‘I happened to speak to Maureen Bates today,’ he said, ignoring this.

‘Oh really?’ I replied, cheerfully. ‘I was at her office this evening. She didn’t mention she’d seen you.’

‘We spoke on the phone. She told me that you might be writing a book.’

‘A book?’

‘About us. About Harriet Throsby.’

I wondered how Maureen had known this. I hadn’t told her. With everything that was going on, I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.

‘Apparently, you’ve already written a book about that detective you were with. She said that was why the two of you were together.’

‘Well, I haven’t made a decision yet. If you really want to know, Hawthorne and I are out of contract.’ It was stupid of me, but I couldn’t resist adding: ‘But I suppose it’s always possible.’

That started him off again. ‘You should have told me that before you came into my dressing room.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want to be in your book. Do you understand me? If you’d told me that was what you were thinking, I wouldn’t have spoken to you.’

‘Why not?’ I was genuinely puzzled. My only thought was that he had murdered Harriet and he didn’t want it made public. After all, it wouldn’t exactly help his career. ‘Are you afraid of something?’

‘I’m not afraid of anything!’ He hadn’t raised his voice but he was fighting for control. ‘You have not asked for my permission to use any aspects of my life and I’m not giving it to you. I don’t want my name in your book. I don’t want to be any part of it. And that’s the end of the matter.’

‘Hold on a minute, Jordan.’ I was angry too. He had no right to track me down in this way, to spring out of the shadows, half terrifying me in the middle of the night. Suddenly I was annoyed. ‘Look, I may write about this. I may not. But either way, I don’t think it’s any business of yours. I don’t see what right you’ve got to stop me.’

‘So you haven’t written anything yet.’

I couldn’t lie to him. ‘I may have taken notes.’

He jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘You write about me and I will make sure that all hell comes in your direction. I have my life. I have my experiences. And you have no right at all to appropriate my story, turn me into a cultural stereotype, simply to embellish your own view of the world.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about a privileged white writer describing things he knows nothing about, profiting – in every sense – from an experience he will never understand because he hasn’t lived it. I have!’

‘You’re not being serious!’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Are you saying that if I decide to write about the death of Harriet Throsby, I can’t put you in the book, that I can’t even mention you – because of your heritage?’