I’d walked for several minutes before I began to ask myself what I was doing. Where did I plan to spend the night? A hotel was out of the question. The front desk would report me before I’d even reached the room. I had various friends in the city, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to involve them, possibly getting them into trouble with the police – and anyway, Cara Grunshaw had been holding my wife’s mobile phone minutes ago. I wouldn’t have put it past her to make a note of all her contacts and then go round door to door. Could I go and stay with my sister in Suffolk? No – that meant train stations and trains.

I’d just reached Chancery Lane when it hit me. I needed somewhere to hide out – a safe house – and there was only one that might open its door to me. Without a second thought, I headed down towards the river, backtracking to Blackfriars Bridge. That was where I felt most exposed, above the water and out in the open, with nobody else on the pavement and dozens of cars speeding past. I could see the lights of Doggett’s pub ahead of me. That marked my destination. I quickened my pace, wanting to get this over with. The only question was – would Hawthorne let me in?

He was intensely private. I had only ever been into his flat four or five times throughout my time with him and his hospitality hadn’t extended much further than a KitKat in the kitchen … although on one occasion he’d offered me a rum and Coke. I didn’t even know if he had a spare room. Was it possible that Cara Grunshaw knew where he lived? It was unlikely. Hawthorne would never have given her his address and he didn’t own the flat; it belonged to someone overseas. He wasn’t paying any rent. There would be no record of his name … not on the deeds, perhaps not even on the utility bills. The more I thought about it, the more River Court seemed to be the safest house in London. I was still nervous. Hawthorne hadn’t exactly been championing my innocence since this began, but surely he wouldn’t turn me away in the night.

I reached the front door and pressed the bell. There was no answer and I was beginning to think that he might be out or asleep or simply refusing to answer, but then, distant and metallic, I heard his voice coming out of the speaker. ‘Tony!’ I hadn’t needed to speak. He’d seen me on the video system. He didn’t sound surprised.

I pressed my face against the speaker, injecting as much urgency into my voice as I could muster. ‘I need to come in,’ I said. ‘Cara Grunshaw’s at my flat. Kevin texted me. They’ve got the DNA. They want to arrest me. I need somewhere to stay!’

There was a pause.

‘I’m sorry, Tony. But the answer’s no.’