‘Shit, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ll just pull over.’

I reach for Evan’s phone and turn it to silent, as I wheel the car off the road. I remember something else Evan told me. I’ve disabled all location services on my phone. So they won’t be able to track my movements.

‘Hurry up,’ his voice is muffled.

‘Sorry, I’m just pulling over.’

I call Gabe’s number and see that he has answered. I put the phone back in my pocket.

‘Hurry up!’ he screams.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, reaching for the phone. I pick it up, place it in the cradle.

‘If that happens again, it’s all over. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ I say, starting out again. ‘I’m sorry. Can you just tell me where I’m going?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Follow my instructions.’

‘Sure,’ I sigh. ‘How did you get to Adam Limbargo?’

‘Adam liked to gamble.’

Maybe he was in more trouble than he made out last time we met. ‘You paid his debts?’

‘I paid his dealer enough to keep him away.’ His dealer. Adam was itchy, a little excitable. Addicts tend to have more than one addiction. Years ago at university he was never absent from parties, always the last to leave.

‘And Joe?’

‘He was such an easy target when I found out where he worked. He was oblivious to it all, had no idea he was set up until the handcuffs were already on. You still believe he’s involved? Oh, that’s classic.’

I can’t breathe. He’s so calculating. ‘So Joe didn’t take the photos, then?’ He wants me to acknowledge his genius, his cunning. So much of this is about ego; that’s why he hasn’t simply killed me. It’s a sort of Rube Goldberg machine: he’s watching all the pieces move, falling into place. He’s admiring his work.

‘Take the outbound entrance,’ he says, as I approach the motorway.

A message comes through on Evan’s phone. It vibrates in my pocket. How can I check it without him seeing the phone. I swap hands on the steering wheel so my forearm is blocking the camera’s view of my other hand. Then I bring my left hand back to the wheel as though I’m using it to steer, but now I’m gripping the phone. I open the message.

Just do what he says until we can find you and July.

‘So who took the photos at the bar?’ I ask.

‘Look at the screen,’ he says. I glance away from the road for a second. I realise now that he’s not with July. He’s aiming his camera at another screen which is streaming from somewhere else. ‘Show her who took the photos, sis?’

I see July, a gun to her head, then someone else leans down looks into the camera. My pulse beats at my temples. I feel dizzy for a moment. Xanthe.