This time I take along some props – a hoe and a bucket, a worker’s neckerchief tied round my neck – and I whistle between my teeth as I walk along the towpath. When I come to the Bridge of Angels, I take a deep breath and cross to the other side of the river, continuing on my way as if it’s entirely natural for me to be on this path. And when a Travester couple pass me, going the other direction, they barely give me a glance. I could be any other Cerel labourer going to work in one of the big gardens along the river.

Another mile and I come to the border of the Director’s property.

There’s a private path to my left and, barely pausing, I turn into it, leaving the river behind, and follow a plaited willow fence. Anybody could get in here. Though I suspect at night there will be dogs prowling the grounds.

I come to a simple latched gate, no locks or bolts. With a quick glance to make sure there are no man-eating dogs nearby, I push it open and let myself in. This is the scary part, and I’m too nervous even to keep up the pretence of whistling. Off to my left, through bushes and gardens, is what might be the main entrance – I can see the black automobile parked in front of the house. The house itself is made of yellow stone, and is enormous, at least three storeys high, with a metal roof. Windows gleam down at me like watching eyes.

It’s too late to turn back now; anybody might have seen me and I’ve got to look like I belong. So with a deep breath, I set off along the gravel path that leads into the garden. It forks before reaching the side of the house, and I take the right-hand path. The plan is to find out where they grow the vegetables, and it won’t be out the front near the driveway. The path takes me around the river side of the house, past low trees cut into shapes – a deer, a large squirrel, a pyramid. There is a terrace here, with tall glass doors. A sound of piano music drifts across the lower lawn.

Tense with fear, I’m aware of how loud my boots sound on the gravel path. With each step I expect to hear shouts, and I nearly lose my nerve. But I reach the far corner of the house without incident.

There’s a rustic shed. A long trellis fence, behind which grow rows of vegetables, separates this kitchen garden from the house. There are things I recognise from scratching in the courtyard garden: tomatoes, peppers, cabbages. With a dry mouth, I make my way towards this area. A man steps out of the shed and spots me.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks gruffly.