‘Another early start,’ I observe, concealing my unease. ‘I hope you’re getting overtime for all this.’

‘Do you have a minute, Mr Buckby?’

The formality is a bad sign, but the fact that he’s alone is a good one. This time, I’m not considered a physical risk to anyone. Grateful it’s him and not Parry, I draw back the door in welcome. ‘Yes, a quick one. I’m about to leave for work.’

‘What happened to your face?’ he asks.

‘Nothing. An accident.’

No doubt he’s questioning whether the marks might be linked to my scuffle with Kit on the boat and I let him remind himself that they’d have been evident on Friday if they were. Clearly, I’m just a very unpopular guy.

In the kitchen, I offer him tea and dig out some posh biscuits (lemon, dipped in white chocolate: Clare’s favourite). I recognize a pride in myself, one of the last times I’ll be able to play host in this house. Pretend all this is mine to share.

On the other hand, when the police visit a beautiful house, do they feel more or less inclined to nail the owner-occupier? More, I’m guessing. He’ll probably see the luxury snacks as bribery.

That doesn’t stop him from tucking in.

‘You must see a big improvement in refreshments at this time of year,’ I remark inanely. ‘All those mince pies and leftover chocolates.’

I glance at the time on my phone; I’m not going to let myself be detained a second time in lengthy conference. I need my job, minimum wage or no. ‘I take it you haven’t found him yet?’

‘How would you know that?’ he asks.

‘Well, if this was one of those calls, you wouldn’t be eating biscuits before you break the news, I’m guessing.’

‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t,’ he concedes, and takes his time crunching. ‘Did you forget what I said about leaving Mrs Roper alone? We asked you very clearly to keep away from her and yet you’ve approached her twice over the weekend.’

Jesus, she really has got his ear. He’s like her personal security detail. I feel myself twitch, imagining her waking up alone in that icy flat, warming her hands on a mug of tea, the police, not me, her first point of contact. She’s why he’s pestering me at this ungodly hour, not because he has any new evidence to act on. ‘You’re here because I happened to bump into her in a café yesterday? What, am I being charged with harassment?’

He snaps a second biscuit with his front teeth. ‘You’re not being charged with anything yet.’

Yet. There’s always a yet with this man. On my lap, my hand aches. The bandage is off, scar tissue hardening on the wound; I put it to my mouth and worry it with my tongue.

‘You came all the way to my home to tell me that? Is that an efficient use of taxpayer’s money?’ I remember Clare’s comment about the police pursuing their agenda, not ours, and it couldn’t be clearer that she’s right.

‘If it pre-empts further misguided actions on your part, yes, I’d say it is.’

‘Misguided actions? What are you expecting me to do, get rid of her, as well?’

There’s a moment of horror as I hear what I said: as well. I feel myself colour. ‘To be clear, that was a joke. I haven’t got rid of anyone and don’t intend to. Look, yesterday, that was my fault, I shouldn’t have approached Melia and I’m very sorry. But the first time, on Friday, I was only accompanying my partner. I was worried . . .’ Worried she might attack Melia physically as she later did me? No, it’s too incendiary to tell him of Clare’s discovery and the arguments we’ve had. The fragility of our current stand-off. ‘I won’t go near her again, you have my word.’

‘Good.’ He nods. He’s not taking notes, so this must be off the record. He’ll tell Parry, though. He’ll log it. Do they have other cases, this early-rising team? I hope so. I hope this is the first and last call he’ll make today regarding the Ropers and me.

I offer him a third biscuit. ‘Since you’re here, can I ask you a question?’

‘Shoot.’

‘We’re wondering why you’re still not publicizing Kit’s disappearance in the local press? Or on missing persons?’

Merchison’s tone sharpens: ‘“We”?’

I couldn’t do a better job of advertising myself as a loose cannon if I had the words stamped on my forehead. ‘Just me and Clare. I told her I thought there might be some bigger drugs ring operation you don’t want to jeopardize. Undercover officers, that kind of thing.’

The look he gives me is half amused – by my cliché TV terminology, perhaps, or because I think for a moment he’s going to share this sort of intelligence with me. ‘I can only repeat that involving the press and public can, in some cases, compromise overlapping inquiries. We’ve told Mrs Roper the same. Understandably, she shares your frustration.’

‘But how can you control it? There must be others who’re worried? What about his colleagues? If he doesn’t turn up for work, won’t they put out alerts that could get picked up by the press?’

‘Please leave us to worry about that.’

Easy, I suppose, for them to ask Melia to phone Kit’s employer with some excuse, or for them to explain directly the need for anonymity: ‘overlapping inquiries’ seems to be the line.

‘And, Jamie? Anyone who takes it upon themselves to circulate an alert will have us to answer to.’

‘Right.’ I make no mention of the secret cyber probing initiated by Clare. Safer to play dumb. ‘I saw a TV drama where the police opened the helpline in an appeal and the public started phoning in. They called them something, the time wasters. Fools and ghouls or something.’

Merchison chuckles. ‘That’s a good one. I’ll tell my wife that.’

‘You’re married?’

‘Five years tomorrow.’

‘Congratulations.’ I have no right to compare his obvious pride and contentment in his relationship with my own status – one partnership irrevocably broken thanks to my treachery, the other in sticky suspension. No right to name the jagged pain in my ribcage anything other than a self-inflicted wound.

Only when he’s finished Clare’s biscuits does he leave and I marvel at a constitution that can process so much sugar this early in the day.

*

I head to the pier for the boat to work, too late for the 7.20, thanks to Merchison, and only making the 7.55 by the skin of my teeth. The boat is still quiet, the no man’s land between Christmas and New Year’s rolling on, the wealthy off skiing or frolicking on some far-flung beach. I’m literally one of only a dozen or so to board at St Mary’s and it’s impossible not to scan the faces of the last remaining commuters and wonder about the mystery witness. She of the black hair with pink ends is a couple of rows in front of me, and couldn’t pay me less attention if she tried, her earbuds like creatures burrowing into the skull. But if she’s the one who reported me to the police, wouldn’t I remember seeing her that night, one of the more distinctive-looking commuters? And wouldn’t she be wary of seeing me?

Putting my phone to my ear, I say, loudly. ‘Sarah?’