‘There’s a man,’ I said, as we settled to our tea. ‘And he’s killing me, Dave. This man. I feel like he’s killing me.’

Mad Dave listened to my tale of woe. His face – even now, even after all this time – blushing a pale red, more of a rose, when I briefly told him about what had happened on that night in Tokyo.

‘Does your dad know about this, Tara?’

‘My dad? What do you think?’

‘I think – move on. I think – forget it. Ignore all this and hope he goes away. But – not this, Tara. What are you suggesting exactly?’

‘But I’ve got this,’ I said, showing him the envelope, tearing it open and pulling out a fat fistful of twenties. All those faces of the Queen looking young and smiley and gorgeous. ‘It’s ten thousand pounds.’

He looked at the envelope.

And shook his head. But then he took a breath.

And then Mad Dave took the money.

Later, after they picked him up, Mad Dave told the police that he took the money because I had wandered into a place where they would kill me for fun, or for ten quid, let alone ten grand. So Mad Dave was doing me a favour taking my money.

He may even have been saving my life.

Mad Dave told the police that he was a registered heroin addict, not a hitman, and he had the NHS methadone prescription to prove it.

He also told them that he had known me since we were both teenagers and that he believed that, in my heart, I did not really want anyone killed. He said he hoped that if he took the money then this wicked man who was tormenting me would eventually leave me alone and find some fresh victim.

It might even have all been true. I like to think that it was.

Mad Dave certainly refunded the money in full rather than spending it on drugs, which must have taken a superhuman effort on his part, and that moves me more than words can say, because I am not sure that Mad Dave would have done that for anyone else in the world.

CHRISTIAN

There was an overweight sergeant on the front desk who cut me off as soon as he understood that my wife was in custody and that I wanted to see her.

‘Does she need an appropriate adult?’

‘What?’

‘Is she under eighteen or a vulnerable adult and therefore in need of an appropriate adult to be present during her questioning?’

I stared at him.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Hello? Is she under eighteen or a vulnerable adult?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Then you’re not seeing her,’ he said. ‘Look – sir – I don’t doubt your missus is innocent. Everyone who we bring in here is always totally innocent. But we have the right to hold her without charge for twenty-four hours. If she is not under eighteen or a vulnerable adult, you can talk to her on the phone as long as she does not choose to talk to someone else. She gets one call. Good day.’