I walk to the phone, lift the receiver to my ear and punch in a number. A voice answers almost immediately.

‘I know where the body is,’ I say, my voice quivering, before reciting the address and setting down the phone. I turn back to the room. ‘Let’s catch this fucker.’

Tom is sitting at one end of the sofa, flicking through Netflix, trying to find something for us to watch. My legs are draped over his, my feet pressed against the hard end of the sofa. I watch the brightly coloured graphics flick by, yet I don’t take any of it in. My mind is elsewhere, though Tom hasn’t seemed to notice. Or if he has, he’s pretending that he hasn’t.

Since he arrived just before dinner, he has been quiet, like he has something on his mind. He stops scrolling once he reaches some generic action film featuring a well-known action, flanked on the graphic by flames an American muscle car. I’ve got no real desire to watch it, though I nod when he asks if I fancy it. At least I won’t have to focus too hard to get a gist of the storyline.

I keep drifting back to the warehouse, and the untold violence that room has borne witness to. I picture the masked man creeping out of the shadows and lunging at me with the steel blade and the hate in his eyes. I shiver, trying to physically shake the memory away.

Tom throws the remote onto the carpeted floor as a fast-paced rock song and the squeal of car’s tyres signal the start of the film. I quickly zone out, Reuben’s body swinging from the noose filling my head, the boot kicking his link to life from under him; and I imagine the callous eyes of the unknown killer watching as soul leaves body. I want to scream at the lack of progress we have made and I am filled with envy that Tom can just switch off and get on with his day.

On the screen, the main character - a detective with a shaved head and a tight shirt which accentuate his bulging biceps - enters a house on a suburban street. In the living room, a badly mutilated body is found, a rouge teenager who had been missing for a while.

Tom laughs.

‘Look at the crime scene. Have you ever seen one so organised and tidy? I’m afraid it’s going to have to be a C- for the set designer.’

I laugh too. Everything in the room has been set purposefully by someone with an eye for detail. Shards of glass are littered artfully under the window and the television has been knocked over and the screen cracked in the middle. I’ve never seen a crime scene look so pretty.

Despite the unrealistic crime scene, I’m starting to enjoy the film when my phone emits a loud beep and I glance at the screen. An email from Ross has arrived. I immediately snatch up the phone and unlock it, navigating my way to the inbox to find an attached video file.