“So, what is your name?” I enquired as we drove over the hills into the leafy suburbs nearby.

His big BMW purred like a cat that got at the cream after being locked in a sardine factory overnight, which complemented his sleek good looks to a T.

“Brom Merchado” he said, “you might know me from my television adverts”. I could not afford a television any more, but equally I could not afford to let him know that.

“Actually I rarely find the time for TV” I improvise, “What is it that you advertise?”

He looked taken aback. “I own the biggest pre-owned luxury car mart in town” he says defensively. I note the absence of the word “second-hand” in that sentence.

“And how exactly can I help you Brom?” I ask. “My website was hacked. Someone slandered my good name, and I want the filth apprehended! It must have been an inside job.”

“Well…” I start as his phone rings. He holds up one finger at me, listens for a few seconds and then goes grey. “No! When last did anyone see her?” he asks breathlessly and accelerates.