Alphen aan den Rijn is a small town, and as such it takes us just over an hour to find the firm of lawyers who’d dealt with Marit Berkhout’s affairs. Vermeer has sent me in on my own, saying she had some calls to make.

From the outside it looks imposing, a double-fronted unit with smoked-glass windows. Inside the carpet is threadbare and there’s a hint of damp or mould in the air.

‘How cute,’ says the receptionist as Kush gives her proffered hand a thorough forensic analysis with his nose. She’d come out from behind her desk the moment we walked in, and squatted down, waiting for Kush to approach.

Soon there’s baby talk and stroking, Kush lapping it up like he’s been starved of affection his whole life.

‘Hi,’ I say.

She reluctantly leaves Kush and goes back behind her desk. ‘How can I help?’

I explain that my colleague had called less than twenty minutes earlier.

‘Oh, you’re the police?’ She seems dubious, but picks up the phone and has a quick conversation with someone.

‘Henny Beernink can speak to you. Thing is, he’s scared of dogs but you can leave him here with me if you want?’

A good liar she is not. But it’s kind of sweet she’d go to such lengths so I hand Kush over and follow her directions to Beernink’s office, which I find at the end of a corridor where the smell of mould is even stronger.

By the looks of things Beernink’s overdosed on whatever supplement gives you an abundance of jovial bonhomie, and before I’ve even sat down I know the name of each of his three kids, his wife, and that he enjoys windsurfing at the weekend. What an exhausting amount of effort for him to go to just to get me to like him. Especially as it was doomed to fail right from the start.

‘So you’d like to make a will?’ He finally gets down to it and I see all the bonhomie was pure salesman. As is his suit, tie and side-parted hair, which he keeps sweeping back with a nervous hand. I also see that the pretty receptionist was so busy plotting out how to get some quality time with Kush she’d clearly not given this man the full story. I lay it out for him now. He listens, adopting a more sober mask as I go through exactly what I want.

‘Of course we can get the files for you. I will need to see some ID, though.’ He flashes me a pained smile, which tells of a world of rules that he’d love to be able to break because what a pain in the ass they are, but his hands are unfortunately cable-tied behind his back by the system.