But I’m not so sure. I think again about what Tom said, about the messages that float up from the subconscious … was it Clare’s unwilling hand, spelling out what she was so desperately trying to suppress?

I shut my eyes, trying to block the memory of that night. But there is no way of shutting it out completely. Flo is gone, but the rest of us, Tom, Nina and I, we’ll have to live with what happened, with what Clare did, with what we all did, for the rest of our lives.

My case is on the floor, and I open it up and pull out my laptop. The police still have my phone, but at least I can check my emails. It’s more than a week since I left London, and as I fire it up, a message flickers: ‘Downloading 1 of 187 emails’.

I sit and watch as they drop, one by one, into my inbox.

There’s an email from my editor. And another. Two from my agent. One from my mum, headed ‘R U OK?’ Then, last of all, come the emails from my website address: ‘Hot Thai Babes’ … ‘One weird tip to melt belly fat!’ … ‘You have three comments waiting for approval.’

And in amongst the spam … ‘From: Matt Ridout. Subject: Coffee’

I feel in my pocket for the curling piece of cardboard, torn off a paper cup. It’s nearly unreadable now, his number. The biro is blurring into nothing, and there’s a crease across the middle two digits, but I think I can make out that they’re both sevens, or possibly ones.

I was going to let fate decide. If I got my phone back from the police before the number disappeared …

And now this.

I remember the way he buried his face in his hands as he cried over James.

I remember his smile.

I remember the expression in his eyes as he said goodbye.

I’m not sure I can do this. I’m not sure I can let go of everything that happened, start again. For a minute my finger hovers irrationally over the delete button.

And then I click.