to hide it over and over again.

White Wolf, Black Wolf

It’s past ten by the time I reach Brouwersgracht, probably one of the most expensive bits of real estate in the country. Despite this, a bunch of drunken tourists cluster at the canal edge, braying and throwing things in the water. The canal I live on is much less famous, and as such doesn’t attract anywhere near the same level of fuckwittery as this one.

Still, Joel’s flat, the entire top floor of a double-fronted seventeenth-century merchant’s house, is pretty damn nice. I press the bell just as the braying behind me turns into shrieking. I turn to see one of their group hit the water with a tulip-shaped splash, tinged orange in the street light. I’m tense suddenly, primed for action, but there’s been enough heroics for one day. The door buzzes open and I head up the stairs, leaving them to it.

He’s at the door as I reach the top of the stairs.

‘Just the man,’ he says, ushering me in. ‘Got something really special for you.’

Which, after the last few hours, is very welcome news.

Joel bought the two flats three years ago, gutted them, and knocked through to create a huge gleaming open-plan space that could hold its own as the centre spread of any property porn magazine.

I flop down on the enormous L-shaped sofa and watch the writhing flame in the globular fireplace. It’s suspended off the floor by its own flue which juts right through the ceiling. Joel’s getting something from the kitchen area when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.

THANKS FOR EARLIER ☺ DRINK SOMETIME? SABINE.

I put my phone away as Joel walks over, handing me a beer-like bottle.

‘Christ, you’re almost smiling. Sure you’re feeling okay?’

‘What’s this?’ I ask, ignoring him. Truth is, after my time down at the station, an unwelcome taste of my old life, Sabine’s text does make me want to smile.

‘Kombucha, some fermented tea thing. I was seeing this girl for a while and she loved the stuff. I’ve got a fridge full of it. Haven’t got round to chucking it yet.’

Joel and women. I’m not even going to start on that one. I sniff the bottle’s neck; it has a faint vinegary smell which isn’t exactly enticing. I take a sip.