My heart sank. I should have known that he wouldn’t let me in. At the same time, I realised I’d heard those exact words before and there was something about the way he expressed them, as if he was reminding me of something. And then I remembered. They were exactly the same words I’d used when I’d told him I wasn’t going to write any more books. The bastard! He was choosing this moment to have his revenge.

For once, I almost lost it. ‘Hawthorne, if you don’t allow me into this building, I swear to God I will never speak to you again and you can forget about Alderney. I’ll break our contract. I won’t write the third book. It’ll never happen.’

‘I thought you’d already started.’

‘I’ll tear it up.’

‘You sound like you’re in a bad mood.’

‘Of course I’m in a bad mood! I’m being hunted by the police. Let me in!’

There was another long silence. I wanted to scream. But then came the exhilarating buzz of the electric lock. I pushed and the door opened. I almost fell into the reception area. The lift arrived as I walked towards it and I wondered if Hawthorne had sent it down. I was grateful that there was nobody else around. Nobody had seen me enter. I dived into the lift and travelled alone to the twelfth floor.

Hawthorne was waiting in the corridor. He had changed into another grey V-neck jersey, but otherwise he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on all day. He was looking nervous. ‘Move it, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Someone may see you.’

For half a second, I thought he was being serious. Then I realised that, in his own way, he was enjoying this. I remembered how dismissive he’d been when he first came to Tolpuddle Street. ‘The only thing he’s ever hit in his life is a computer keyboard.’ The idea of me being a fugitive from justice amused him. And right now, looking up and down the corridor and then stealthily closing the door behind me, he was playing a part.

We went into the living room. I noticed Hawthorne’s iPad on the table, surrounded by the intricate pieces of whatever military vehicle he was currently constructing. He must have been reading Harriet Throsby’s book when I rang the bell. That was something, anyway. He was still committed to the investigation.

‘Hawthorne,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘I need to stay here tonight. I can’t go home. Cara Grunshaw was there. She was with my wife! I can’t check into a hotel. I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘I’m not sure, mate. If the police have issued a warrant for your arrest, I’d be breaking the law by sheltering you. It might make me an accessory.’

‘You’re worried about breaking the law?’ I nearly screamed at him. ‘You got thrown out of the police for pushing a paedophile down a flight of steps, and later on you persuaded him to commit suicide. You regularly hack into the police computer system! You are kidding me, aren’t you? Apart from being a detective, you have no respect for the law at all. You’ve got to help me. I thought we were a team. I’ve been in hospital twice because of you. All the things we’ve done together – don’t they mean anything to you?’