I slept for two, perhaps three hours that night before I was woken, disoriented, by the Archangel’s bright searchlight beams sweeping the clouds and rooftops, shining in through people’s windows to make the rooms brighter than day. I lay there thinking of those lost moments in Lorelei’s house, of what I had seen but couldn’t recall. And I tried to recover the memories but the effects of the concussion still kept them from me. I wondered if Hazel, in the next room, had had any more rest than I had had, or if she too had stayed awake hoping still to hear the sound of Nick’s key in the lock.

It was about seven, I think, when I heard the newspaper rattle through the letterbox. I hurried down to intercept it because I wanted to see what they knew of Lorelei’s death – maybe it would lend some hint as to who or what lay behind it – and I also didn’t want Hazel presented with the lurid details. I flicked through the pages before going back to the beginning, confused. There was no word of her. Well, perhaps it had been too late for the edition.

I sat on the stairs, thinking. Nick’s continued absence had me frightened, but, after what I had done the previous day – taking the book from Lorelei’s house and surviving the encounter with Grest – I felt more able to cope. Was there something I could do to help Nick? One idea occurred, even though it was itself daunting.

I called Number Enquiries. I had to repeat my request because it was hard to hear down the crackling line, but they connected me and the call was answered immediately.

‘National Security Police,’ said a gruff voice when it connected. There was a pause while I told myself that I really was doing this. ‘National Security Police,’ it repeated with annoyance.

I shook myself into action. I had to concentrate if I were going to find out anything about Nick. ‘Hello. You have my husband in custody,’ I said. Despite my resolve, it was painful for me even to pronounce the words, and, at the back of my mind, there was the worry that calling might somehow make matters worse. ‘My … his name is Nicholas Cawson.’

‘And?’

‘Can you tell me if you will be releasing him soon? His daughter is here. Her mother died yesterday.’

‘We can’t discuss any case. But what did you say your name was?’

My heart skipped – it felt dangerous even to give these people your name – but there was no point in withholding the information, because they would have it all on file anyway. ‘Jane Cawson. Can you tell me anything at all?’

‘No. But I’ll make a note that you called.’

‘Please, just something.’

‘I will make a note that you called.’