‘Hello?’ Nobody answered. I tried to ignore my panic and think. First thing: weapon. I leaned over and pulled a knife from the block. Next thing: check the house. I didn’t want to tread honey into the carpet, so I kicked off my sticky shoes and sidled into the second bedroom, which contained a desk, a bunch of unpacked boxes and a built-in wardrobe. No one was hiding in the wardrobe or under the desk. The window was untouched, not a single cobweb disturbed.

Clutching my knife, I moved into the bathroom. Here the smell of urine hit me like a slap, strong and sharp and sickening. I turned on the light and advanced cautiously, holding my breath.

The tiles on the floor were dental pink. The toilet had an old black seat, and I could see darker patches on it. Dried piss? There was something on the floor as well. Lots of it. Not wet, but pungent.

I gagged. Someone had peed all over my toilet—and around it as well. No woman had done this.

I headed for the master bedroom, afraid of what I would find there. But nothing had been moved. The window was intact. The bed was neatly made. I checked the wardrobe, which covered one whole wall. No one was skulking inside. Had anything been taken? It was hard to tell.

Then my gaze dropped a little and I saw it: a fallen hem on my grey skirt. And beside that, a fallen hem on my linen dress. And my linen pants. And my red cotton blouse…

Almost every hem was down, laboriously unpicked, stray threads carefully removed. How long had this taken? At least an hour—more, probably.

Joyce, I thought.

But how had she got in? The windows and doors were all locked. It must have been done with a key. A spare key. Did Joyce know my landlord? Or had she found a spare key outside somewhere, under a stone or a brick?

Krystal’s voice echoed through my head: Scott’s best friend’s girlfriend used to rent your house.

I hurried to my desk and googled locksmiths. There was only one listed nearby; he promised to come at once.

‘The sooner the better,’ I said, my voice tight with strain. ‘Someone just broke in.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ He didn’t sound the least bit shocked. Before I could ask him how much he charged, he hung up.

My next call was to Hamish Staines, who wasn’t available. ‘Can you tell him to call me back?’ I asked his secretary. ‘It’s urgent.’ I didn’t want to ring the police until I’d talked to a lawyer—because really, what did this whole thing amount to? Spilled honey. A dirty toilet. Fallen hems. No sign of a break-in.

The cops would think I was trying to get even with Joyce.