The door opens noisily, bringing with it a gust of chilly air. I turn on my stool, expecting to see Adam. I’m formulating some sort of suitably sarcastic barb. It’s not Adam, however. Instead, two men have entered. Strangers. Adam once said he found it odd that so many people he didn’t know came to The Crown but the place is his choice and I don’t come here so often that I’m going to know all the regulars. I look away from the new arrivals but immediately feel a tap on my shoulder. I’m never happy when strange men think they have the right to touch me and I tense, my hand gripping the whiskey glass slightly more tightly.

Still, it isn’t the time and place to make a scene so I relax again and look at the man who’s tapped me on the shoulder. He’s about forty, similar height to me, dark suit and tie, blond hair trimmed to within an inch of its life, and he’s holding a warrant card. I may not know all the regulars of The Crown but I thought I knew all the local coppers. There aren’t many and I’ve had dealings with most of them during the past year, one way or another. This guy is not an East Hampshire plod though. Behind him and to one side, his colleague, younger, bigger, also fair-haired, is staring at me with tight little eyes. A bully’s eyes. He looks like he’s itching for a fight. In other circumstances, I might have been happy to oblige but Kaylee had clearly been round the bar with a cloth and cleanser before opening and I wouldn’t want to bloody her handiwork. Nor would the subsequent paperwork have appealed.

Detective Sergeant Aaron Walcott, I read on the warrant card. Metropolitan Police. He’s off his patch. He says nothing so I say nothing right back at him. It’s definitely up to Walcott to start the conversational ball rolling so I pick up my glass and drain it. I don’t want to waste any bourbon if this plays out as I’m beginning to think it might.

Eventually he speaks. Maybe he was rehearsing his lines. ‘Miss Melanie Marie Milano?’ he says.