‘In other news, police checkpoints are in place on the A96 between Kintore and Blackburn. . .’

Logan sat down on the couch beside her. ‘What’s going to be better for him growing up: you happy, or you miserable? ’

‘. . .witnesses following the discovery of what appears to be a satanic murder inspired by the bestselling novel Witchfire on Monday evening. . .’

She stared at the screen. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Never is.’

‘We spoke to two the film’s stars, Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell.’ Onscreen, Mrs Uglyblouse was replaced by the familiar PR setup of Nichole and Morgan sitting in front of Witchfire posters.

‘What am I going to do, Logan? Leave Bill and come back and shack up with you? You me and Rory crammed in your girlfriend’s caravan? ’

Oh dear God. . . Don’t say anything. Don’t even breathe!

Jackie stood. ‘That’s what I thought.’

Nichole leaned forward. ‘First I have to say on behalf of everyone working on the film, that our hearts go out to those poor families.’

Morgan nodded. ‘They really do. It’s awful that these guys went through what they did—’

‘I can’t. There isn’t. . .’

‘You’re just going to sit here, like a bug stuck in fucking amber till she comes back.’

‘. . .so important to stop this happening to anyone else. Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to help.’

‘I am not stuck in amber.’

‘LOOK AT YOURSELF! It’s been two years and you’re still here. Why haven’t you finished fixing up the flat? I’ll tell you why: because you can’t move on. You were always the bloody same!’ She turned and banged out of the room.

‘Jackie!’

Out into the corridor.

‘Jackie, wait.’

She was in the bedroom, grabbing her rucksack from the floor. ‘You want a sign, Logan? Here’s your sign.’ She ripped down the sheet of paper Sellotaped to the wardrobe mirror and hurled it at him. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you.’

She shoved past, wrenched open the front door, then slammed it hard enough to make the mugs in the kitchen clatter.

Silence.

‘—ask if anyone’s seen, or knows anything about these terrible deaths, to come forward.’

‘That’s right, people, you have to call the police before anyone else gets hurt.’

Bit late for that.

Logan bent down and retrieved the sheet of paper. Smoothed it out against the wall. ‘LIKE IT OR NOT, YOU’RE STILL ALIVE’ printed in big black letters.

‘And now here’s Russell with the weather.’

‘Thanks, Steve. Well, it’s going to be an unsettled couple of days—’

The doorbell rang out its long mournful chime.

He reached for the handle, paused. The pickaxe handle waited patiently, propped up in the corner. He took it and peered through the spyhole.

Jackie scowled back at him, her features distorted by the lens.

He opened the door. ‘You already had the last word.’