Beale Property Services were located on a dreary industrial estate off the A24 in Merton. From the outside, the HQ was an equally dreary two-storey brick-built utility office enlivened by cheap blue cladding and festooned with security cameras. Inside it was surprisingly pleasant, with pastel-coloured sofas, glass-walled offices rather than cubicles and at least two articulated lorries’ worth of Christmas decorations hanging from every available hook.

There was also a great absence of people, including behind the mahogany-topped reception desk. Now, there’s a time when an unlocked premises is a positive boon to a police officer as in – I was just looking to ascertain the whereabouts of the proprietor when I stumbled across the Class A controlled substances which were in plain sight in the bottom drawer of a locked desk in an upstairs office, M’lord. Leave the police alone in a room for five minutes and we start looking in drawers, locked or otherwise. It’s a terrible habit

Stephanopoulos’ fingers were actually beginning to twitch when a short balding white guy in a chunky-knit pullover and khaki chinos bustled down the corridor towards us.

‘I’m afraid the office is closed for Christmas,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’ asked Stephanopoulos.

The man shrugged. ‘Nobody could make it in because of the snow this week,’ he said. ‘So I told everyone to come back after Christmas.’ He had the sort of default BBC accent that a posh person acquires through trying to avoid sounding too much like they went to public school.

‘But it’s not snowing anymore,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’

‘We’re looking for Graham Beale,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘CEO of Beale Property Services.’

The man grinned. ‘Then you are in luck,’ he said. ‘For that is I.’

We identified ourselves and told him we wanted to ask a few questions about one of his properties. He led us into what was obviously a staff coffee area and asked if we’d like a Baileys.

‘We were planning a bit of a pre-Christmas drink,’ he said and showed us a cupboard stuffed with bottles. Stephanopoulos enthusiastically agreed to a large one but took it upon herself to decline on my behalf.

‘He’s my designated driver,’ she said.

Beale poured two measures of Baileys into a pair of mugs and we sat down around a round table with a white laminated top. Stephanopoulos sipped her drink.

‘That brings back a lot of memories,’ she said.

‘So,’ said Beale. ‘What do you want to know?’

He laughed when Stephanopoulos explained about the warehouse on Kensal Road.

‘Oh god yes,’ he said. ‘That place. The Unbreakable Empire Pottery Company.’

I got out my notebook and pen. Notes, like running after suspects and finding your own parking space, being one of the things Detective Inspectors don’t expect to do themselves.

‘It is owned by your company?’ asked Stephanopoulos.