Fenny looked down into the porcelain whiteness and saw death waiting for her.

‘I don’t want to,’ she sobbed.

‘That’s good. Not wanting to is good. It’s the start of your healing process. Take your clothes off.’

A swarm of flies were buzzing inside Fenny’s brain and she couldn’t make the zipper of her trousers work, no matter how hard she tried.

‘I have some jewellery,’ she pleaded. ‘And some money in my purse. My grandpa’s war medals, too. They’re worth something. You can have all of it. I don’t care. Please don’t kill me.’ Somehow, she dropped her trousers to the floor. ‘Remember, you said I needed to be here for Alice, and you were right. She could turn up any day. She might even have a wee baby she needs help with.’ Her hands shook as she fussed with the buttons on her shirt. ‘I could get more treatment, just to make sure I never do anything stupid again. I’ll do whatever you want. Just … not this. I don’t want to get into the bath.’

Fenny cried and he nodded appreciatively.

‘Please don’t make me. Please, please don’t make me …’

‘All of your clothes. Just like you did it before. I want to see it just the way it was.’ He motioned with the gun for her to remove her knickers.

Fenny stared down the barrel, wondering if it was really loaded. The bullet would be faster than whatever he had in mind for her, she was certain of that. His eyes had all the warmth of a reptile. It was amazing that she hadn’t seen it straight away at her front door. The smile was perfect, the clothes were neat and the talk was all reassurance, but if the eyes really were the windows to the soul then his revealed a sort of no-man’s land, where life had long since given up the battle. Even the creepy-crawly things that normally thrived on death and decay had deserted that place. Inside this man was an endless echo of nothing.

Fenny knew right then that no amount of begging, crying, screaming or pleading would make a difference. It was the end. She stepped into the tub and followed the remainder of his instructions without a fight. It seemed easier that way.

Chapter Ten

5 March

Ava swallowed the first antibiotic capsule with a glass of orange juice and lifted her extremely sore leg up onto Callanach’s couch. It was 12.30 a.m. and the city was remarkably quiet.

‘You believe there’s any chance Mrs Hawksmith committed suicide?’ Ava asked.

‘Physically, that would have been just about possible, but it doesn’t feel real. Why stress yourself out with the cable ties around your ankles?’