Which was, I realised, pretty much what I had done. I’m waiting, Pierce had messaged. Where are you? Never mind. Waiting. He had been outside the hotel, watching people leaving, watching me wait for De Chauncey, trying to guess at my movements, thinking them all part of the plan – my plan. And how had he known I was here? Via Tamesis, and my RSVP. Quin didn’t even have to nudge that connection, it could have happened entirely organically, if ‘Olipi’ had been snooping on my profile.

Pierce took another step towards us, and another. I had been giddy with fear at the volatility of the situation, its ability to turn into any number of horrifying outcomes. But I felt myself steady a little with a realisation: Pierce didn’t know what he wanted to do. He had been so vague in outlining the scenario. He had no template to work from. The situation was blank: it could be inscribed.

‘Stop,’ I said.

Pierce stopped.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said De Chauncey. ‘What do you want? Money? Phone? Watch?’

‘Shut up!’ Pierce spat. He was looking at De Chauncey, angling the blade at him. ‘I don’t want your fucking money!’ In a couple of quick strides he closed the remaining distance between himself and the estate agent, coming so close they were almost chest to chest. He had the knife out, not held almost hidden as it was before but thrust forward, point only inches from De Chauncey’s gut.

‘Are you afraid?’ Pierce asked. His tone was flat rather than mocking or angry, but that only made it more threatening.

De Chauncey certainly appeared afraid. His chin had withdrawn and he looked like he was holding something in his mouth. He closed his eyes, as if offering a prayer, opened them again, and nodded.

I could defuse this, end it perhaps. I could say, Stop, stop, this man is a literary novelist, he’s not dangerous, he knows Lauren Laverne. I could pretend it was an art project, a stunt gone wrong. Maybe it was, how would I know? But I said nothing, fearful of incriminating myself.

‘You’re afraid,’ Pierce said gently. ‘Good. That’s it. That’s what I want.’

He took a step back and his manner changed. Whereas before he had been wound tight and tense, now his stance was everyday, almost casual. The knife was pointing at the ground, and he returned it to his pocket, embarrassed by it. I half expected him to extend his hand, to say, Hi, I’m Oliver Pierce, sorry about that, pleasure to meet you.

‘That’s it,’ he said again, this time to me. ‘That’s what I want. That’s what they need.’