I don’t know how long I stayed there. Perhaps Cara would have gone by now and I could slip in and hide under the bed. It was a shame that the flat had no back entrance, not even a window I could climb through. I didn’t dare go back into Cowcross Street. There would probably be a police officer waiting for me all night. In the end, I did what I should have done in the first place. I took out my mobile phone and called my wife.

She answered on the second ring. ‘Anthony? Where are you?’

‘Is Cara Grunshaw still there?’

‘Yes. She is.’ She continued in the same breath. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Murder that critic!’

‘What? I didn’t go anywhere near her! You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with it!’

‘The police seem to think they have a very good case.’

‘And you believe them, not me?’

‘Well, I know how upset you get by bad reviews.’

‘Not upset enough to kill someone!’

‘And why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think you’d want to know.’

‘You’re right! This is very disappointing—’

I would have continued, but then the phone must have been snatched from Jill’s hand and Cara Grunshaw came on.

‘Where are you, Anthony?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘You won’t get away. We’ve got the whole of London looking for you. It’ll make it a lot easier for you if you just turn yourself in.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Jill.’

‘She’s very upset. She had no idea of the sort of man she’s married to.’

‘Why don’t you just drop dead, Cara!’

‘Are you threatening me now?’ A pause. ‘Are you somewhere near?’

I hung up. There was something in her last question that had scared me. Was it possible that she could be tracing the call? I’d watched that scene in lots of films where the police try to keep the suspect talking for as long as they can while they close in on the signal – in fact, I’d written it a couple of times myself. I’d often wondered how long it really took. Perhaps these days it was instantaneous. It was time to move. I got up and walked back the way I had come.

But not to the station. That was the first place they’d look for me. Instead, I made my way up towards Holborn. If I wanted to lose myself amongst thousands of people, I’d be more likely to find them in the centre of town, and anywhere had to be safer than Farringdon. I was annoyed now that I had dressed in jeans and a jersey. If only I’d put on a hoodie or a baseball cap; anything to cover my head. It’s fortunate that writers are very rarely invited on television and it had been at least a year since my last appearance. I shoved my hands in my pockets and stared at the pavement, hoping that nobody would recognise me.