He had more bolts still in their packaging, intended for Meredith’s front and back doors. He was far more worried about her than himself – although at least that cop was with her for a few days. That knowledge did help. It looked very much like someone was trying to get at Meredith – or maybe even frame her for the two murders. Who, and why now? His thoughts drifted back to the attack on her all those years ago. It was a subject he tried to avoid in the already-overcrowded chambers of his mind. There was no space for it; no benefit to imagining the horrors she had endured in that Luton van.

However, he had no choice. The guy had never been caught.

The stiff padlock refused to allow the key to turn, and Pete kicked at the door in frustration and rage. ‘Open, you bastard,’ he growled at it.

Still, at least its solid stiffness meant he’d be safe. If he couldn’t get in, nobody else could already be in there, lying in wait for him.

He wiggled the key until the lock clicked open, thinking again that he would insist Meredith came to stay for the foreseeable. That policewoman couldn’t be there for long, surely – didn’t she have a home of her own to go to? And besides, it was his job to protect his sister, not some teenage cop. He had no idea of Gemma’s age; late twenties, presumably, but with the braces she looked about thirteen. The pair of them would be no match for a determined assailant.

Assassin.

Pete decided to go back to ‘assailant’. It was a less terrifying word.

He took the bag of beers and the padlock inside, bolting the door shut behind him, and had uncapped the first bottle on the edge of the kitchen counter before he’d even kicked off his trainers and dropped his backpack to the floor.

It tasted like nectar, its cold hoppy fizz immediately calming his nerves. He chugged the first and immediately started on the second. Flopping onto the sofa and putting his socked feet on the coffee table, he pressed Meredith’s name in his phone’s favourite contacts list – which, he noticed, only contained her number and Andrea’s; he pushed down the stab of pain that this observation induced.

‘Hi, Mez, are you OK?’ he said as soon as she answered.

‘Hi, Pete. Yup. Back from the police station. They’re not pressing charges, thank God. I just got a telling-off. I decided to go into work for a few hours. Gemma’s still with me.’

‘Anybody … unusual in the shop?’

‘Nope. I was dreading paparazzi and shit, but nothing out of the ordinary. What about you? Are you at the workshop?’