He had arrived at the Malmaison Hotel in London’s Smithfield Market at around 9 p.m. the previous evening. Alone. In the end Joelle Levy had come down on Sarah’s side, supporting the demand that Michael should be with his family in the police safe house, but it was an argument neither woman could win. Ultimately the police have no power to force their protection on anyone of sound mind, and so Michael’s word was final.

But Levy had at least secured one concession. She had convinced Michael that he could not risk staying alone in the family home. Instead he would stay at a hotel.

Won’t make a difference, Michael had thought when accepting Levy’s demand. He’ll still find me here. And when he does he’ll get the fight of his life.

A short walk from the Old Bailey, the Malmaison had a large, well-lit and busy reception. A public space that every visitor passed through upon arrival. Levy had seen this as a key defence against Karl Hirst, whose face would soon be as recognisable as any celebrity’s.

The fact the hotel was fully occupied was a security bonus. With guests in earshot Hirst would not have the time he had enjoyed in the empty homes of his other victims. It was still far from ideal but Levy had had no choice but to accept that. It was the best she was going to achieve with a man who – unknown to her – wanted to be found.

Michael looked around, trying to recall where he had put his belongings the previous night. He found nothing in the bedroom and so he moved to the suite’s living area, all the while trying to mentally retrace his steps. It was no easy task. Michael had consumed more than half a bottle of whisky before Levy had let him leave Derek Reid’s house. And he had not stopped there. The impressive pile of beer bottles and liquor miniatures strewn across the room’s main table evidenced that. Whisky. Brandy. Vodka. There was even a half-finished tequila, a spirit Michael could never usually stomach.

It was an intake that guaranteed hazy memories.

Michael had awoken at 2 a.m. on the sofa nearest the bottle-strewn table, from alcoholic unconsciousness rather than from sleep. He had then struggled to his unsteady feet, moved to the bedroom and collapsed onto the room’s king-size bed, where he had drifted in and out for the next four hours. It was nowhere near enough rest to shift the whisky and spirits that still gripped him, but the blast of his hot morning shower had made a difference.

His luggage was on the smaller of the room’s two sofas. Across from where he had passed out. Pressing hard on his thumping temple with one hand, he opened the large holdall with the other and pulled out a leather washbag. On any other occasion he would have unpacked as soon as he entered the room. In that, he was a creature of routine, sometimes described as ‘a little OCD’, a concept he found absurd; how could anyone be ‘a little’ obsessive? Still, it was unique for Michael to be unpacked a whole night after arrival.