I was on my feet, gathering the file with one hand and reaching out to shake his hand with the other. He took it and gripped it for just long enough to demonstrate that despite my age and warrant card and fancy big city ways, he was by far the stronger man.

‘Forgive me, but I don’t quite understand why you’re here,’ he said. ‘This is an official inquiry, is it?

‘Just some old business we’re trying to clear up,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your time.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said.

Before I was out of the door, he was reaching for the phone.

The offices of the Potter’s Field Post were located on the high street above an antique shop but Wren had left a text message changing our meet, and directing me to a small thatched cottage on the edge of town where a sprightly woman in her early eighties was tending an immaculate garden.

‘She’s inside,’ she called, ‘with my husband. It’s not locked!’

An old Golden Retriever lumbered up to me as I went into the cottage. It sniffed my hand sleepily and then trailed after me down the hall as I followed the sound of Wren’s excited voice.

She was on her knees in the living room, peering through a magnifying glass at an old contact sheet of photographs. The floor was entirely covered with contact sheets. In an armchair was a white-haired old man with what looked like a large Scotch in his hand. The dog went over to him and collapsed on his tartan slippers.

‘Be good, Fanta,’ said the old man. And to me, ‘Hello, young man. Would you like a wee dram?’

‘Single malt,’ Wren said. ‘Twenty years old. It’s very good.’ There was a glass on the table but it didn’t look as though she had touched it.

The old gentleman started to rise from his chair but I held up my hands, thanking him, but no. Wren pressed the magnifying glass against her eye, and then against the contact sheet in her hand.

‘There’s nothing at the paper,’ she said. ‘It’s on its last legs. They don’t even have proper files. They haven’t even digitally converted their old filing system. I found dry rot in their microfiche. Can you believe it?’

‘The Potter’s Field Post?’ said the old man. ‘They give it away these days! Give it away! A free sheet, they call it!’

‘But they directed me to Mr Cooper here,’ Wren said.

‘Monty!’ the old man erupted.

‘Monty!’ agreed Wren. ‘Monty was the staff photographer on the paper for forty years.’

‘Man and boy,’ he chortled.

I got the impression that Monty mightily enjoyed Wren’s company, and was happy to produce his stacks of old contact sheets. He didn’t even seem to mind the red felt-tip pen she was waving around for emphasis, and using to circle images of interest.