“You think?” I say dryly. I’m still revolted by the idea of someone wandering through the house; I have an image of a demented young girl leaping through the rooms à la Kate Bush in the “Wuthering Heights” video. But right now, what to do with Mr. Jamie McCue? Of course I have ample grounds to call the police, but it does seem somewhat unnecessary. On the other hand, what if this is part of something more sinister? I would need evidence to go to the police with. I look him over again, as if I can read a solution on his skin. He’s self-possessed, I’ll give him that: my scrutiny isn’t fazing him. In fact, he’s doing a fair bit of scrutinizing himself; his dark eyes are busily taking in every detail of me. I can’t help wishing I was wearing something other than a drab toweling dressing gown, however securely I may have tied the belt. In jeans, a sweater and Converse trainers I might have felt less vulnerable to the inspection.

A loud beep makes me jump.

“Mine,” he says, patting a pocket on his jacket and then pulling out a mobile. He frowns and scrolls down on it quickly, then his expression clears. “It’s okay, we’ve found her. She’s back at home now,” he says, looking up at me with evident relief. He starts to push his chair back. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

“Not so fast.”

He pauses halfway to upright, his face wary. “You’re not really going to call the police, are you?”

“No.” He relaxes and stands upright. “But before you go, I want a confession.”

“Come again?”

“A confession. Here, I’ve got a Dictaphone app on this.” I raise my phone. “Just state your name and admit you were in the Manse without permission on the”—I glance down at my phone to check the date—“the twenty-second of April, and you acknowledge you were in the wrong and will never again return uninvited.”

There’s amusement in his eyes as he shrugs. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

I hit the record button and hold out the phone in his general direction. “Go ahead.”