I consider replying with my own set of rhetorical questions – Why are you always such a dick? Did you go on a special training course to become one? Have you ever heard of deodorant? – but I’m not convinced Colin will see the funny side.

‘Right, send me a list-line for conference based on the snippets of the interview released this morning,’ says Colin, ‘but I’ll need something new by the end of the day.’

As if we need reminding.

Colin heads over to the show business desk. I can hear him shouting at the TV editor for failing to get any exclusive Shannon Carter quotes from the ITV press office, but she’s tougher than me, and tells him to fuck off and let her get on with her job.

‘What do you need me to do?’ I don’t want to tread on Lawrie’s toes. I’ve only been at this paper for a few months and there’s politics at play, a hierarchy. Still, this is my chance to stop rewriting press releases and agency copy, and get involved in a breaking news story. To make my mark.

‘Let’s head to Hilltop House. The Carter family will be long gone, but there might be people in the street who lived there during the murders and remember them.’

My heart sinks.

Lawrie is putting his notebook, laptop and dictaphone into his satchel. ‘Where is it again? Gloucestershire?’

‘Kent,’ I say.

‘I’ll just clear it with Colin, and then we’ll get going.’

‘I don’t mind staying here and pulling things together.’ I try to hide the hope in my voice.

Lawrie shakes his head. ‘No, it’s better if there’s two of us. We can split up and cover more ground.’

It’s been twenty-one years since my mother died and I moved to Aunt Peg’s flat in east London, but the street of my childhood is still vivid in my memory. The Carter house was beautiful. Double-fronted and full of character, riding the crest of a hill, a patchwork of fields spread out beneath it. At Christmas, lights twinkled through the windows like a Victorian greetings card, a wreath of holly on the door.

Our house was much smaller, the poor relation. Cracked paintwork and weeds. A tumble of overgrown trees. But I always thought we were the lucky ones because we had the privilege of looking through the glass into their lives.

When Lawrie returns, I hand him a piece of paper – Hilltop House’s full address – and he smiles at my efficiency, impressed by what he considers to be my excellent research skills.

As my car is outside Aunt Peg’s flat – it’s too expensive to park in Canary Wharf – we agree to go our separate ways and meet down in Kent as soon as possible. ‘Don’t dawdle,’ says Lawrie. ‘We need to hit the ground running.’