We diagnose sociopathy by identifying certain criteria: a pervasive pattern of disregard for others, reckless disregard for safety of themselves or others, lack of remorse, indifference or rationalising the mistreatment of others. Diagnosis happens in a clinical setting because so few people with Antisocial Personality Disorder are self-aware enough to self-diagnose. There is a test formulated for that reason. High functioning sociopaths might be curious enough to take it, although they could just as easily reject the result.

I glance up. Still no sign of Xanthe. I continue reading.

Individuals with APD, that is the spectrum of disorders including sociopathy and psychopathy, tend to lack empathy and show signs of callous, cynical or contemptuous attitudes towards the feelings of others. It is a disorder much more common in males than females.

The door opens. I glance up, hopeful, but it’s the delivery man. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says. ‘Just a package today.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, signing for it.

I hand it over to Anna. ‘Probably stationery,’ she says as she tears the tape and opens the box. I’m walking back towards my office when she screams. ‘What is it, Anna? What happened?’’

She twists in her seat, finds the rubbish bin, and throws up. Rushing to her side, I find myself stroking her back. I don’t want to know what is in the box, but I can imagine. I hold her hair back as she heaves. Then she sits up, her eyes watering. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

I turn, open the box. Blood, cartilage, bones. Dead people. Photos of dead people. But not just dead, maimed.

I close it again. Squeeze my eyes shut for a second but the images are burnt onto my retina. I feel nauseous. ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Don’t apologise, Anna. This is sick.’

My limbs fill with cement. It’s like the image left for me that night, only now they’ve sent them in the mail, so the box is traceable, I think. So this might not be such a bad thing. There must be CCTV at a post office. I take the box out of sight into my office and dial Simms.

‘I just got a package, a box with images, disgusting horrible images.’

‘Slow down, what do you mean?’

‘I mean someone has sent a package to my office and inside are—’ I pause searching for an adequate description ‘— just filth, the most traumatic, disturbing images I can imagine.’

‘A box full of them?’ he says. ‘Right, someone will be with you shortly. Don’t touch it anymore. Maybe close up your office if you can until we get there.’

When the call ends I find my mind going to Xanthe. I tell myself maybe she just slept in. I go back to reception.