I found a couple of mugs in the kitchen which I took into the lounge. I held them up and dropped them from a great height. Crockery shards ricocheted across the room. I moved on to the bedroom which oozed machismo. Black satin bedding defined the square cube, and dark cheaply lacquered bedside tables bore a lone alarm clock and a single textbook on Medieval England.

Agitation ruffled my mood as I checked out the Target’s clothing. A wardrobe crammed full of designer clothes gave proof of vacuous arrogance. Rebecca was far too clever to be fooled by outward appearances, and this prick was no man of substance. He was the dispensable kind, a person the world could do without.

The minutes ticked by and before I knew it an hour had passed. I’d been sitting quietly, but alert, in the armchair. On the dot of five, the front door opened and I hurried stealthily into the bedroom. The element of surprise was vital. In retrospect I was sad that, when I did appear, he didn’t recognise me immediately.

‘What the fuck?’

I heard the expletive from behind the door as I peeked through a crack in the frame. The Target stepped gingerly over the splinters and stopped momentarily to listen.

‘Is anyone here? Come out, you bastard.’

When a few minutes passed in silence, he proceeded to the kitchen cupboard under the sink and dug out a dustpan and brush. He didn’t hear me as he leant down on hands and knees to clear up the mess.

‘Boo.’

He reeled back in terror. The bastard’s fear was exquisite.

‘What the fuck?’ He seemed lacking in vocabulary. He swung round and stared at me. ‘If it’s money you’re after, help yourself. There’s nothing in my wallet.’ He fished around in the pockets of his jeans and spewed the contents onto the worktop.

‘Have a look.’

Perhaps if he’d said: ‘Hello, Arthur. How are you, mate?’ I mightn’t have hit him so hard; but then perhaps not. A baseball bat was my preferred weapon of choice. I knew the crunching noise would be satisfying and I battered his head long after he was dead.

I left him on the floor while I extracted the new mobile phone from my pocket and laid it on the coffee table. Blood oozed from the dead man’s skull and the polished floorboards had already started to lose their shine. The red tie, one not dissimilar to Mr Flynn’s, which I managed to secure round Mitch’s neck, was a last-minute effect. It was purely a theatrical ruse, a clue that would yield no answers. I was the only one who knew the reason for it.