‘Yes. But don’t worry, she’ll be safe. He’s not going to attack her. He really likes her.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have left her alone if I wasn’t one hundred per cent confident.’

I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. ‘I think we should open some wine. I could do with a drink.’

‘I’ll give you some money for it.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

I opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. It slipped down, making me feel better almost immediately.

‘So is it OK for me to stay the night?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, of course. You have my bed and I’ll have the sofa.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’

‘Rachel. I insist.’

By nine o’clock, after we’d eaten a delivery pizza and watched a rubbish film on TV, Rachel told me she was exhausted and asked would I mind if she went to bed. She’d spent the evening checking her phone compulsively. I wasn’t sure if she was receiving messages from Henry; the phone didn’t beep but it could have been on silent. She didn’t appear to reply to any.

A short while after she’d shut the bedroom door, my phone rang.

‘Hi sexy.’

‘Hi Charlie.’ My heart surged and I forced myself to stay calm, sound normal. ‘How’s it going? How’s the training?’

‘Oh God. Boring with a capital B. But there’s this cool woman on the course from Birmingham and I’m going to the bar with her in a bit. I’m just in my hotel room. The bed’s all lovely and springy. Wish you were here.’

‘I wish you were here.’

‘Yeah, me too. But hotel rooms can be very sexy.’ She paused and, with a smile in her voice, said, ‘I’m getting changed. I’m just sitting here in my underwear at the moment.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh. What about you?’

‘Oh, you know, just lounging about in my posing pouch.’

‘You’re funny. Hang on.’

It had almost become a regular part of our relationship, Charlie sending me pictures of herself in a state of undress. A few seconds later, the photo arrived, her body from the neck to the tops of her thighs, clad in red underwear, stretched out on the hotel bed.

‘Like what you see?’ she asked.

I swallowed. Was I talking to a killer? Of course, the photo was glorious. She was glorious. Perhaps another man would have found the extra layer of danger, the possibility that Charlie was a murderer, exciting. I had kissed and touched every inch of her. I had spent almost every waking minute since we’d met thinking about her. But looking at the photo now, I felt lost. Did I really know her? Who was she? I felt sick with anxiety.