I enter the mobile number that sent the anonymous text message into Google, but nothing comes up, not that I’m surprised. If anyone would be able to trace the number’s account holder, it would be CID, and they’ve found nothing so far. At least they’re still investigating; that’s the one thing that makes me feel a bit safer.

I scroll through my messages, re-reading the last couple from Will:

Am considering accidentally on purpose scratching Chloe’s Frozen CD. If I have to hear these songs one more time, I’m going to walk into the nearest bloody freezer and shut the door!

Stopped at a service station en route to Polperro. Chloe insisted we go to Burger King. She really had to twist my arm!;)

Got here safely. No wifi or mobile reception in the house. Feel like I’m in 1991. V odd. Sending this from a cafe. Hope you’re ok. x

That’ll be why he didn’t answer the phone. It’s late and Chloe will be tucked up in bed. I reach for the remote control and change channels. I should be in bed too, but it’s going to be another night spent wide awake on the sofa for me. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again, not until the police find out who’s behind all this.

By 6 a.m. on Monday, I can’t bear the silence or the solitude a second more. Every creak of the cottage, every squawk from outside, even the DVD automatically turning itself off, makes me jump. Even in my sleep I toss and turn, never quite allowing myself to settle. It’s not that I’m afraid of Leanne, if indeed it is her who’s been sending the messages; it’s the anticipation I can’t bear. I can’t relax and I can’t settle. No matter what I do – watch TV, read a book, listen to music – my attention is focused on my phone. I tried moving it from the arm of the sofa to the kitchen, so I wouldn’t keep reaching for it, but then I found myself going into the kitchen every couple of minutes, certain that the soundtrack of whatever film I was watching had masked a plaintive bleep. I’ve found myself willing my tormentor to send me a text message or a notification; at least then I’d be able to do something. I’ve taken to pacing from room to room, desperately seeking something, anything, to distract me, but my mind has constantly returning to the living room, to the phone on the arm of the sofa. It doesn’t matter whether you’re locked in something the size of a cupboard or the size of a house: if you’re locked in, you’re a prisoner – whether or not you hold the key.