The couple’s raised voices began to fade as he moved down the corridor, pausing at each door on the right-hand side, having ignored the first few. There were lights on inside the final three, with televisions or radios playing in two of those. He fought the sense that something was wrong. Imagination was the most powerful tool in the world. It was the reason propaganda started wars and why horror movies were so popular. Hitchcock was directing a thriller inside his head and right then it wasn’t looking good for the about-to-be victim.

He picked the middle of the three doors, beyond which he could hear a female with an Essex accent screeching at – in his head – a fake-tanned, plucked-eyebrows male, about how he’d cheated on her with her best friend. Reality TV was as easy to identify as the theme tune from The Archers had been when he was a boy. He knocked and waited.

The door was wrenched open by a teenager, chewing gum opened-mouth and staring at him.

‘Hello, sorry to bother you, I was looking for Janet Monroe?’

‘Mum!’ the girl yelled, tongue piercing on full show, gum stretching from the stud to one of her back teeth. ‘There’s some old bloke here.’

‘For fuck’s sake …’

Sofa springs squealed in relief and heavy footsteps approached. The woman who came to the door clutching a giant ‘sharing’ bag of toffee popcorn didn’t look any more impressed than her daughter had.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘I was looking for Janet Monroe,’ Lance said. ‘Do you—’

‘Next door.’ The woman poked a finger to the door at the very end of the corridor and slammed her own shut.

‘Thank you,’ Lance said out of habit, to the wood in front of his face, trying not to laugh.

Just like that, the spell was broken. It was just a block of flats with all the normal stuff going on behind closed doors. The reality TV watchers had plainly heard nothing to cause them any concern. There had been no gunshots, no screams, no thumps against the walls, or they’d have greeted his enquiry about the woman next door with more concern. Still, he’d come so far. It’d be ridiculous to waste all the effort he’d gone to. And maybe Janet Vargas – or Monroe, or whatever name she chose to go by – would appreciate a friendly face checking up on her. He knew what it was like to spend so much time alone in your own home that sometimes you forgot there was a world of friendly people outside your door who actually did care about you.

He knocked. No reply. She might be asleep, of course. Possibly sedated given the day she’d had. He knocked one more time. That time he heard a voice from within, asking who it was.