I head straight out into the icy wind howling up Fifth Avenue towards Sluggers which is dark but atmospheric and I grab the last booth, furthest away from the TV monitors booming out some baseball game – the Cincinnati Cocksuckers versus the New England Bollockheads or something.

I don’t have to wait long. As sure as huevos is huevos, Freddie walks in half an hour later, breathing heavily as if he ran here.

‘That was quick,’ I say as he approaches my booth. I close his book that I’ve started reading and push his beer towards him.

‘Told Bryan I wasn’t feeling well.’ He slides in opposite me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

‘Take your coat off then, if you’re stopping.’

He wriggles himself out of it with some difficulty because, like everything he wears, it’s a size too small. Still can’t catch his breath. His eyes drift to the square box beside me. To my bag, my folded-up coat. Back to me.

‘So… how have you been?’ I ask.

It takes him ages to speak and when he does, it’s almost too quiet to hear. ‘You’re dead. You’re… dead.’

I check my pulse in my neck with two fingers. ‘Nope, still here.’

‘They identified you. Seren identified you. They shut the case. But … you’re here.’

‘Yes, Freddie.’ I remove Richard E. Grunt from my pocket and make him do a wave. ‘I’m here too, Freddie,’ Richard squeaks.

Freddie’s eyes go too wide. He still hasn’t touched his beer.

‘I didn’t drug it, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

He nods, looking down at the bottle. ‘I don’t understand this. You look… like a different person.’

I pocket Richard and sip my cocktail. ‘Yeah, I kind of am.’

He peeks under my Yankee cap, looks around my face, down to my denim dungaree dress and roll-neck. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

‘That’s the general idea.’

Freddie goes into the kind of blink overdrive you only do in a sandstorm.

I sip my drink. ‘Mmm, this is lovely. It’s called a Pink Panther. Vodka, pineapple juice and grenadine. Did I tell you about the time I was on the dole and I got a job dressing up as the Pink Panther giving out leaflets on Weston-super-Mare seafront? Only lasted a day. Five pounds fifty-seven an hour to climb into a sweatsuit a million nonces had wanked in? So not worth it.’

‘Rhiann—’

‘—no, no no, don’t speak the name that shall not be spoken, Freddo.’

He leans in as a home run is scored and loud booming cheers go up around the bar. ‘How did you do it? How?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘I have money. From the book. I’ve put it to one side. I did everything you wanted me to. Changed your friend’s name, your solicitor, your dad’s friends—’