He doesn’t come across like an idiot, although you never can tell. I say, ‘Or you could have just rung up my work and asked for me. Or sent me a letter.’

‘I could have, yes.’ He runs a palm down one cheek and sighs. ‘I’ll be honest. I wanted the chance to observe you for a while, before making that commitment.’

Meaning he wanted the chance to decide whether I was good enough to contact. If I’d had a fella in a shiny tracksuit, half a dozen screaming brats and a smoke hanging off my lip, he could have turned around and gone home: no harm, no foul, story ended before it began.

Maybe he even believes that’s why he did it this way, but I don’t. I know exactly what he was at. Playing this the approved way – break the news nice and gently from a distance, have a few careful getting-to-know-you phone calls, meet on neutral territory when everyone’s comfortable with it, all that shite – that would’ve let me decide when and whether. This guy was never going to do that. He wanted this situation – wanted me – on his terms, start to finish. Unlucky for him, that gene didn’t skip a generation.

I say, ‘So you spent the next three days hanging around outside my gaff like a peeper.’

That flares his nostrils. ‘I don’t enjoy admitting it. But I said I would tell you anything you asked. I hope now you realise I meant it.’

‘Your journalist buddy gets nothing. First thing tomorrow, you ring him and tell him you had the wrong woman. And make it convincing.’

His head lifts. Pride looks good on him and he knows it. ‘I gave him my word.’

He wants me to beg, or stamp my foot and remind him he owes me more than he owes some hack. I laugh, one crack – I’m not going to give him more. ‘What’s he gonna do, sue?’

‘Obviously not. But I prefer to fulfil my obligations.’ When the corner of my mouth lifts: ‘And I don’t think either of us particularly wants him as an enemy.’

‘Trust me: you’d rather have him for an enemy than me. You think I don’t have friends on the force around your way? You want to spend the rest of your life being pulled over and breathalysed every time you get in your car? Brought in for questioning every time a kid says the bad man had brown skin?’

His mouth – wide hard-cut curves, like mine – has tightened. He says, ‘This obviously means a lot to you.’

He leaves space for me to take the bait. I don’t.

‘All right. I’ll tell the journalist I was mistaken.’ He nods at the sofa. ‘Now may I sit down?’