They were black, croissant-shaped and instantly recognizable to my male brain. Still it took me a few seconds to comprehend the pair of women’s underwear on the floor of my dim Luxembourg apartment. Fumes of some spirit, vodka possibly, clouded my vision.

I crouched down and picked them up, fumbling the material. A drill pierced my skull. My fingers were shaky and I felt sweat at the back of my neck – even though it was the depths of winter. Jesus. Whose were they? I scanned the rest of my bedroom for clues. The parquet floor and high ceiling swam murkily; it was too dim to tell with the shutters closed and my fierce hangover wasn’t helping with the recognition. Yet all the other clothes strewn around looked to be my own. There were my Hugo Boss black trousers, my metallic grey work shirt, belt and leather slips-ons. Somewhere here too, hopefully, was my old Rolex Perpetual.

I couldn’t see the bed properly. I could see that there was no one in it, no gently heaving and subsiding form, but I couldn’t tell whether there was a second depression on the mattress from someone having slept there.

In my trouser pocket I found my phone, the battery almost dead, Claire asking after midnight ‘Can we talk?’ – again. The last text was from Phil, time- stamped 03:17: ‘Wher r u?’

We’ll come back to Phil soon enough. For now, I needed to know what else was in my pockets. Credit card receipts, a woman’s phone number? There was a receipt from the Ducal Casino for a bottle of Lanson champagne and two club sandwiches, 02:44, weighing in at 185 euros.

Nothing else.