‘And it wasn’t Tirian.’

‘It might have been. I got Kevin to do a search on him, by the way. All that stuff he told us about growing up in Wales, his parents dying in a car crash, moving to Harrogate, the National Trust …’

‘And?’

‘It all checks out. The episode of Heartbeat was called “Another Little Piece of My Heart”. He didn’t get a credit, though.’

‘He was only an extra.’

‘I think they’re called background artists.’

My heart sank. ‘Have you heard anything more from Cara Grunshaw?’

‘She’s not going to call me!’

‘What about the forensic lab?’

‘They haven’t managed to sort themselves out just yet.’ He half smiled. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of my friend Kevin.’

‘I’m willing to make exceptions.’

Hawthorne ground out his cigarette and stood up. I was happy to leave my hot chocolate. It tasted of traffic fumes. ‘Martin Longhurst is waiting for us,’ he said.

Ahmet’s accountant had been at the party; I’d seen him talking to Harriet Throsby. For some reason, he’d been nervous. And lying in bed at four o’clock in the morning, I remembered that hadn’t been the first time I’d seen him either. He’d been sitting one row behind me at the first night of Mindgame. Even so, I still had no idea why Hawthorne was interested in him. We already knew that Ahmet was in financial difficulties. What else could he add?

Unlike their client, Frost and Longhurst were obviously doing well for themselves. They occupied a Queen Anne-style office spread over four storeys in a quiet backstreet. Theirs was the only name on the door and as we entered the reception area with its plush carpet and original oil paintings (horses and country villas), I couldn’t help thinking of Ahmet’s basement in the Euston Road. Why had they even taken him on as a client? This was an organisation more suited to high-end lawyers, businessmen, hedge-fund managers.

Martin Longhurst appeared almost at once, ushering us further into the building. At the first-night party, he had seemed awkward. When I saw him in Ahmet’s office, I’d thought he looked ill, but that was probably only because he’d seen the advance ticket sales for the play. This was a different man. He was totally relaxed, in a Savile Row suit with his dark hair slicked back and gold cufflinks glinting in his sleeves. As we moved through his home territory, he stopped to show off a couple of the paintings (‘That’s an Edward Walter Webb. The horse won the 1840 Grand Liverpool Steeplechase …’). He led us into a conference room with an oak table that gleamed like a mirror, twelve chairs, and coffee and tea on a side buffet. We sat down and he poured coffee for Hawthorne and tea for me, talking all the while.

‘I very much enjoyed your play, Anthony. I thought it was very entertaining. As a matter of fact, my daughter is a big fan of your work. She’s too young for Alex Rider, but – I hope you don’t mind – she’d love it if you’d sign another of your books.’ I’d already noticed a well-thumbed copy of Granny on the table. If there’s a book of mine in a room, it’s always the first thing I’ll see.