Chances of me finding something important, like a memo from him saying he had actually verified the time stamp are infinitesimally small. But I’m here, and what else can I do? Her grin’s getting ever more pained.

‘Look, if you point me in the right direction I can let you get on.’

She thinks it over. Her stomach gurgles. Then she tells me how to get to Joos’ bungalow and swiftly disappears behind a door marked STAFF.

I walk through the grounds. There are probably forty or so small bungalows spread out, each with their own little garden. Some are vegetable plots, others are more ornamental. One is a square of grass trimmed to precisely 2.5 millimetres; I’m guessing the occupant used to work in government or for a local council. I’m a rare beast in this terrain, and the local fauna check me out, mostly with friendly smiles, though I spot a few pairs of medicine-dulled eyes.

Joos’ bungalow is easy to spot. A cleaning crew is hanging around outside with mops and cigarettes and slumped postures.

As I step closer I hear muffled barking from inside. The door opens and a man, who must be the one Stepford mistook me for, steps out with a dog on a leash. I’ve seen enough police dogs to know what it is, a Malinois, though it doesn’t seem fully grown yet and it’s almost entirely black. It looks like a black wolf. Oh god.

The Malinois abruptly finishes barking, and decides it would like to sniff pretty much everything in the world. The man holding the leash is in danger of having his shoulder dislocated.

‘Are you a relative?’ he asks me as the dog lunges forward and sniffs my shoes.

‘Of the dog or the dead man? Neither.’

‘You don’t want a dog, do you?’

‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’

The dog’s moved on from my shoes and is exploring my leg.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it – it’s just in all likelihood it’ll end up being put down. The shelter’s already oversubscribed. I took seven dogs in yesterday, know how many of those are alive today?’

I don’t know because I’m not a mind reader. I hate being posed rhetorical questions, so I don’t say anything or give any indication that I care about the answer and yet he makes a zero with his thumb and forefinger anyway.

‘Sorry, I can’t.’

The dog’s worked his way up my leg and is now poking its snout right at the pocket where my vape is, making a series of loud snorts.

‘He likes you,’ the man says. ‘First time he’s stopped moving since I got here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him again.