Jakes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m going through a difficult time,’ he said. ‘I’ve got personal issues.’

Wickens rolled his eyes. ‘Haven’t we all, matey boy? Look, in future keep off private property, and don’t go scaring people. All right?’

Jakes looked away. ‘Okay.’

The two officers wound up the interview. Jakes watched from the lounge window as they walked to their patrol car. They were laughing and joking, playground bullies who never grew up. Wickens pulled a face at his colleague, gurning like an idiot, with his tongue out. Jakes reflected that, as so often, Nietzsche had said it best: Man is the cruellest animal.

Once the car had gone, Jakes went upstairs to the spare room, seeking some comfort in a familiar although secret routine. There, spreading beyond the original corkboard to the wall, were pinned or taped hundreds of newspaper articles about the murderer Neville Rollason. Many of the pieces were new, speculating where he might be or what this dangerous man might look like now, with the aid of software and artists’ impressions. But others were older, from decades ago, sun-bleached and curling, showing the glowering eyes and dark devilish eyebrows of Rollason in his youth. In the centre of the bedroom mirror was taped a new enlarged photo of a mild-looking pensioner, with dark eyes and a swirl of snowy hair around his balding pate. To Jakes this rare image was both precious and repulsive, already seared into his mind through familiarity. The thought of this man leaving jail terrified him. He was certain that once he did, Rollason would once again seek him out. On a desk was a pair of scissors and sheaf of fresh newspapers awaiting scrutiny. Each new snippet, a repeating pattern, a texture in the tapestry of terror Jakes had created for himself.

Chapter Fourteen

It was just PC Cottesloe’s bad luck that he was standing in front of Vince Babbage at Staines police station when the desk sergeant took a call. Cottesloe was waiting to have his overtime request authorised when Babbage put his hand over the receiver and said: ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Jim.’ He grabbed a notepad and pen and said: ‘Yes, madam.’

Cottesloe could hear from where he was standing that the woman was hysterical but couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying. Babbage waggled the biro between his fat fingers. ‘And you just received this today? So what did it actually say?’

Babbage rolled his eyes at Cottesloe as the torrent of words poured into his ear. ‘Well, it’s not exactly threatening in its own right is it? It’s the kind of thing you say to children.’