The man shrugs. ‘C’mon boy,’ he says, gently tugging the leash to get the dog moving. The dog’s less than keen, but the man ends up dragging him behind him. They pass another man, in a uniform similar to Stepford’s, who’s heading in my direction with righteous purpose in his step.

‘Can I help?’ he asks in that way people have when what they really mean is who the fuck are you? but don’t have the balls to actually say it. He tacks a little forced laugh on to the end of it.

‘No, I’m fine,’ I tell him as I step past the cleaners who seem in no hurry to get into the bungalow.

‘You can’t go in there,’ he calls out to me, though it sounds more of a squawk really.

I turn to look at him; he’s short and stocky and doesn’t seem to have much flexibility in his spine. His smile is a masterclass in insincerity.

‘I’m an old colleague of Joos’,’ I tell him. ‘I just need to see inside.’

‘You’re police?’ he asks, less squawky now, but still suspicious.

‘Exactly.’ I step through the front door.

The first thing that hits me is the heat. The radiators are on nuclear meltdown setting. The space is decent, though: a large living room looks out onto a garden at the back. Beyond that a field filled with small clouds fallen from the sky. Sheep, on closer inspection. The kitchen’s tiny, the bathroom has a sit-in bath, and the bedroom has a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and a single bed. The cover is pristine white and the whole thing looks unslept in. There’s a round white mat on the floor which is covered in black dog hairs. Thankfully, though, it’s cooler in here – the window’s half open. I scan the bookcase, mostly technical volumes and a shelf devoted entirely to the works of Ursula K. Le Guin. Moving on I find two entire shelves crammed tight with spiral-bound notebooks. I take one down and find it’s a diary of sorts. Flipping through it I can see the man was obsessive; there’s an entry for every single day, the writing cramped but precise.

‘Do you have some ID?’

Doorway. Mr Sincere. Behind him a security guard. Notebook back on shelf.

‘Yeah,’ I tell him, running my finger along the spiral spines, trying to work out which one I need. I pull one out, find I’ve miscounted, and try another. This one’s right, the date range covering what I need.

‘I really would like to see it,’ he says, taking a step into the room, the forced laugh at the end of each sentence really starting to grate now. He’s positively vibrating with some pent-up emotion.

‘It’s in my car,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll take you there once I’ve finished here.’