Standing on a small suburban street in Teddington, south-west London, at 8am on a Tuesday morning, I check the details again. It's definitely number 18, opposite the Tesco car park: an unassuming, 1960s terraced house with grey blinds pulled across the windows. Weeds are coming up through cracks in the concrete parking spot in the front. Bins and recycling boxes are lined up under the window, which hasn't been cleaned for a while. The door is set back into the wall, so I have to venture into the dimness of the brick doorway to ring the bell. I wait for a few minutes, stepping back out to the quiet street, but there is no answer. I try it again. After another few minutes, the door opens slowly. A slim man in a tracksuit opens it and looks at me with sleepy eyes. I explain who I am, hoping that
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