He sighs, looks inconvenienced. ‘Come out of the way,’ he says. There’s a straggly group of teenagers trying to weave past us. Salvi sweeps me by the shoulder down the side of the stall, into the shaded grass channel between Hook-a-Duck and Tin Can Alley. ‘Yes, I knew her. A few randoms went out for her birthday lunch and I was one of them.’

‘You were dating her.’

A smirk. ‘I might have been.’

‘You were dating her because of how she looked.’ I clasp my fingers tighter, try to steady my voice. Salvi’s face is in shadow.

He laughs. ‘Doesn’t everyone date everyone because of how they look?’

‘She had a scar on her face? A really big one. The approximate length of my birthmark, I’d guess. You date women with facial disfigurements, don’t you? That’s why you’re with me. That’s why you asked me out in the first place.’ Damn, my voice is all trembly. My face is probably bright red. But I have to get these words out.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But Salvi grins, and that smirk tells me everything. He looks proud of himself. He is still performing; but now the performance is owning his evil and displaying it like a trophy.

‘Yes, you do. You date people with facial imperfections – it makes you feel, what, powerful? That you can pick them up whenever you feel like it because they’re so grateful and desperate? Or do they make you feel less ugly? Less ugly on the inside.’

I see it now: how ugly he is. It’s not an edge he has, it’s a gaping black hole. He collects trophies, doesn’t he? Profilo is Italian for profiles. Faces. Salvi runs a website for him and Dino and God knows who else, to look at photos of scarred and facially disfigured women. It is far from a club for gentlemen. And I am on there. Dino will post the photo he took of me today, but I am already on there, I know it.

I am pretty certain Salvi took photos of my face while I was sleeping.

‘What happened on that lunch? For her birthday. Did you do something? Did you upset her?’

‘Not that I know of. You’re ridiculous!’ says Salvi, still grinning, still laughing. ‘Hey, what’s wrong with you?’ He steps towards me, hand raised, and I know he is going to stroke my cheek.

‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, still trying to steady my voice. I feel hemmed in here, between the stalls. ‘I can see you for exactly who you are. Did you say something to her on the day she died? To Philippa? After you bought her that balloon?’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Salvi repeats. ‘If only you could see yourself! Who knows why she topped herself? It’s nothing to do with me. People shouldn’t be so sensitive.’