And she had the spare time to do so. Tom had left, pale and tired, to take Jo to his parents’ house.

She took out her laptop and started to type.

Tom

His dad winced in pain as Joanna squirmed in his lap, her elbow pressing against something broken inside him. His dad, hurt by a baby. Tom could hardly watch. He jumped to his feet to get Jo.

‘I’ll take her,’ he said.

His dad frowned. ‘Don’t be soft, son. I’m fine.’ He shifted her so her back was against his chest. ‘Every second with her is precious.’ He caught Tom’s eye. ‘Every second is precious, but you don’t need to wait until you’re dying to realize that.’

‘I know.’

‘How’s Alice? I read that story in the Herald.’

‘She’s OK.’

‘You don’t like it, do you?’

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘You should read the letter. It’s sick.’

‘Let’s say she doesn’t react. Hands the letter to the police and never mentions it to the press. What happens then?’

‘We live a more peaceful life,’ Tom said.

‘Maybe. But that killer has chosen her,’ his dad said. ‘And that might not be what you – or Alice – would have wanted, but it’s what’s happened. She could ignore it, but there’s no guarantee that puts a stop to it. Maybe they want her attention, so they start sending more letters. Or showing up at the house while you’re at work.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘Support her. Same as last time.’ His dad kissed Jo’s forehead. ‘And you keep her safe. Her and Joanna.’ He held Jo up. ‘You can take her now. Time for me to have a nap.’

Tom parked behind Alice’s blue Astra and stepped onto the pavement. Jo was asleep in the car seat and he eased her out, being careful not to wake her up. The house was quiet; Alice’s laptop was open on the dining-room table, but she was not there. He laid Jo in her basket in the living room and went into the kitchen.

There was still no sign of Alice. There was a mug on the counter top, a teabag in a freshly poured cup of tea. Wisps of steam came off it.

He went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Alice?’ he called, softly.

There was no response. He started up the stairs, listening for any trace of her. At the top of the stairs he paused. The bathroom door was open, but the room was empty. He was about to call again, but he stopped himself. If she was sleeping – which was the most likely explanation – he didn’t want to wake her.

He walked softly into the bedroom.

It was empty.

His chest tightened and he felt the first flutterings of panic. Her laptop was open and there was an un-drunk and un-milked mug of tea in the kitchen.