The upstairs door clanged shut. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands in the sink. They were shaking very badly as I turned on the taps and I noticed that my legs had involuntarily followed suit, buckling and trembling like those of some blitzed accordion player. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the bowl: the red, exhausted eyes, the drawn, sick face. On each side of my throat was a livid puce impression of McGee’s thumbprint. I started to wash my face, lathering up Phyllis’s pink, flowery-smelling soap.

He hadn’t wanted to kill me here. It wasn’t a venue he had thought through himself, and maybe the crazy threat of the photographs had worked as some restraint. Still, as the warm water coursed down my aching neck it was dawning on me that from whichever angle you looked at things, he was out on the loose again and I had made yet another of my serious mistakes.

When I finally got some balance back I started tidying up the scene, stuffing everything into a black bin liner before Phyllis got in for the early morning deliveries. It took a while, but not half as long as if I’d had to fold McGee in there as well. I tied up the bag and carried it with me as I locked up and walked out into the cool air, gulping the oxygen down like ice-water. Along the way, I shoved it all – the torn clothes, the bloodstained rag – into a public rubbish bin. As I walked away I felt a small jangling in my pocket: McGee’s spare house keys. I hesitated for a second and then hung on to them, just in case. In case of what, I didn’t know.

Back at the hotel, as I went to get the key to my room, Marie was waiting for me on reception, alert as a terrier, ears cocked, fresh up from the rabbit hole.

‘Big night last night?’ she said. ‘Was the wedding good? I noticed you didn’t come back.’

Her face wore a roguish expression I didn’t care to engage with. My scarf was looped to hide my sore neck and even to look at her mouth moving around as she talked made me weary.

‘Aye,’ I said hoarsely. ‘What a wedding.’

‘Did the bride look nice?’

‘Beautiful,’ I said.

‘And the bridesmaids?

More banter. I thought of McGee, trussed up with the mad smear of red lipstick on.

‘Quite something,’ I said.

‘I bet you’re not feeling too chatty today,’ she said, knowingly.

I widened my eyes in humorous assent. Speech was, increasingly, beyond me.