‘I saw the whole thing, squire,’ said the man. ‘Terrible thing, it was.’

They drum it into you at Hendon: before you do anything else, get a name and an address. I produced my notebook and pen. ‘Can I ask your name, sir?’

‘’Course you can, squire. My name’s Nicholas Wall-penny, but don’t ask me how to spell it because I never really got my letters.’

‘Are you a street performer?’ I asked.

‘You might say that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Certainly my performances have hitherto been confined to the street. Though on a cold night like this I wouldn’t be averse to bringing some interiority to my proceedings. If you catch my meaning, squire.’

There was a badge pinned to his lapel: a pewter skeleton caught mid-caper. It seemed a bit goth for a short cockney geezer, but then London is the pick ’n’ mix cultural capital of the world. I wrote down Street performer.

‘Now sir,’ I said, ‘if you could just tell me what it was you saw.’

‘I saw plenty, squire.’

‘But you were here earlier this morning?’ My instructors were also clear about not cueing your witnesses. Information is only supposed to flow in one direction.

‘I’m here morning, noon and night,’ said Nicholas, who obviously hadn’t gone to the same lectures I had.

‘If you’ve witnessed something,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’d better come and give a statement.’

‘That would be a bit of problem,’ said Nicholas, ‘seeing as I’m dead.’

I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. ‘If you’re worried about your safety …’

‘I ain’t worried about anything any more, squire,’ said Nicholas. ‘On account of having been dead these last hundred and twenty years.’

‘If you’re dead,’ I said before I could stop myself, ‘how come we’re talking?’

‘You must have a touch of the sight,’ said Nicholas. ‘Some of the old Palladino.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Touch of that from your father, maybe? Dockman, was he, sailor, some such thing, he gave you that good curly hair and them lips?’