The tremors began at the bottom of my spine and rolled all the way to the base of my skull, and it was like every muscle in my back, shoulders and neck was clenching at once. At first the pain had an exact centre – the spot in my back where he had kicked me. But as the hours dragged by in that exhausting place between sleeping and waking, that centre point seemed to migrate, up to a shoulder, across to my ribs, to my neck, to the very middle of my back, as if it was seeking a happier home. I never knew where it would be next.

But the muscle spasms were the worst. They made me arch my back whenever another wave of blinding pain rolled through me. I almost cried out loud with the latest one.

‘Daddy?’

Scout was in the doorway. I thought I had frightened her. But she was holding the phone.

‘It’s some lady,’ she said.

I waited until she was in the other room and I could hear Mrs Murphy quietly talking to her, telling her they needed to fix her hair.

‘Wolfe,’ I said.

‘Scarlet Bush.’ I could hear the excitement in the reporter’s voice. ‘You met him. You met Bob the Butcher.’

‘I don’t know who I met.’

‘It has to be Bob.’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘We want to help you find him,’ she said. ‘My editor has spoken to our proprietor. We have his full backing to help you bring Bob the Butcher to justice.’

‘You stitched me up. Your bloody story put words in my mouth that I never said.’

She remained completely calm. ‘E. L. Doctorow said, “I am led to the proposition that there is no fiction or non-fiction as we commonly understand the distinction, there is only narrative.”’

‘You mean you make stuff up?’

‘Not quite. I mean there are facts and then there’s the truth.’ She paused. ‘Was that your little girl who answered the phone? Was that Scout?’

I struggled to contain my anger. ‘Never call my home again.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘Never speak to my daughter.’

‘Did he talk to you?’

‘Stay right away from her.’

‘Did you say something to him?’

A spasm of pain clenched my back. I bit down against it, my mouth tight shut, and ragged breath came from my nose. It made the reporter feel like she was on to something.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

Please. I have a daughter.

Begging him.

Begging a murderer for my life.

Sick with the fear. Unmanned by the terror.

Please.

‘What did you say to him, detective? Did you reason with him? Did you threaten him? How did you feel? We are hearing reports about the murder weapon. Some kind of Special Forces knife? Old school.’ I could hear her tapping a keyboard. ‘A Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. Is that what you saw?’