Gibbs stares blankly at me.

‘Sunday lunch carvery?’ I try harder. ‘Plastic rack on the reception desk stuffed full of leaflets advertising pantomimes, water parks, country houses?’

Still no facial expression from Gibbs. ‘But you can’t tell me which town or city the hotel’s in, or its name.’ He sounds unimpressed.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Carry on.’

‘Do you remember on my list of terms and conditions, I specify bed size if overnight accommodation’s involved?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘No smaller than a king, I say. Well, this hotel decided to try and pretend that a bed smaller than a double was a king. I dragged the receptionist up to the room and made her look with her own eyes. The bed was about the size of the average sofa-bed, but she wouldn’t accept that because somewhere on her computer system, it said that the bed in room 21 was a king. That wasn’t my actual room number, I was just … you know.’

It’s hard to imagine a tougher crowd than DC Gibbs. I don’t know why I’m bothering to dramatise any of this for his benefit; he’s as receptive as a slab of stone.

‘It didn’t matter that the bed was on the small side, because there was only going to be me sleeping in it, but still …’ Why am I saying this? I’m fairly sure there’s absolutely no need, and it’s nowhere near true. The narrow bed mattered a lot. And even when I sleep alone, I like a big bed. If I have to travel halfway across the country and entertain hundreds of people, it’s reasonable to try to create conditions that make the experience bearable.

‘And this incident with the small bed in the hotel alarmed you because of the words in the book you’d been given that night?’

‘Yes, a bit. Not seriously. I just thought, “How odd. On the same night, a man hands me a little book containing the words ‘Every bed is narrow’ and I go to my hotel to find my bed there is way too narrow.” It was a funny coincidence. Peculiar, not ha-ha.’

‘Not really,’ says Gibbs.