He used to belong to a retired army major called Alan, who taught him to swear at visitors, particularly unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses and double-glazing salesmen. When Alan died, none of his relatives wanted anything to do with Freddy, so he ended up here. He’s an expensive breed of bird and I don’t imagine he’ll be here long, but we tend to rush any visitors of a sensitive disposition past him as quickly as we can.

“Bye, Freddy,” I call as I head towards the main doors. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bitch!” he calls after me. “Bye, bye bitch!”

Will has been talking for the last ten minutes but I haven’t the slightest clue what he’s on about. He started by telling me about something funny that happened at school this morning, some ten-year-old who confused tentacles with testicles in his lesson about octopuses, but the conversation has moved on since then and I can tell by the look on his face that smiling and nodding isn’t enough of a response.

The letter is burning a hole in my pocket. It has to be from a journalist, that’s the logical explanation. But why not sign it? Why not include a business card? Unless they’re deliberately trying to spook me into talking to them … It’s been five years since I returned to the UK, and four years since a journalist last tried to get me to sell my story, so why now? Unless that’s it – it’s the five-year anniversary of our trip to Nepal, and they want to dig it all up again.

“You lied, didn’t you?” Will says, and I look up.

“Sorry?”

“About the sea bass? It’s not the sea bream you don’t like; it’s the bass. That’s why you haven’t touched it.”

We both stare at the untouched fish on my plate, the dill and butter sauce congealed around it like a thick, yellow oil slick. “I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Spill …” He runs a hand through his dark hair then rests his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed on mine. “You know you can tell me anything.”