‘Is that what is happening here?’

He sounds suspicious, like he already knows that this is not what is happening here.

‘Well, no,’ I admit, ‘I have a theory. I think Rory is innocent.’

‘Give me a minute,’ he says. I hear a door close and the background noise dies down. ‘Ok, go.’

I tell him every detail of my research and the evidence I’ve collected. He remains silent throughout and when I finish, he tells me that there has been no new evidence found to incriminate Rory overnight and that DCI Bob is fuming.

He agrees that my theory has legs and that I should call Bob and run it by him. I tell him I will, though I have no intention of doing that just yet.

As he is about to go, he asks if I’ve heard from Tom, as he was supposed to be in work this afternoon but hasn’t turned up and that no-one can get in touch with him.

I suggest that maybe he has been delayed leaving his parent’s place and that I will try.

I hang up and dial Tom’s number. It doesn’t ring for long before the call connects and Tom answers with a grunt. It sounds like I have woken him up.

‘Tom, are you OK?’

He grunts again and I remember that he didn’t answer my call yesterday and I wonder if I have done something to annoy him.

‘Have you left Oxford yet? Liam says you haven’t made it to work today.’

Much to my annoyance, there is still no answer. I decide to tell him what I have been working on, to see if the news will elicit a response.

‘I think Ed is the killer.’

‘Took you long enough,’ a voice says, though the voice does not belong to Tom.

It belongs to Ed.

‘Don’t tell anyone about this phone call, and come straight here. You know where to find me. If you tell anyone about this, your boyfriend dies,’ he snarls, before the line goes dead.

30

When I left the house, I was certain that I was making the right decision in coming to meet Ed. Now, as I near the meeting point, I can’t help but feel I am walking into the lion’s den. I’ve adhered to his demand of keeping quiet about the phone call and coming alone, though I’ve almost turned back a number of times. The thought of Tom keeps me going. I don’t even know for certain that he is still alive, but I have to believe he is.

My blood runs cold as I approach my destination. The part of the suburb in the south of the city feels as though it has been forgotten, the crumbling buildings and the high-rise tower blocks covered in graffiti are testament to the fact.

As I indicate onto an unlit lane, the warehouse looms in front of me, blotting out the stars. I slow the car and crawl up the pock-marked road, attempting to keep my approach as quiet as possible.