The daily press conference has finished and the evening yawns in front of us. Megan can feel there’s something different about this evening; there’s something special in the air. She is tense on the sofa next to me, like a spring coiled tightly and about to make a leap for it. I let the vulpine smile slip from my face and replace it with a clown’s grin.

“What do you think, Meggie?” I watch the confusion cloud her pretty face as she struggles to understand where this is going. “Why don’t you go and get me another gin and tonic, hmmm? And then you can sit here nicely and watch me have a little fun.”

Megan nods mutely and goes to top up my drink. I notice she is still walking a little stiffly, each step a bit tentative, the pain of the punishment lingering.

When she returns, I pat the sofa cushion next to me, instructing her to sit. I enjoy the way she cowers when I put my arm round her and pull her closer. Pulling out a cheap untraceable mobile—one of the many I have secreted away for times like this—I call the number of the police tip line. “I have information regarding the disappearance of Leah Patterson,” I tell the operator. “I was walking my dogs a week ago, just outside of East Grinstead. I walked through a little car park, it’s fairly remote with just a single trail running through it. I don’t think it’s used very often. Anyway, there was a car parked and I could hear that the people inside were having a blazing argument. A proper screaming match. I figured I’d keep my distance, but then the passenger door opened and this woman got out. A man immediately got out the driver side and went running to her. It looked like he was trying to stop her running off, almost dragging her back to the car. She slapped him across the face, it made a ringing sound that got my dogs’ backs right up, but I don’t think he was hurt. But then he threatened her. Told her if she didn’t—and I quote here so apologies for the language—that if she ‘didn’t get back in the fucking car and shut her fucking mouth, he would fucking kill her.’ I wondered at the time if I should have done something. But then I saw the picture of that missing woman on TV and realized. It was her. The woman in the car park.”

“Do you know who the man was?” the operator asks me.

“He was tall. Over six feet. Slim build. But it was his hair I noticed. Bright orange it was. Distinctive. Plummy accent too. I think I heard her call him Tim, or Tom… yes, definitely Tom.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“That’s it. I just thought I should tell someone. I couldn’t live with myself if I said nothing, and then it turned out that something bad had happened to her.”