You can’t account for the burnt ember of that note you sent floating across a kitchen and falling into a corner for forensics to discover and, from that, unravel an entire history of manipulation and murder. You can’t imagine every outcome of how people react – from an heiress to a legal secretary. You don’t have an algorithm in place that informs you of the intricacies of the Detective’s daily routine that would mean he receives a note, cooks an unhealthy breakfast, doesn’t shower and then leaves his home with the door left ajar.

You can plan everything. You can experiment with the human condition for decades. You can talk about how Bundy screwed up. You say how Dahmer made mistakes or Shipman got greedy or Christie was too complacent. But you never see how you will get caught, how you have fucked up.

Maybe you look at the Detective and you think he is lying about his affair. Maybe you wonder about the last case he was on, whether he would have had something to do with it. Something sinister. What if he was already seeing the widow? What if he helped her get rid of her husband? Surely not. A detective for the police. That seems too dark. Surely they wouldn’t be involved in a murder. No way they would cover up something so nefarious.

Perhaps the Detective is experiencing something that is psychologically disorientating. A blackout. Lost time. You knew all along they would be back because you had treated their nephew and you knew they could be useful to you. Another kill. A patsy perhaps.

Maybe you thought you could take them both.

242 – Detective wakes up. He reads his mail. It’s like he needs some kind of mathematical software to decipher which local pizza parlour has the most cost-effective offer. It’s late morning. He has had a lie-in. So a pizza brunch isn’t out of the question. And his head says to go local rather than one of the chains.

He reads the only letter and throws away the other menus.

Then he’s on the phone asking for a large meat feast with extra cheese. Dippers. Coke. Ice-cream meal deal.

This isn’t some kind of disgusting last supper. It’s not a treat before dying.

Nothing important happened today.

The old man hangs up the phone. He has thirty-five minutes until his 3000-calorie breakfast arrives. And around six hours until his final blackout.