Primrose looked up as I came through the door, but I carried on to my desk. I couldn’t apologise for something I couldn’t remember.

‘Good morning, Harry,’ she called. ‘You had a good time last night. Can I make you a coffee?’

‘Yes, please,’ I answered, pretending to be checking something on my computer.

Minutes later, she came back with two steaming mugs and pulled up a chair. Whatever might have happened the night before hadn’t been bad enough to upset her morning routine.

I cleared my throat. ‘Thank you. It was a good evening.’

Primrose beamed at me. ‘We had a great time.’

I studied her face. Her bright green eyes and pale skin were as fresh as always.

‘Yes. I enjoyed myself.’

‘Is it a Welsh thing?’ asked Primrose. ‘I’ve heard they’re all at it in the Valleys.’

I fixed her with a stare. ‘I come from the north. It’s not the same.’

We sat staring at each other, waiting to see who would be the first to break the silence. It was me. ‘OK, I give up. What happened after the chips?’

Primrose went bright red. ‘You can’t remember? Not even the parrot?’

Then it came back to me. The parrot. The parrot on top of the picture frame. The painting was of a mature woman with large breasts supported by an embroidered bodice. The parrot was smiling.

‘Won’t he try to escape?’ I asked Sylvia seriously as she brought over more beers.

She glanced at Primrose and raised an eyebrow before replying. ‘Don’t worry, dear. He’s quite happy there.’

I turned to Primrose for help.

‘Percival died years ago,’ she said, pretending to be sad. ‘Sylvia couldn’t bear the loss. She had him stuffed.’

I tried to look sympathetic, but Sylvia was laughing. ‘I wanted to do the same with my poor husband, Ralph, but they wouldn’t let me. They cremated him instead. With all the alcohol in his body, he was gone in a flash.’