Albert Pryce’s last book but one, An Immovable Subject, had been a semi-autobiographical account of how he’d left his second wife – Albertina’s mother – after falling in love with an American intern half his age.

‘You’re sure his name is Reynard?’

‘Oh, definitely,’ she said.

‘Was there anything unusual about him?’

‘Like what?’

‘Did anything Christina said about him strike you as unusual?’

‘She said he was a prince,’ said Albertina.

I asked whether Christina had said where Reynard was a prince of.

‘Not that kind of prince,’ said Albertina. ‘Chris said he was a fairy tale prince.’

‘Interesting,’ I said, and asked if Albertina knew how Christina and her ‘prince’ had met. While I did that, I wrote the word NIGHTINGALE on my pad in large enough letters to be picked up by the camera and then I underlined it twice.

The word ‘bollocks’ is one of the most beautiful and flexible in the English language. It can be used to express emotional states ranging from ecstatic surprise to weary resignation in the face of inevitable disaster. And Seawoll was definitely veering towards the latter when we all sat down in his office to talk about Reynard Fossman.

‘Bollocks,’ said Seawoll.

‘And he came to see you last night?’ asked Stephanopoulos.

I read them in on my brief encounter with Reynard at the gig and his message to Nightingale.

‘This can’t be a coincidence,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘Him turning up just as he becomes a person of interest.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Seawoll, allowing a tinge of melancholy to enter his tone. ‘I was hoping to wrap MARIGOLD up – I’ve got a nice stabbing in Fulham which would be much better use of our Miriam’s professional time.’

‘Then I suggest that we apprehend him as swiftly as we can,’ said Nightingale. ‘So we can rule him in or out of your inquiry.’

Stephanopoulos glanced down at her tablet where I knew she had the latest IIP on Reynard Fossman. I also knew there were some things in there she didn’t like, because she’d actioned Guleed to get the information and Guleed had glared at me until I’d handed over the file I’d already compiled on the red-headed little toerag.

‘Fossman,’ said Stephanopoulos, ‘from the German fuchs for Fox, so Foxman,’ she caught my eye. ‘Reynard the Fox.’

‘Nasty little sociopathic trickster who turns up a lot in fourteenth century French literature, sort of like Brer Rabbit but without the redeeming sense of humility,’ I said.