I was worried that this was moving into chancy ground, somewhere by habit I trod carefully. Frejah Harsent had mentioned she had a degree in criminology – a warning sign. It sometimes happens that when meeting someone socially, and they discover what I do for a living, they start telling me stories of their own brushes with the law. A stolen wallet, an intruder into a neighbour’s house, an unfair conviction for driving too fast. That sort of thing. Sometimes I heard about incompetent police investigations, or brilliant and effective policing. The unfairness of magistrates or judges, or an unexpectedly sympathetic judgement. Not uninteresting in themselves, these anecdotes are commonplace but they do not suggest a plot for a novel I might like to write one day,

I veered her gently away from that. But why did I write crime fiction? she asked

I said: ‘Crime is something people fear. It’s a low-level fear, because ordinary people, that is, those outside the criminal fraternity, never really believe it will happen to them. But it does strike, and seemingly at random, and it’s always a disagreeable experience. Even what the courts treat as a minor felony can ruin your life. You hear about crime that happens to other people, or was witnessed by someone you know. Or you live in the same street or town where something awful takes place. It’s ever-present, but largely invisible. And crime has mysteries. Who did this terrible thing? And why? What was the motive? Will whoever it was be caught? How should they be punished if so?

‘Writing crime fiction is a way of trying to answer those questions. Most real crime is stupidly motivated, committed by unhappy or vulnerable people who have drug or alcohol problems, and often based on a grudge. Usually an unreasonable one. Many petty criminals have chronic mental health issues. This of course is not how most victims want to see it. They see crime as wilfully evil and they call for justice, when what they often mean is revenge.

‘But the elaborately planned murder of a wealthy victim in the conservatory of a remote country house, or any of the other classic scenarios of mysteries and thrillers, are the fantasies of fiction writers like me.’

I was starting to talk too much, a sure sign that I should stop drinking. The time had gone steadily by, and now we were coming towards the end of the evening.

Because I believed my wristwatch had suddenly become unreliable I asked Frejah Harsent the time. Her watch showed exactly the same time as mine – the sweep second hand was even in an identical position. It was late.

I was astonished by the weird behaviour of my watch.