‘You think it was a fan?’ Matt Westbrook said.

‘If it was someone you know, that would be easy to find out. Whoever it was would have to have been missing from their day-to-day lives for the last forty-eight hours, and that would stand out. So I think it is very possible it is a fan. Or someone outside your circle of friends. But I know that doesn’t help.’

Matt flinched. ‘It could be anyone,’ he said.

‘Yes, but we have the details of the van,’ she said. ‘That’s the main thing at the moment. Do you happen to know of any fans she has interacted with? Does she have Twitter, Facebook? A website?’

‘All of them, I think.’

‘Do you have her password?’ Dudek said.

‘They should be on her phone,’ Matt said. ‘I’ll unlock it. You can take it, if it helps.’

‘Thanks,’ Dudek said.

‘Did she ever mention a fan who tried to get too close?’ Wynne said.

Matt looked up as he thought. ‘Not really. Not recently, anyway.’

‘Not recently?’ Dudek said. ‘There was someone in the past?’

‘Kind of. I mean, it was hardly anything, but there was a guy who came to a couple of her readings. He said he was a poet and gave her his books in exchange for hers. I think he had no money. He was a bit – I don’t know what the word is these days – but a bit off.’

‘Off in what way?’ Wynne said.

‘Very intense. He wanted her to write specific messages in the books. He came to at least two readings.’

‘Do you know his name?’ Wynne said.

‘No,’ Matt replied. ‘But I can find out. I think she kept the books of poems he gave to her.’

Matt

Matt opened the door to Annabelle’s office. It was, in theory, a shared office, but he rarely used it for anything other than a quiet moment reading the news.

The chair, an old leather office chair on wheels, was pushed back from the desk. She must have left it there. When was that? Was she working at the desk a couple of days ago, in the moments before all this happened?

He sat down and pulled the chair up to the desk. Her laptop was open, the screen dark, on the surface; there was an empty mug next to it. The tab of a green teabag hung over the side. On the left of the desk there was a manuscript, covered in edits and notes. Behind that was a photo of the five of them around a sunny pub table. He remembered it well; they had been walking in the Lake District and stopped for lunch.

He was overwhelmed by a sense of her presence. This room was hers; she had occupied it and shaped it. She was part of it. It was unthinkable that it could exist without her.