A few minutes later I’m back in the car with three little bags, a Krystal Kush, NYC Diesel and a Sweet Cheese. My phone goes off, the electrician, so I put the bags on the dash and answer. But he’s rung off. I call him back. Answer machine. I tell him to call me just as a text message from him comes in. How hard does this have to be? His text tells me he has the parts and is on his way now. About bloody time. I text him back telling him to get the keys from Leah.

As I’m slotting the key in the ignition, some sixth sense is nagging me that something’s wrong. I glance up to see there are now only two bags on the dash; the Krystal Kush is missing.

Quick look at dog. Mystery solved.

He has it in his mouth. I make a grab for it, and he ducks his head, eyeing me suspiciously. Luckily he’s not chewing. Yet. I try again, and he ducks his head the other way. Then he starts mouthing it. It’s in thick plastic, but it’s not going to take him long before it rips …

‘Give it to me,’ I say in a sweet-toned voice.

Nothing.

I try again, more authoritarian this time, trying to channel Carice. The dog just looks at me, though I’m sure there’s a challenge in his gaze now. I try again and fail. He’s starting to mouth it, still staring at me, and I’m frozen because I don’t know what’ll happen if he manages to break through the wrapper. I’m steeling myself for one last desperate grab, when a cyclist whizzes past. The dog swivels his head round and barks. The bag drops and I grab it, checking that it’s still sealed. It is, though the paper label is dripping with saliva. Jesus, that was close.

I’m just pulling up at the address Roemers hadn’t given me, when it comes in one of those startling flashes of clarity you get where everything meshes together in a whoosh.

‘Kush,’ I tell the dog. ‘I’m going to call you Kush.’

He gives a single bark; I wonder if that’s a no.

‘Well, it’s either that or Krystal.’

This time he stays silent.

‘Good, Kush it is.’

There are no more spaces left outside the address so I have to hunt for one in the next street, just managing to squeeze between a monster SUV with blacked-out windows and an old Ford propped up on bricks. I stash the three bags in the glove compartment, which piques Kush’s interest. He keeps nosing it. Hopefully he can’t get it open.