‘Has Mary called an ambulance?’ I asked.

‘No, I told her not to.’

‘But, Dodge, you’re in no state—’

‘I don’t want to get caught up in the system,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

I didn’t like leaving Mary Griffin on her own, but Dodge’s need was greater. He winced with pain as I got him upright but did not allow himself to cry out. Then I manhandled him into the back of the Yeti, having first covered the seats with a waterproof sheet. (My car’s well used to carrying messy detritus, so I’m equipped for most eventualities. Fortunately, the threat to its upholstery is not often blood.)

Telling Dodge I wouldn’t be long, I went to check on Mary. She was still in a terrible state but I managed to get from her that she hadn’t actually witnessed the attack. Dodge had arrived early evening with a desk he’d made for Amy, again decorated with Frozen stickers. Mary had offered him something to eat or a drink, but he’d refused and said he had to get back.

It was only when she’d gone upstairs to check Amy was asleep that she’d seen the Morris Tipper was still parked outside and gone to investigate. Her first instinct had been to call for an ambulance, but Dodge had managed to persuade her against the idea, just as he had me. So, she knew he wasn’t dead. What she’d said to me on the phone was a by-product of hysteria.

The reason for that hysteria was her conviction that her husband had attacked Dodge. I tried to persuade her that was impossible because Craig was locked up in prison, but her mind wasn’t receptive to logic.

I asked if she’d got anyone, family, or friend, who could come to sit with her, but there wasn’t anyone. As is so often the case with coercive partners, Craig Griffin’s controlling jealousy had made her cut off all contacts of that kind. I found myself wondering whether Walt would do the same for Alexandra. But then I hadn’t got the impression she had much of a social circle, anyway.

All I could do was to tell Mary Griffin to make sure the house was securely locked up. I said I’d ring in the morning.

By the time I got back to the Yeti, Dodge had fallen asleep. Probably best thing for him. He’d mumbled as I got him into the car that he wanted me to drive back to his place, but there was no way I was going to do that. Not until I’d checked the extent of his injuries, anyway. If they were really bad, I was determined to overrule his resistance to calling an ambulance. I had no desire for him to die on me.

His body had stiffened up on the drive to Chichester and he was clearly in a lot of pain as I manoeuvred him into the house. But the fact that he could stand and move, albeit with difficulty, suggested no bones were broken.