Gabriel shrugged. ‘Dirt floor. Stock of wood in the corner for burning. I could hear movement next door so I guessed I was chained up next to a cabin. I called out for help. That’s when Heath appeared. I asked him where I was – he said home. I pleaded with him to let me go and I wouldn’t tell anyone about what he’d done. He told me to calm down. He sounded angry, as if I’d disturbed him from something important.’

Gabriel’s legs began to chitter up and down under the table. His eyes searched the room as if trying to escape.

‘Sorry, I . . . I’m just feeling a bit claustrophobic.’

‘Do you want the door open?’

‘Please.’

Rising from the chair, Chandler opened the door to reveal the office beyond and the series of small windows set high above a row of grey cabinets on the far side of the room. Gabriel stared at them.

‘I got afraid he was going to do something there and then. He walked right up to my face. That’s when he mentioned the number fifty-five. It was all he said before he backed off towards the door. I was afraid to ask him what he meant. But I guessed . . .’

Gabriel stopped.

‘Guessed what?’ asked Chandler, eager to hear his own assumptions voiced.

‘That I was going to be his fifty-fifth victim.’

Even on a day hot enough to melt plastic Chandler felt the chill sear down his back. As he related the story Gabriel seemed to be reliving it, his wiry muscles dancing underneath the bloodied T-shirt, the sinews in his forearm permanently tensed. Sheer terror.

‘He said not to worry about whether I was going to be killed,’ continued Gabriel. ‘Because of course I would be killed. It had been written.’

‘What do you mean, “it had been written”?’ asked Chandler.

Gabriel shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Officer.’

‘Okay, go on,’ said Chandler, making a note of the phrase.