It was a miserable vigil. Miserable. I was even more down than when Ginger disappeared. I stood under the dripping trees – they weren’t in leaf enough to keep the rain out – and thought about Gail. I hadn’t meant for us to fight. I loved her. It was just that I’d spent all day thinking about Ginger and Toya and Nine Mornington Place. I saw a movie once – Ten Rillington Place – about this sick killer who lured women into his house and murdered them. It was a true story. The title – Ten Rillington Place – had a ring to it, and in my imagination Nine Mornington Place was beginning to have that same ring. I’d more or less convinced myself that horrible things had been done in that house, and that it was down to me to expose them.

I don’t know what time it was when the door opened. I seemed to have been there hours. I was soaked and freezing, and I’d more or less decided to jack it in and go make it up with Gail when suddenly there he was – the guy we’d been watching that morning. The very ordinary guy who wore cords and kept a moggy and liked to read the Sunday papers. He was standing on the doorstep, silhouetted against the dim light which spilled through the doorway. He was calling softly, ‘Sappho – chi-chi-chi – here, Sappho.’ I stood absolutely still, way back under the sycamores. He was obviously calling a cat – probably the one we’d seen earlier – but no cat appeared. After a minute or so the guy went inside, leaving the door ajar. I watched the strip of light, and in a moment he reappeared carrying a dish. He squatted and put the dish on the step. ‘Sappho!’ he called, striking the dish gently with a fork or spoon. ‘C’mon Sappho – meat.’ He was in shirt-sleeves and must have felt cold, but he persisted, calling and calling, but no cat appeared. Presently he straightened up and came shuffling down to the gateway in carpet slippers with a fork in his hand, peering to left and right, calling. I thought, this is your monster? Your serial killer? A guy who’ll stand in shirt-sleeves in the rain, calling his cat? Aw, come on! It was then he spotted me.

I knew he’d seen me and I wasn’t scared – what’s scary about a guy who can’t find his pussycat? Embarrassed is what I was. Embarrassed, because it must’ve been obvious I’d been watching him. I started to move away but he called out, ‘I say – excuse me?’

I looked across. ‘Me?’

‘Y – yes. You haven’t by any chance seen a cat, have you? A black and white cat?’

I shook my head.