Paolo’s in his early forties and is one of the few half-decent journalists still making a living from secrets. His business cards describe him as an ‘investigative reporter’ though he has to resort to a bit of court reporting and showbiz piffle to really keep the wolves from the door. He’s dabbled with podcasts and briefly had his own attempt at a true-crime show on YouTube but it was amateurish and time-consuming and didn’t really play to his strengths. He’s not got the slickness that a good presenter needs. He’s a bit scruffy for all that. Even when he’s trying to impress people he manages to look like he’s been mugged, stripped and forcibly inserted into his attacker’s clothes. He’s got big hands that look silly as they hammer away at a keyboard. He’s forever scratching his grey beard and sending flakes of dead skin spinning away to blizzard down onto the collar of his checked shirt, his zip-neck jumper; his photographer’s waistcoat with a pocket for every conceivable lens – none of which currently contain lenses and which hang open, limp and pointless, like slack mouths.

He looks up and around him. Gives a sigh through his thick lips and badger whiskers. He usually finds the church-like silence of the National Archives a restful environment; a place where a fellow might get away from other people’s inanity and be left to focus on things that matter, such as his own opinions, a gentle doze, or how to make more money from the dead.

Paolo scratches his beard again. He’s read that he needs to moisturize more: needs to really lather it into the flaky epidermis beneath his bristles. He found some skin lotion in the medicine cabinet of a lady-friend and in the spirit of a chap high on the promise of sex, not to mention the preceding Thai green curry and red wine, he’d massaged a good half bottle into his whiskers. It had taken him twenty minutes to get the stuff to soak in and by then his big coarse facial hair was so sleek that he left the bathroom looking like Rasputin. He’d rather stick with the itchiness, thanks all the same.

Paolo’s phone buzzes inside his jacket pocket. He experiences the usual sensation. It could be the story of a lifetime, it could be his ex demanding an update on his missing child benefit payments, or it could be British Gas, increasingly militant in their attempts to force him into changing energy supplier.

He answers in a stage whisper, cupping his fleshy hand over the mouthpiece. He’s got a soft Dundonian accent, made only marginally less lyrical by twenty-five years of living in London.