Chandler felt for his neck and cursed. He had forgotten his clip-on tie. He wasn’t a stickler for uniform in general but preferred to wear one when meeting a member of the public. It afforded an impression of authority.

‘Look like you own the place,’ Bill had told him, ‘but act like you’re managing it.’

As he approached, Tanya stood close by, watching the man with caution. Even Nick had trundled his chair all the way from reception, as if by remaining in the seat he was fulfilling his assigned role of manning the front desk.

The visitor stood up. Tanya stepped back in response, ready to act. The man’s terror was spreading. Chandler noted that they were of similar height if differing physique, the nervousness paramount in eyes that darted from Chandler to the walls, to the door, as if searching for somewhere better to be. His body seemed to recognize that his eyes sought the chance to escape and had narrowed into slits to prevent this. He looked like he was in pain.

‘He wanted me to be number fifty-five,’ the man spluttered, looking Chandler squarely in the eye for the first time. He shivered and squeezed his eyes shut.

Chandler made some mental notes. Definitely a Perth accent. Patchy stubble on his face suggesting it had been on the rough end of a blunt razor for a number of weeks. An itinerant worker, he guessed; too lucid, a little too fresh to be a bum.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Chandler, keeping calm, even if the sudden appearance of a bloodied stranger had knocked him off step.

‘Fifty-five,’ the man repeated.

Chandler looked to Tanya for help. She shook her head.

‘Fifty-five . . . what?’ asked Chandler. The urge to reach his hand out and touch the man’s shoulder as a show of support and comfort materialized but he was worried it might spook him.

‘The g-g-guy. The killer.’

‘What killer?’

‘The one who kidnapped me. Took me . . . there. The woods . . . the trees.’ The man pointed to the solid wall. Chandler realized he was pointing to Gardner’s Hill beyond the brick.

‘What kill—’

‘A lunatic.’

The man’s legs wobbled. Blood stained his jeans but didn’t look fresh, as if it had dried in the sun. Chandler, however, didn’t need him collapsing. He reached out to touch the man’s arm and he winced in pain.

‘It’s okay, we’re here to help.’ Easing him back into the seat allowed Chandler to feel a little more in charge of the situation. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Gabriel.’

‘Very good, Gabriel. I’m Chandler. I’m the sergeant here. Do you know where you are?’

Gabriel shook his head.

‘You’re in Wilbrook.’

He noted a flash of something in Gabriel’s eyes, something he read as hope. Hope that he had found safety. Chandler continued feeding information in an attempt to bolster this.