‘Then that’s not really meeting my requirement, is it?’

‘The open-window thing only applies to overnight accommodation, as I read it,’ says Gibbs.

Annoyingly, he’s right.

‘Then why mention a window that might – though, in fact, doesn’t – open?’ I ask.

He stops and turns to face me. ‘Look, I don’t know what other people are willing to put up with from you, but I’m on a multiple murder investigation. I’ve got better things to do than run around pandering to a diva before I’ve heard if she’s got anything useful to say.’

‘I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.’

Gibbs looks as if he already is. ‘I’ve got your pickled onion Monster Munch and I’ve got you a bottle of mineral water. That’ll have to do.’

If he were running a comedy festival, I’d walk away. This is a unique situation, so I’ll make an exception.

It strikes me as odd that Gibbs should be so unaware of the little white book in my bag, while I can’t forget its presence for a second. I’ve had to put up with it shouting its message at me all the way to Spilling police station: Death devours all lovely things.

‘No one could meet all the conditions on your list. You must know that, and want everyone to fail.’

‘Not true,’ I say with relish. I often say in interviews that stand-up comedy is my vocation, but that’s a lie. Deep down, I know that defending myself is what I was born to do. I think this probably means I’ve been attacked too often; I’m a bit sick of it by now.

Gibbs is waiting for further clarification.

‘I want to increase my odds of encountering bare minimum civilised conditions, that’s all. If I didn’t send my list as a calling card ahead of time, I might not even get water.’

The interview room we end up in is about as bad as I expected it to be. It’s one of those rooms that’s trying too hard to be nice, to shake off the taint of the building that contains it. The bristly blue carpet looks brand new and there’s a smell of recent fitting lingering in the air. There are three white walls and one that’s custard yellow, beige curtains with tie-backs, a cheap wooden table, round, with four almost-matching chairs. My crisps and water are on the table next to a green glass vase with some daffodils in it – two bunches, each one with its stalks still bound together by a red elastic band.

In the centre of the room there’s a strange installation that might be a stolen exhibit from a contemporary art gallery: a straight-backed chair with tears in its maroon fabric and lumpy yellow foam spilling out of it. There’s a large suitcase in front of the chair, with wheels and a pattern of pink and white circles on a purple background. The case is lying on its side, touching the seat of the chair.