He refused to believe he’d fallen for such a dramatic ploy. The woman had been on the roof for hours and The Crow had spoken to the attending counsellor about it at length. Charlie Packham had formed the opinion that the attempt was absolutely genuine and that without intervention, there would have been a life lost. If The Crow had made a mistake, it was relying on the skills and expertise of a colleague. Apparently, not everyone shared his ability to sniff out a lie when they were fed one. Yet here he was, in a flat with two unconscious people, either of whom could identify him if left alive. He’d had a plan. All he had to do was adapt it for two.

The punishment still had to fit the crime. Learning to appreciate the gift of life was the point of the deaths he inflicted. It was unthinkable that he could be so crass, so base, as to kill without purpose. He still had time, he told himself. He was a predator. Swift, decisive, almost supernaturally deft. He’d been given an opportunity to face adversity and come out stronger.

Reaching for his bag, he pulled out a knife, cutting the rope in half. It would serve his purpose to have it shorter now that he had to accommodate two rather than one. Lance Proudfoot was starting to groan and twitch his fingers. He wouldn’t be unconscious much longer. He lay them both flat on their backs, the tops of their heads almost touching, feet at opposite diagonals of the lounge walls, as if he’d drawn a straight line with their bodies across the room. From his pocket he withdrew two cable ties, securing their wrists over their stomachs.

Now for the trickier part. The only heavy item of furniture in the room was an old sofa. That would do for one of them, but not both. He dealt with Lance first, wrapping a section of rope around his ankles then knotting it tightly multiple times around the distant legs of the sofa, lifting the old leather monstrosity to make sure there was no way the journalist was getting his legs free.

The window provided the other essential tether point. He knotted the rope to provide a large clump, which he could be sure wouldn’t pull free, and wedged it through the top of the window – banal health and safety regulations meant it didn’t open from the bottom upwards – before shutting it up tight. The other end he wrapped around Janet’s ankles, congratulating himself for thinking to put her trainers on her to ensure she couldn’t simply slip her feet free.

Both tied by the ankles, hands bound, they lay with their heads about two feet apart. He wished there’d been more space between them, but as improvisation went, it was impressive.