At first, I thought of arson. But, Mousey, that was too risky. Your brother keeps antisocial hours, and I couldn’t be sure he’d be asleep. Then I thought of lying in wait as he walked back through the park after work, but with Bonfire Night approaching, the park was always full of kids, and you could never be sure who would be there, or who would remember seeing you. Besides, your brother was careful. He didn’t go out after dark. He never went to the pub on weekends. If only he’d been like Poodle, I could have caught him unawares. As he went home drunk and alone, late on a Saturday night, I could have followed him to a quiet spot and dealt with him at leisure. But he was never drunk and alone, and he avoided those places. He was like one of those rats that, if you catch them and let them go, will never let you catch them again—

And then, last night, he phoned me. Just when I thought I’d never get a chance to see him alone, he called. I almost didn’t answer the phone. No one calls me late at night, except for nuisance callers. But some instinct warned me that this might just be my lucky night.

“Hello, David. It’s me,” he said.

I recognized his voice at once. Quiet, not too accented, with a little occasional slur suggesting he may once have stammered. I tried to sound abrupt, annoyed. But inside, I was smiling.

“What do you want? I thought you said I’d never hear from you again.”

“Things have changed.”

“Oh, really?”

I heard the smile in his voice. He said: “You’re wondering what more I could have, now that those diary pages are gone. You know you didn’t write it down; at least, not in your diary. But you’re not new to blackmail. In fact, you’ve lived well on the proceeds.”

“If you mean Survivors—” I said.

“No, not Survivors,” said your brother.

I thought for a moment. “You’re bluffing,” I said. He couldn’t know that. He couldn’t. I’d never told anyone about that. Not even you, Mousey.

Your brother said, “I’ve been watching you. More importantly, I’ve been watching your bank records. It isn’t all that difficult. All you need are a few facts, some time, and some inspiration. And what I found out is that over the past fifteen years or so, you’ve been receiving regular payments from an individual living in the Village. Someone we both know, in fact. Someone who kept correspondence, some dating back a very long time.”

He might still be bluffing, I thought. My paper trail is minimal. Just one letter, written when Harry Clarke was arrested. Could he have kept it? And if he did, how could your brother have known what I wrote in a letter seventeen years ago?