Footsteps again, heavy and slow. Sound could be intimidating. Her heartbeat matched the left–right, left–right of the beat, and she realised it was impossible to know for sure if she was being approached from High Street above, or from the pathway below. The noise echoed slyly off the bricks above, bearing false witness.

Reaching into her pocket for her rape alarm, Connie realised she’d changed jackets and failed to take her usual precautions. Careless. She considered calling out, then felt foolish, then resented both the idea of shouting for help, and the fact that she was embarrassed to do so. No threat had been issued, yet the hairs on her arms were bristling.

The figure of a man appeared at the top of the steps above her. Hood up. Tall. Shadow concealing his face. In her imagination he was holding a twenty-pound note that would flutter to the ground when she rebuffed him. He stopped still and watched her.

Connie considered continuing her journey down the steps, but that would require her to turn her back on him.

‘You got a problem?’ she called to him.

He was silent. A worm of fear slithered in her guts, and it made her furious.

‘Do not fuck with me tonight,’ she shouted. ‘You will totally regret it.’

A growl issued from the back of his throat.

Too many thoughts at once. Psychosexual killers’ propensity towards revisiting the scene of their crimes. Stupid of her for not checking if she was being followed before entering the passageway. Expertly trained in self-defence or not, a man twice her build approaching from a height advantage was likely unbeatable. She didn’t want to die without seeing Martha’s Vineyard one more time. And lastly, dying wasn’t an acceptable option. She had too much left to do.

‘Screw you,’ she said, shoving her fear down deep and sprinting up the steps towards him, fists hard, relying on agility and surprise.

He jumped down towards her, taking the steps two at a time and lighter on his feet than his size had suggested he would be. Connie regretted her decision instantly, wishing she’d run for it.

‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from above them.

The man was only fifteen feet from her now. Her would-be assailant looked back. Connie took the opportunity to retreat instead, racing off in the opposite direction.

There was a shout from above, the thud of a body hitting the ground, followed by the tumble-yelp-tumble of ongoing pain. She got well clear before pausing and turning back.

Above her, Brodie Baarda was standing over a body, holding one wrist behind the man’s back. They were talking too quietly for her to hear against the ragged gasps of her breath. Shaking her head, Connie reversed direction a final time, walking slowly back up to Baarda. Her legs were shaking. Fear turned to fury.

‘Get up,’ Baarda told the man, hauling him to his feet and yanking down his hood.