‘No, sorry. But I’m allowed to notice a beautiful woman when I see one, aren’t I?’

She shook her head and tipped some milk into her polystyrene cup. ‘What about your wife. Was she beautiful?’

He sipped and set down his coffee cup. ‘Actually, the answer to that is yes. Blonde, slim and entirely gorgeous.’

‘And you tall, handsome and exotic.’

‘Ha ha, if you insist. In a weird way I was a trophy husband. A sort of exotica.’

‘How?’

‘I was a safe black boy. Son of a rich Ghanaian, educated at English public school, then Oxford. Her father was a Lloyds insurance broker. Bankrupted some of his clients but kept his own money. Country pile, London penthouse. She was into fashion, did some modelling…’

‘How did you meet?’

‘She came up for a Balliol ball. My last one. One of my law mates was in her circle, they were a pretty posh lot. Did drugs and lost their virginities at places like Marlborough.’

‘And?’

‘We were attracted. I mean I was gobsmacked, this goddess wanting me. I think she married me to show the world “I can do what the eff I want”.’

‘What did your parents say?’

‘They swooned over her.’

‘And hers?’

‘Kept their mouths shut. Always civil to me. When it was falling apart, I once overheard her mother say “told you so.”’

‘What happened?’

‘You are the inquisitor!’ Sara gave a baleful shrug. ‘We rubbed along for a while,’ Patrick continued, ‘then Nathan coming along changed it all, as I suppose kids tend to do. Within a year, she’d had fling number one. And then number two, who she went off with. He had a Ferrari then, I seem to remember. Still together though. Helps that he’s loaded.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll stop digging.’

‘What about you?’

She laughed. ‘Another time. Let’s go. You can put your foot down, I want to put in an evening shift at the office.’

‘You’ll be on your own doing that.’ A thought struck him. ‘Although Morahan usually works late Thursday. Calls it his catch-up time.’

‘In that case, I’ll try not to disturb him.’

A couple of hours later, they drew up outside the Inquiry’s Vauxhall office. She heard a clock strike the quarter hour – 6.15 p.m. Chronology was about to matter.

At that exact moment Sami Mohammed was nearing the main gates of the Rovers’ ground at Ewood Park – not for work, but for the return meeting with the man. He’d walked all the way from home with his hand in his pocket wrapped around the device. Fifty yards short of the gates a car door opened to break his stride, followed by an arm waving him round to the front passenger seat. He got in, removed his hand from his pocket and dropped the recorder into an outstretched palm. Without a word, the man locked all doors and started the engine.