‘Paolo Fergus,’ he says, and a few heads pop up from behind computer screens to throw irked frowns his way. He ignores them all with the practised insouciance of somebody who makes a living knocking on the doors of the recently bereaved and asking them just how sad they’re feeling.

‘Mr Fergus,’ comes a voice not too dissimilar to his own. It’s rougher, slightly more breathy, but it’s pure Scots. ‘You wrote to me. You asked me to call you. So I’m calling.’

Paolo takes a moment to ask the secretary in his muddled mind to have a quick flick through all recent correspondence. He sends out a lot of speculative letters. He’s always got an idea for a feature or a story or, Holy Grail of Holy Grails, a true-crime book. Who had he been splashing about in recently? Somebody old, somebody Scottish, what had it been in connection with … Oh!

‘Mr Erskine,’ he says, quietly. ‘Sorry for whispering, I’m at the Archives at present. A good chance some librarian will deliver a spanking if I talk louder than a mouse fart. Can you hear me OK?’

There’s silence at the other end of the line, then a long slow release of breath. Paolo can almost smell the cigarette smoke coming down the line.

‘I read your article on what happened in Belize,’ says Mr Erskine. ‘You got a lot of it wrong. You got some of it right as well, which is why I reckoned I’d take a punt on you.’

‘You left a comment on the website,’ says Paolo. ‘Said you were there and that you could give me chapter and verse. I emailed you but no reply. Had to track you down and resort to the old pen and ink.’

‘Must be a nightmare for you,’ says Mr Erskine, drily. ‘You passed another test with that, lad. Finding a postal address can’t have been easy. You must have friends in low places.’

‘Aye, bottom feeders aren’t as territorial as you’d think,’ says Paolo, enjoying the conversation. ‘As I said in my letter, the story may merit a follow-up but only if there’s a new angle or something that moves it forward. I only work for Aletheia now and again, but they don’t pay great and all the stories they carry have to fulfil a certain brief. I did pretty well out of the Belize one, as I recall, though it was weeks ago now. What’s your own connection? You were there?’

Mr Erskine takes a moment, seeming to weigh his options. ‘Would there be any money on the table?’