With the hoodie of my sweatshirt pulled over my head, I sat on a bench at Sunderland train station, near the end of the platform. As far away from other people as I could get. I had dodged a slack-looking young policeman on the way in, and was keeping an eye on him as he checked slowly up and down the platforms. Looking for someone.

My right arm ached from where I had jumped a wall and landed badly. The wound from the dog bite on my left ankle had bled down into my shoe, four distinct punctures on each side of my leg, and was now a low throbbing ache stiffening the joint and making it painful to walk on. I flexed my ankle, rotating it, teeth gritted against the pain. It had never been great since metal pins were put in it more than ten years ago, after one drunken night that had wrecked my sporting career.

I dialled Larssen’s number and he picked up after the first ring.

‘Joe, your phone’s been off. What have you been doing?’

I touched the bruise by my eye socket.

‘This and that.’

‘Are you OK? You sound terrible.’

‘I’ve been worse. Can’t remember when, but hey-ho.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Waiting for a train.’

‘You’re coming back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We need to talk about your options.’

I tensed, anticipating another sucker punch, unsure how it was possible to make things any worse at this point.

‘Options?’

‘As in what we do next. Your best course of action at this point.’

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Turned my head slightly so I could track the progress of the young police officer. He’d moved to the next platform over and was talking to a fluorescent-jacketed member of the station staff.

‘So, what do you think I should do? What’s your advice?’

‘Well, Joe, the police have your admission that you were at the scene of the incident, backed up with forensic evidence, they’ve found your mobile at the supposed burial location, plus Mr Delaney’s blood in the boot of your car. They also have suspicious internet searches on your mobile and metadata that looks like you were sending messages using his phone to mislead the police. They have forensic authorship analysis indicating that he was not the author of messages posted. And underlying it all, of course, is the fact that your wife was sexually involved with Ben Delaney.’

He said nothing for a moment, letting the news sink in.

All I could think of was Ben’s grinning face.

Game, set and match, big fella.