It took me a couple of minutes to clean and dress the wounds, then I grabbed a blanket from the airing cupboard upstairs and handed it to him. I pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him at the table. I’d barely had time to stop and think about myself, but now, as I finally began to relax, I could feel pain all along my neck – the effects of whiplash – and real discomfort, perhaps bruising, across my front, right shoulder to left hip, where the seatbelt had locked hard.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘I’ll survive.’

He nodded. ‘I guess that’s what we do.’

I looked out of the kitchen window at my car. The left-hand edge was badly damaged, the headlight smashed, the grille bent, some of the bumper pushed back in towards the engine. I needed to find the number of someone local who could repair it for me; there was no way I could drive back to London with it looking like that. If I’d been on my own, I might have taken the gamble. But if I got stopped by the cops on the motorway, there was a chance they would work a trail back to here, to the hotel, and ultimately to Healy. Everything had to be looked at through the same lens, every decision taken on the basis of whether it might expose him.

‘So what now?’ he asked.

I took a moment before replying, steeling myself.

‘I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here.’

He frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The car’s a mess. It’s a fifty-mile drive back to the hotel, and thirty-five miles of that is motorway. If there are cops out, there’s every chance they’ll pull us over and that means having to explain everything. It’s safer if you’re not a part of that.’

‘I’m not staying here.’

‘It’ll be for a day,’ I said. ‘Two at the most.’

‘Two days in this place? Forget it.’

‘I need to get the car repaired.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘I just told you, that’s not a good idea.’