I can’t think of a single innocent explanation for how it came to be hidden at the back of our airing cupboard. Tom’s right about that, too: Stacey’s the only person who could have put it there. Perhaps I could accept that, in the stress of the moment, she really did forget about the nosebleed. But actively planting evidence to incriminate me – that wasn’t a mistake.

I don’t need Tom to tell me how much trouble I’m in. Without Stacey’s corroboration, my explanation for the blood on my clothes and shoes is weak at best. Add in the bloody fingerprints and my public altercation at the Hurlingham with Felix, and who’s to say where reasonable doubt lies?

Against my better judgement, Tom dissuades me from going to the Glass House to confront her the night I get back from my interview at the police station.

‘If you go tearing over there this time of night she’s just going to ignore you,’ he says. ‘She simply won’t come to the door. Go and see her at the studio on Monday. If she refuses to talk to you, you’ll have your answer.’

Two days later, I take the Tube to the INN building in west London, where the Morning Express Show’s studio is located. Inside, the atrium is bright and airy, with acres of chrome and glass. Vast photographs of the network’s stars, including Stacey, hang on invisible wires from the double-height ceiling like flags at the UN.

I give my name to the receptionist, and wait while she calls Stacey’s secretary. ‘I’m afraid Ms Porter is on-air at the moment,’ the girl tells me a few moments later. ‘Her assistant says he won’t be able to tell Ms Porter you’re here till they cut to the news in about twenty-five minutes. Is she expecting you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, I’m happy to wait.’

I take a seat on the minimalist white leather and chrome sofa. Behind the reception desk, the network’s current output plays on a huge screen. The volume is off, but live subtitles roll across the bottom of the picture. Stacey is interviewing an MP and his husband: it seems the politician has been caught having an affair with his special advisor, a woman who is also married. As far as I can make out, the tabloid opprobrium that’s come his way has less to do with his adultery and more to do with letting down the LGBTQ+ cause by indulging in a heterosexual affair.

Stacey’s approach is very much softly-softly; her face is wreathed in compassion as she leans towards the MP, nodding sympathetically and exuding matronly warmth. That doesn’t stop her from luring him into admitting he lied about being gay in order to win over the progressive liberal demographic in his constituency.

It’s a masterclass in velvet-glove manipulation.