‘So you think . . .’ started Geraint.

‘I think Daddy Pig, who has just had nits courtesy of his kids, entering a building where a colleague, who has no children but can’t stop scratching her head, happens to live, is too much of a coincidence. Check her credit cards. Look for footage of the two of them going into that building around the same time on other dates.’

If Daddy Pig’s lying about his movements was simply down to cheating, at least that was progress. All that was left was the questionable meet he’d arranged at the Christie’s auction. We just needed to completely rule him out and we could focus all our efforts on the two remaining Pigs.

‘I’ve got another lead on George Pig,’ said Pixie. ‘Last week when he took that day off he flew to Zurich. I’m hacking any historic CCTV feeds of that day, focusing on streets with private banks. If he’s the Snake it could be where he’s hidin’ the cash.’

We were getting closer. I could feel it.

*

Making it back home in time for Gigi’s dinner, I had naively thought that hanging out with my daughter would be a welcome break from the high pressure of work. In the stark grey Platform, I always imagined sitting down for a cosy dinner with Gigi while we discussed her day was something I was sad to be missing. But by the time she’d refused to eat the pesto pasta I’d made her as it was too green, by the time she’d thrown the carrots I’d lovingly peeled and chopped on the floor, I was wishing I was back in the sanctuary of the Platform where people were actually scared of me.

‘Eat three mouthfuls.’

‘No.’

‘Two mouthfuls.’

‘No mouthfuls.’ She clamped her mouth shut. ‘Yucky. Horrible. Dis-GUSTING.’ She pushed her plate away.

As criticism of my cooking went it was pretty harsh. Especially considering I’d splashed out on the fresh pesto, not the jar kind. I tried to comfort myself with the fact I shouldn’t hold too high the culinary opinion of someone whose idea of a perfect dinner was a slice of bread covered in ketchup.

‘Come on, Gigi, two mouthfuls and then yummy pudding.’

She shook her head.

‘Don’t. Want. It.’ She cupped her chin with her hands and stared at me. Blue eyes unwavering.

After an hour of this I retreated. I crammed two chocolate biscuits into my mouth while hidden behind a cupboard door, wondering why I could negotiate with terrorists but not my two-year-old. She could clearly sense weakness. The no-television-for-a-week threat was a bluff. We both knew it.