I get out and check my phone for Carice’s number. She runs a hugely profitable business training police dogs and selling them to forces around the world. It can cost upwards of thirty thousand euros to train a top-level bomb-detection dog, and she’s damn good at it. She’s only five foot, but has a way with hard-bitten working dogs which doesn’t just border on the supernatural – it’s downright surreal.

‘Wassup?’ she asks in American, as I knew she would. Carice spent time in the US, somewhere in Michigan is as about as precise as I can remember, studying with one of the foremost working dog trainers in the world. Since then she’s always done a faux-American thing in the way that only a European can, dripping with irony and superiority. None of which hides the strong undertow of longing.

I tell her, exactly, wassup.

‘You with the dog now?’

‘Yeah.’

On the phone a riot of barking starts up. Carice yells No! and silence reigns.

‘FaceTime me; I’ll have a look.’

I get it going and show her the dog.

‘Move towards him,’ she tells me.

I move forward. The dog stops being interested in the tyre and turns to look at me, ears alert. But he stands his ground, doesn’t back away even when I’m up real close.

‘He’s fine,’ she says after a few seconds. ‘Bit of a punk, but not too bad. Confident body language. It’s the nervy, neurotic ones you need to be wary of.’

‘So you’ll take him?’

‘Take him? I thought this was about you taking him.’

‘Me? I don’t know anything about dogs.’

‘It’s easy. Just remember not to treat him like a fur-baby, and don’t let him get away with anything you don’t want him to do. If you get really stuck, you can bring him out to meet me. Gotta go, I’ve a bitch in heat and one of the young males is getting a bit fruity.’

She’s gone, leaving another very loud No! ringing in my ear.

The guy hands me the leash. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You’ve just saved a life.’

He’s in the van and away before I can change my mind. The dog’s nosing at my pocket again. Seems like he might make a natural drug dog. Maybe he’ll come in handy.

I open up the passenger door and the dog jumps in without me having to prompt him.

‘Good boy,’ I say.

He gives me a look which says don’t patronize me. Or maybe I’m misreading it. After all, I don’t know anything about dogs. As the Stang’s engine bites and we’re both pushed back in our seats I wonder just what it is I’ve got myself into.