‘I’ll organise a warrant tonight, but if we can’t nail him on a significant charge a good lawyer could get him off, and then it becomes harder, so I want to time this right.’

‘What does that mean for me? I just sit and wait?’

He clears his throat again, is this a nervous habit or a throat tickle? It’s beginning to grate on me. ‘It means bringing him in this early is a risk, because now he knows that we’re investigating him, so he’ll probably be on his best behaviour. Sometimes with these things we’re better off trying to build a case before the arrest.’

‘Build a case? You have a case. It’s quite clear that he did it.’

‘That’s not a case, though; it’s one piece of evidence linking him to an item at the scene. We will bring him in for questioning, we will drill him to find holes in his story, but we need something to link him to the fire, not just the image.’

‘I can’t see him again. I’m going to have to cancel his appointments.’

‘Absolutely. Take extra safety precautions. Try not to be alone at night. Make sure someone always knows where you are.’

‘Sure, I’ll be careful,’ I say, realising I’m alone in my office, I’ve broken my own rule and the street is darkening outside. I can see the light still on at the bakers across the road. Someone is running a broom over the floors.

‘Now that we have narrowed our focus, it should only be a matter of time. It’s hard to keep all the plates spinning when you begin lying to the police. He might have mentioned something to a colleague, or maybe his wife will stop covering for him, or another witness could come forward. He might try to dispose of evidence, et cetera. With the arrest warrant we will be able to search his possessions and we should find more evidence.’

‘What about stalking the other patients?’

‘They would have to independently make complaints themselves.’

‘Hopefully someone will speak up,’ I say.

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ he says.

‘Thanks.’

‘Keep safe.’ Then he is gone. That’s when I look up and see the lights die across the street at the bakery. There’s a shape at our door. I see him. My throat closes, my hand is already dialling triple zero. Joe. He’s here.

I glance over my shoulder. I could run for the side exit. I turn back and see him. But … the man is too short. And the hair is too long. It’s not a man at all. It’s a girl. My heart still racing, I peer at the girl’s face, shadowed by her hood. Xanthe, is that you? Then she is turning and rushing away. I move to the door, unlock it, and peer outside but the girl is gone.