‘Yup. The deadline’s today, so …’ His charming smile probably works on most people and only makes a tiny minority want to pluck out his eyes and spit into the sockets.

‘But for the moment, as things stand, you work here, right? You’re a policeman?’

‘Well …’ He laughs. ‘Yes, obviously. The uniform’s the clue.’

Is he for real?

‘I’m a member of the public who’s come in needing help. Instead of prioritising a job you might not get, why not do your current one properly? Help the woman who’s come in needing help. That’s me. Just a thought.’

His eyes widen: a mixture of shock and recognition. The message, or at least the one I’m getting, is along the lines of ‘I’ve heard about scary people like you, but I never for a moment dreamed I’d meet one in real life.’

‘Look, I’ve got to run,’ he pleads. ‘Someone else will help you. I’d like to, but I can’t. Sorry. I’ve done my best to explain. Forgive me.’

He darts off down the corridor, leaving me open-mouthed, hysteria rising inside me. He doesn’t know I’ve come to see Charlie about her sister; I might have vital information that he’s refusing to help me pass on: someone on a high ledge threatening to throw themselves off, or a class of primary school kids held hostage by a maniac.

‘Kim! No one told me you were coming in.’

I turn. It’s Charlie.

‘What kind of shit-show are you guys running here?’

‘You seem angry. Did the servants forget your pickled onion Monster Munch this morning?’

This makes me laugh, though I don’t want to. I describe my brush with her unhelpful colleague and she groans. ‘That’s Iain Chanter. He doesn’t do a stroke of work – just obsessively applies for other jobs all day long. I think he’s got an actual problem. As well as being an actual problem. They’re trying to give him the boot, I think, but it’s hard. Anyway: you wanted me and here I am!’ She smiles. ‘What’s up?’

‘You’ve driven me around. I thought I could drive you around for a change.’

‘Kim, why are you here – really?’

You can hardly blame liars; so often the truth is mocked or rejected as unacceptable.

‘You said you’d ring me with any news,’ I say.

‘I will. There’s none yet, I’m afraid.’

‘Who’s Faith Kendell? Whoever she is, is she Billy?’

Charlie frowns. ‘I don’t have a definite answer to that question yet. Sorry. They’re still waiting for DNA test results, and Simon’s at the refusing-to-tell-me-what-he’s-thinking stage of the case. I have a special hitting pillow that he knows nothing about. At the moment I’m beating the mouldy feathers out of it several times a day.’