“Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t rely wholly on South Yorkshire’s finest. In my experience they’re a little loath to share information.” He sighs heavily. “I’ll get the tech guys on it in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Tyler says again. He reaches out on a whim and touches Enfield’s arm. “You were right; he’s been talking to us all along. We just weren’t listening.”

“He hasn’t been talking to us, Adam. He’s been talking to you. You should be concerned about this. He’s been to your flat.”

They are close now. He can feel Paul Enfield’s muscles tense under the fabric of his T-shirt.

Then Enfield is leaning in, pressing his lips to Tyler’s mouth. He pulls away again, just as suddenly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, it’s . . . Look, I’m tired. Maybe we could talk later.”

Enfield smiles. “Sure. I’ll get to work on that website.”

After Enfield leaves, he reads through the blog entries again. Then he reads them again. It’s all here. The reasons, the psychosis. Whatever it is. Unless . . . The thought occurs to him this could just be a game someone’s playing. Someone who knows how to manipulate people, how to get what they want.

After his third read he begins to find it hard to focus on the screen. His eyes refuse to stay open despite his best efforts. But when he goes to lie down for a minute or two the words from the blog begin running round his head in broken fragments.

You shouldn’t have come back . . . unearthing buried secrets . . . Screaming. Always screaming . . .

On and on as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

So they have found him . . . he wants more . . . remember how they watched and they laughed . . . you survived . . .

Tyler turns over, tries to drive the voice out by humming a tune in his head.

The schoolteacher . . . she knew . . . the one who called himself God’s servant . . . got what he deserved . . .

As he drifts off, he dreams he is the arsonist, playing with matches, just like Bonfire Night when he was a kid. Gerry’s voice screaming in his head.

He wants peace . . . an end to it . . . it’s up to you to finish it for him . . .

A dog barks and he wakes. Tyler sits up sharply, and his T-shirt pulls the skin from his blistered neck, setting it on fire once again.

It’s late; he’s slept too long. He takes the dog out, letting it run round the grounds of the flats. While he’s trying to dig it out from under a bush, Enfield’s colleague turns up with his car. Somehow she manages to persuade the dog to come out of hiding. He thanks her and offers to give her a lift home, but she declines.