She closes the bathroom door, pulls down her pyjama bottoms and sits down on the toilet. Underfloor heating makes the tiles lovely and warm beneath her bare feet. She closes her eyes for a moment, but something makes her open them – a faint creaking from above. She stands up, pulls up her pyjama bottoms. Opens the door a fraction. The creaking comes again, and this time she’s sure: it’s a floorboard. Someone is up in the chapel. An intruder, a stranger in their house in the middle of the night, only metres away from her daughter. She tiptoes into the hallway, grabs her telescopic baton from the chest of drawers. A sharp swing, and three steel rods lock together. She spins around to face the door leading to the stairs, the baton raised in a defensive gesture. The feeling of the rubber handle against her palm makes the panic gradually subside. She listens again.

The intruder seems to be standing still; maybe he heard the sound of the baton. She holds her breath, then exhales slowly to clear her head. She has two choices. She can wake Agnes and Milo, get them into the car and drive away from the house as quickly as possible, then call the emergency number when they’re at a safe distance. She glances out of the window. The full moon is illuminating the entire yard. The car is no more than five metres from the door, but whoever is upstairs will hear them, and be long gone by the time the police arrive. The creaking comes again. It doesn’t sound threatening; it’s more wary, uncertain. Fleeing from her home in a panic isn’t going to earn her any Brownie points at the station. She can already imagine the conversation over coffee – how the boss wimped out, ran like a scared rabbit. The other option is to catch a burglar red-handed during her first week in the job. That’s exactly the kind of clichéd kudos she needs, plus it’s a lot more appealing to her instincts as a police officer. She grips the baton tightly and thinks for a moment.

The element of surprise is probably still on her side. She is armed, trained, and has experience of close combat. She reaches into the drawer again, slips the small leather case containing handcuffs into her pocket. Then she opens the door very slowly and listens again. She hears a creak, then a faint rustle which seems to come from the side where the mural is.

She places her foot on the first step; the wood is cold. Second step, third. She rests the baton on her shoulder. Fourth step, fifth. She is moving silently. Sixth step, seventh. She pauses, listens. Nothing. Two more steps and she will be able to see into the room. Eighth step. She feels the faint vibration a millisecond before the wood creaks. Shit!