‘It’s about the case,’ I reply, holding up my phone to show him the email I’ve just received. ‘Do you mind if we watch it?’

‘Of course,’ he nods. ‘This film is dreadful anyway.’

As I fetch my laptop from the kitchen and plump myself down onto the sofa beside Tom, his phone rings. He answers and walks out into the hallway. I can hear him attempting to calm someone before promising he will be leaving first thing in the morning and saying goodbye. He walks back in and I give him an inquisitive look.

‘Dad,’ he says, holding up the phone. ‘Do you remember I mentioned I was going home for a few days to help dad look after mum? Well, he’s nervous that I’d forgotten or couldn’t do it anymore. He needs a break, poor man.’

‘How is your mum?’ I ask.

‘She has her good days and bad days,’ he answers, scratching his elbow. ‘Alzheimer’s is a bitch of a disease though. Anyway, I have to leave first thing in the morning – it’s going to take me three hours or so to get Oxford.’

I give his leg and rub before logging into my emails and opening the newly received file from Ross.

The file is large for such a short film, which fills me with hope that the added data is the superior sound. Tom pours himself a beer and tops up my glass whilst the file downloads and with bated breath, I press play. For the third time, Reuben’s battered face fills the screen. I watch as the action unfolds, noting sounds that I hadn’t previously detected.

My heart begins to beat a little faster; the next few minutes could blow the whole case wide open. As the video nears the section in which the killer behind the camera speaks, I brace myself.

On screen, Reuben’s speech is coming to an end. His bottom lip quivers and as he is about to continue, the other man speaks. Ross has done a phenomenal job with the audio as the speech is now as clear as day.

‘Reuben, why did you kill my fiancée, Anna Symons?’

I’ve heard that question asked before, in the flesh and I now know who is on the other side of the camera. Tom and I exchange an excited look.

We have our killer.

Rory Knox.

25

‘I appreciate it, but honestly, I’m fine,’ says Ed, his dressing gown pulled tight to his body to shield him from the bitter evening wind.

As soon as I’d heard the voice on the recording with such clarity, I’d rang Ed to check on him. When there was no answer, I had raced around to Ed’s house to make sure that he was OK.

The lights of the television emanating through the window as I made my way up the driveway had soothed my fears somewhat, and seeing him answer the door with a glass of scotch, unharmed, had alleviated them further. His phone had simply been charging in the kitchen.