One-nine-nine-one, the year I was born. How could I forget? Click, the door unlocks. Hands shaking, breath quickening, legs ready to give up, I step inside the dark room. If I switch on the light it might alert someone to my being here. My phone’s flashlight maps out a route to Reilly’s desk, creating an eerie atmosphere. To the left stands a filing cabinet, which also has a keypad. Doubt creeps in. This is not going to work. On her desk is a computer, so I sit down and switch it on. The silence is blasted by the musical introduction coming from the computer. It sounds like a live band doing a sound-check in the room. Banging on a few keys, I try to stop it, but I’m not familiar with this computer so I’m not sure what I should be hitting. Eventually it plays out and I slump back into the chair, staring at the door. Nothing happens, no one heard. Back to my mission.

It’s worthless, the password is keeping me out, so I hold the phone up and shine it around the room, hoping something will speak to me. But nothing jumps out, nothing except the filing cabinet with the keypad. What if…?

Well, who would have thought a qualified doctor with fancy shoes and gleaming teeth would use the same keypad code twice? Not me, but I was wrong. The click is loud and clear: the filing cabinet opens.

Footsteps interrupt my progress, distant but getting closer. The slow trot makes me think it’s Barry. Probably wondering where I am. I switch off the phone and the room is plunged back into darkness. On my knees behind the desk I listen as the steps pass the door. Holding my breath, sweat prickling on my forehead, I wait.

A minute or so later I hear him pass back down the corridor again. On with the phone flashlight. The first cabinet drawer holds a bunch of folders. None of it means anything to me. It’s mostly brochures, information booklets, courses Reilly must have to attend. The second drawer opens with a slight squeak and I find myself telling it to hush. Medical things – syringes, swabs, scissors, all sorts of intrusive apparatus. Nothing of interest. The third drawer doesn’t open at first. Jammed. I give it a hard tug, and it flies open, landing me on the ground. Crawling over to the treasure inside, I see a load of files, brown manila files, just like the ones Josie Reilly had on her desk on that first day. The day she blackmailed my conscience into taking part in her charade.

The OCD order of things speeds my search. ‘W’ is right where it should be at the back of the pile.