Without another word he stalks off, hands in his pockets, towards a car further up the street. His legs are skinny and bowed, his back hunched. He’s just a sixty-year-old man, I think, a man who’s angry and grieving. He means me no harm.

I put the car in gear and head towards home.

It’s only nine o’clock by the time I get back, and the underground car park is empty of people. There are spaces for seven cars – two spaces per flat and one for visitors – and only four are filled, not including mine. Still, four cars, which means that at least someone should be at home. I’m not going to be alone in my building. Although I note with a heavy heart that Rory’s Fiat isn’t there.

As I get out of the car, the all-too-familiar feeling of being watched makes me jumpy. Is someone taking my photograph now? I look wildly about me, my scalp prickling. But, of course, nobody’s there. I hurry past the parked cars, almost running to the side door that leads to the flats, using my key fob to gain access.

And that’s when it hits me. How would anybody be able to get in here? The car park is secure, with an electric gate. There is a pedestrian side access, but that’s locked and only residents have a key, although there have been times when it’s been left unlocked. And it’s possible to climb the gate, I suppose, without being seen at night, but you’d have to be young and fit and tall. I doubt Norman would be able to scale it. Wayne Walker is tall and fit. Could it be him? Is he telling me to back off the story because of what I did to him with the phone hacking? But I’ve learned my lesson. I’d never be so stupid again.

I run up the back stairs to the first floor, my mind racing, thinking of the photographs in my bag. And for the first time in ages I yearn for Rory, for how it used to be between us in the early days, when we’d tell each other everything, me curled up in his arms before talk of babies and marriage began to divide us.

The flat is dark and empty, and I go about switching on all the lights and closing the curtains. When I get to our bedroom I pause at the window. There it is again. A beam of light from the derelict building opposite. Is it squatters? The beam is moving, as though the person holding the torch is pacing, and then it swings around so that the light almost blinds me. I step back in shock, snatching the curtains closed.

I jump when my mobile buzzes where I’d left it on the bed. It’s Jack and I’m filled with relief.