“Will,” I say as the phone goes to voicemail again, “it’s Jane. It’s nothing to worry about but there’s been a development. DS Armstrong rang me on Saturday evening to tell me that one of the girls I went on holiday to Nepal with has been found. It’s Leanne, the one I thought had died in a fire. She’s been in a psychiatric unit for the last few years, and she was discharged a couple of months or so ago. It’s probably got nothing to do with what’s happened, but … well … you told me to ring you, so this is me ringing.” I laugh, but there’s a hollow sound to it. “I’m guessing you haven’t got a very good mobile signal because I tried calling you over the weekend, so I’ll speak to you whenever you get this. I hope you and Chloe are having an amazing break. I’m off to work now so … um … I’ll see you soon. Bye!”

I scroll through to my text messages and double check that I haven’t heard from Al again. I sent her a series of texts on Sunday – starting with questions about Leanne and whether or not she really thought she had been hospitalised for her anorexia, and then, when those didn’t get a response, enquiring about Al’s new girlfriend Liz and how they met – but she didn’t reply. She’d sounded pleased to hear from me on the phone, but maybe I’d confused pleased with shocked.

I unlock my bike, throw my leg over it and settle myself on the saddle. I don’t blame Al for ignoring me. Talking to me reminds her of Ekanta Yatra, and that’s something we’d both rather forget.

My day at work passes without incident, other than a case of doggy diarrhoea from one of our new intakes, and Freddy the parrot calling me “a fucking bastard” as I pass his cage. Shortly after I arrived, I checked in six Jack Russell puppies and their very tired and over-bred mum. One of our inspectors had rescued them from an unlicensed puppy farm in West Wales after a tip-off from a member of the public. They were being kept in cramped, dirty conditions and were forced to play, sleep and eat in the same small space where they also had to defecate. The vet who saw them treated them for fleas, kennel cough and ear mites, and now it’s down to us help rehabilitate them psychologically, with the help of the dog behaviourist, before we attempt to find them new homes. I hate puppy farms with a passion, and the irony is that some of the worst ones are licensed and sell the dogs on to high street pet shops, who in turn sell them on to unsuspecting members of the public.