But now I felt in need of reinforcements. In novels, private detectives always have good connections with the regular police force so that they can access their national databases. It seemed to me that if I could find a helpful private eye, I could circumvent a good deal of time-wasting. With one telephone call he would organize it all. Perhaps it would take a little longer, since there was an international angle; perhaps he would call his man in Paris. Perhaps he had a contact at Interpol. In my inner heart I knew that it was unlikely to be that simple, but there was a chance that it could provide a short cut. And anyhow, I had always wanted to visit a private detective.

The advert promised ‘Private, Matrimonial, Commercial & Civil. All forms of enquiries undertaken with discretion and sensitivity’. The person at the end of the phone was initially dismissive, then intrigued. It was a reaction I had by now come to expect. My reluctance to fax the letter to the detective made him even more curious. Eventually we agreed to meet. He assured me that there would be no charge; he would work pro bono, out of pure ‘intellectual curiosity’. I was beginning to realize that detecting must have its dull moments and that my enquiry had touched a chord of curiosity here as elsewhere.

The office was perfectly situated between the council estates and prison at Wormwood Scrubs and the wealthy and fashionable clientele of Notting Hill and Portobello Road. I had initially spoken to the junior partner, but when I arrived I found that the chief investigator had decided to take up the case in person. His room was splendid, a temple to Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. It contained a large wooden desk, a massive old metal safe in the corner, a huge maroon winged leather armchair, a framed letter of thanks with an old-fashioned magnifying glass suspended over the most important phrases in the letter, a large round fishbowl with two healthy-looking fish circling around, a detailed map of London and a certificate from the World Association of Detectives. Only the laptop was anachronistic. He gestured me towards the armchair and as I sank into it I realized that it was so deep I couldn’t reach the back without slumping clumsily or sticking out my legs in front of me. I perched on the edge and wished I had worn a pencil skirt, a short black veil, teetering heels and crimson lipstick.

Not sure what to say, I remarked that the chair was just right for the job. The investigator smiled. ‘It has seen many tears, that chair.’ I was delighted. He was in his mid-forties, fair-haired with a dark jacket and trousers, and unnervingly grey-white shoes – glamorous but slightly dilapidated. He had started in the business twenty-six years ago, first working for a debt-tracing agency, and had then specialized in asset identification, providing information for debt collectors, before setting up the current company. He took the English translation of the letter and began to pore over it at the same time as devouring a huge bowl of muesli. I was enchanted.