Two months after the hearing, Robert Dunn drove down from London to Bodmin to see me.

He was older than I'd expected. Quiet. He stood in the bakery and watched Mr Treloar crimp a pasty. Twenty-one times.

“I didn't know,” he said. “That's not an excuse. It's my company. I should have known. I let people like Martin Kerr hit their numbers and never asked how.”

He turned to me.

“I'd like Pascoe's back on our shelves,” he said. “On fair terms. Paid in thirty days. No fees. No wastage charges. And your name on the front, nobody else's.”

I thought about it for a long time.

“Thank you,” I said. “But no.”

He looked surprised.

“A smaller supermarket in the South West has already asked,” I said. “Penrose & Sons. Sixty stores. They pay in fourteen days. They came down here and ate a pasty in the car park and asked me what I needed, instead of telling me what they wanted.”

Robert Dunn nodded slowly.

“I understand,” he said. “If you ever change your mind…”

“If I ever change my mind,” I said, “you'll get a phone call. And I'll write down every word of it.”

He laughed. To his credit, he really did laugh.