“OK, if that’s what you want, OK.”

“I mean it, Jon.”

“I know you do,” I say but I sound angry, frustrated, so I repeat, softer this time, “I know.”

I pat her shoulder and she takes a sip of tea.

“Are you sure the person you met was GoodSam?”

“I don’t know, but whoever he was, he knows Grace.”

“Can you tell me a bit about him, what he was like?”

Cara rubs the heel of her hand over her eyes, like she’s trying to wipe the shock of the last few hours away. She keeps her eyes closed as she says, “He was probably about thirty, white, tall, and really skinny.”

“That’s good, Cara. You remember what he was wearing?”

“Black, all black. He had a tattoo on his neck but I couldn’t see what it was because he had his coat zipped up high like he was trying to hide it, but it was long and black, right here.” She shows me on her thin neck.

“On the left?”

She thinks for a moment. “Yeah, on the left.”

She opens her eyes, turns to look at me as she says, “Whoever he is, he’s dangerous, violent. We have to stay away from him, Jon.”

“Cara, if we don’t do anything an innocent man might go to prison, and if we can’t go to the police then, what choice do we have?”

“That’s what I’m saying: we don’t have a choice. We just have to stop everything. You promised.” Her voice rises, her anxiety quickly escalating; she’s terrified.

“OK, OK.” I make myself sound calm, not wanting to upset her again. I want to point out I haven’t promised anything, but I’d sound like a pedant and she’s too exhausted, too traumatized to hear any more now.

“Do you want anything to eat? I could make you some toast,” I say, forgetting I don’t have any bread, or any food for that matter, but she shakes her head.

“No thanks. Would it be OK if I stay here for a few hours, just lie here and try to sleep for a bit? I can’t face going home right now.”

It’s not ideal. I want to call Dave straight away, offer him money I don’t have, and see what he can tell me about this bloke with the neck tattoo, but Cara’s already snuggling down into the sleeping bag, yawning.

“I may have to go out for a bit,” I say and the sleeping bag shrugs and mumbles, “I can let myself out,” before it seems to sigh and then still.

I close the sitting-room door gently behind me and text Dave in the kitchen.

I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.

Dave, most likely excited by the thought of another all-expenses-paid trip to the pub so soon after the last one, calls me back after just a few minutes. His voice is echoey; he sounds like he’s in the toilet or a changing room, like he’s gone somewhere private to speak with me.