In a series of police interviews about what happened in Wales, Abs poured his heart out. He recalled with unblinking focus the events of that night and the following morning; it was a massive relief to finally let the truth emerge. He pleaded guilty, and accepted his sentence like a man. He was serving a seven-year stretch, but could be released in half that time if he was a good boy. Some of his guilt – not all of it, but some – lifted from his shoulders. Abs hadn’t had a panic attack for months now.

He thought about Rhiannon Jenkins a lot. It may have been too little, too late, but Abs was happy to know that she was now finally at rest, and that maybe her family could get a little bit of peace knowing what happened to her. And the families of those other poor women too, Jeremy Weston’s secret victims, who he buried in the wood near Danbury.

God rest their souls, and – Abs shuddered just thinking about his former mate – may Jez rot in hell for his crimes.

He took from under his pillow the letter Kelsey had written him. Abs guessed it was the first letter she had ever sent, because it wasn’t like she could just text or call whenever she wanted.

He put his nose to the thick paper once again – it was drenched in her favourite perfume – and then ran his fingers over the indentations caused by her pen. In clumsy handwriting, she explained that it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to visit, as much as she dearly wanted to, because she didn’t want to be a distraction to all the other men during visiting hours with their wives.

Babes, she wrote at the end of it, lets meat up a.s.a.p. when u get out. Theres a coooollll new bar opened in Benfleet and I no u will loooove it. I miss u soooooo much, babes.

Yor Kelsey. Xxxxxxx

Abs knew that when they finally did meet, she’d tip off photographers about the location, at a well-known bar or restaurant, so they could capture the big moment for the tabs.