The detectives pursuing your bloody trail don’t know who you are, but I do. Your name starts to seem more and more irrelevant when I know the rotten core of you so well. Unlike the police, I know you’re one of the millions of men on this planet who don’t believe the lives of women and girls are worth anything. Unlike them, I know it’s going to be almost impossible to find you or stop you because you are not an aberration; rather, you’re the logical extension of male socialisation in our repugnant society.

The truth is, Billy, you could be any or all of the men I’ve encountered throughout my life, with the exception of my husband Oliver. You share your attitude to women with the majority of males. To you, and to them, we females are not people in our own right, with hopes and dreams and inherent value; we’re whatever you need us to be at any given time – receptacles, muses, caterers, heir-producers – or else we’re obstacles, impediments, witches, lunatics. That’s when you decide it might be simplest to murder us.

And when you do, once you have, the next step is to control the story: ‘I did it because I was drunk’, ‘I only smashed her head against the fireplace because I loved her and she broke my heart.’ You tried to tell a story about pairs of best friends, didn’t you, Billy? Except you couldn’t stick to it. Your fifth victim didn’t have a best friend. Never mind, eh? At least she was a woman – you got the important part right, and you and I know that, in the true version of the story, not much else matters.

You like stories, don’t you, Billy? This Lane person you’re so fond of: she teaches through stories – you wrote that in the first letter you sent me. She’s your mentor and your inspiration, so you’re mimicking her methods. In an attempt to teach me how wrong I am to call you a misogynist even though you’ve murdered five women, you’ve sent me two novels – Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy and Beloved by Toni Morrison. I’ve been too busy to read either, but you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve read the shorter pieces you sent me: ‘The Two Sisters’, ‘Loyalty’ and ‘The Dress’. All three are sanctimonious New-Age drivel and I felt physically ill when I read them.