Hawthorne had left me a newspaper and a note.

Had to go out. Back by eleven. Help yourself to anything in the fridge – don’t make calls and don’t answer the door! In emergency, find Kevin.

Out of interest, I opened the fridge. There was an unopened carton of milk, a slab of butter and a small jar of marmalade. Nothing else. I’d had almost nothing to eat the day before and I was really hungry. I wolfed down both the croissants and then had a bowl of Crunchy Nut cornflakes, followed by a bowl of Coco Pops. I made myself a coffee and quickly searched through the newspaper. I was relieved to find there was no mention of me. I sat back and thought.

Things were a little better than they had been the night before. I was wanted by the police, but they had no idea where I was. For the time being, I was safe. Hawthorne’s note hadn’t said as much, but it seemed that he was on the case. Why else would he have gone out so early – and what would he bring with him when he came back? I hoped it would be the identity of the killer.

I folded up the paper. It was slowly dawning on me that I had been handed an amazing opportunity. Since the day I’d met him, I’d been trying to find out more about Hawthorne, but he’d stonewalled me at every turn. I’d managed to speak to a detective inspector who had worked with him, but he hadn’t been very informative and he’d charged me £100 for his time. Hawthorne had been forced to talk about himself when we’d been at the Alderney Literary Festival, but he still hadn’t given very much away and I wasn’t even sure how much of what he had said was true. His almost paranoid secrecy had become more and more annoying as we’d worked our way through three cases and we’d often argued about it. How could I write about him if I didn’t know anything about his past? Well, here I was, alone in his home. If I looked around, there must be any number of clues that might fill in the gaps in Hawthorne’s life. What had happened in Reeth was number one on the list, but there were all sorts of things I wanted to find out. Where had he been born? Why had he become a policeman? What did he do when he wasn’t investigating murders with me? What was the thing with the giraffes?

I sat at the table for a long time, reflecting on the dilemma I found myself in. Hawthorne hadn’t invited me here. He had only allowed me in because I was in trouble and had nowhere else to go. I wasn’t sure I could abuse his hospitality by ransacking his home. I mean, the first place I might start would be the bedroom. This is where all of us are most exposed. It’s where we keep our clothes and underclothes, the books or magazines we read before we sleep, the things that are most personal to us. Even the way we make our bed tells us something about ourselves. Wrinkled sheets and crumpled duvet or puffed-up pillows, novelty cushions and rag dolls? But I already knew that I wouldn’t even be able to open the door without despising myself. I might never be able to look at Hawthorne the same way again.