You’ve got to do something, Clare. But what? How the hell was she meant to get out of here? She looked around the bedroom. Jesus, Clare, you idiot! The window. The prospect of having to climb out of a first-floor window filled her with terror. She was phobic about heights and she’d nearly lost her life once before when she’d agreed – against her better judgement – to scale the dig’s photographic tower at Hungerbourne. But if the choice was a first-floor window or confronting a murderer alone in his own home she knew which she preferred. Slowly, with the lightest of footsteps, she edged her way round the bed to the far side of the room. The windows were of the Victorian sash cord variety, and she positioned her hands below the upper portion of the wooden casing and pushed, but with no effect. She shoved again, this time using all her strength. But it was no good – it wouldn’t budge. And examining the window frame more carefully, the reason was only too apparent. Despite the peeling paintwork on the outside of the woodwork, someone had applied a thick coat of paint to the inside. She was sealed in. Which meant her only escape route was going to be past Neil.

She gingerly made her way back towards the door. She opened it again, this time a little wider than she had before. Now she could hear him using what sounded like a scrubbing brush. Pushing her way out through the gap in the door, inch by agonising inch she edged towards the top of the stairs. And then one tread at a time she started to descend. A third of the way down she lowered herself into a squatting position.

Craning her head, she peered through a gap in the banister so that she could look down the hall towards the kitchen. The door was wide open. Fuller was standing with his back towards her. He was clad in T-shirt and jeans and at first sight she thought he was trying to clean something in the sink. Then as he stood there muttering and swearing under his breath she realised that he was scrubbing at his hands.

She glanced round at the front door. Lying next to it on the hallway table in what appeared to be a clear plastic soil sample bag was a hefty triangular slab of stone. Even from this distance she could see that it had some sort of engraving on it. But what drew her attention wasn’t the writing; it was the wide dark red streak smeared across one half of the bag. It looked like blood. She had to get out of here.