I keep hold of my phone and return to the lounge where Llewellyn and Ryan are talking in hushed tones. They fall silent when I walk in and give me encouraging smiles.

‘So, do you need me to stay while you wait for the crime scene people to get here?’ I ask. ‘Because I’m really late opening up the shop this morning, and one of my staff has been waiting outside for me. That was her on the phone.’

‘No,’ Llewellyn says. ‘That’s okay. If you leave us your car keys, we can wait for them in our vehicle. But there is another reason we wanted to talk to you today.’

I take up my position on the arm of the chair once more – too tense to take a proper seat – and wait for her to continue.

‘The results of the stain analysis have come back from the lab,’ she says, her face expressionless. I wonder if it’s part of police training to perfect a poker face.

‘You mean the stain on the letter?’ I ask.

‘That’s right.’ She pushes a wisp of fringe off her forehead. ‘Unfortunately, the lab tests determined that the stain is in fact blood.’

My skin goes cold. ‘What kind of blood?’

‘The technicians used what’s called a precipitin reaction, to detect the presence of a specific antigen,’ Llewellyn says.

I have no idea what she’s talking about, and my face must show my confusion because she quickly goes on to explain. ‘They used a test to determine whether the bloodstain is human, or from another source.’

‘And?’ I wish she’d hurry up and get to the point.

‘The results are positive for feline blood.’

A wave of nausea rises up from my gut, but I manage to keep it down. I take a deep breath in through my nose to try to damp down the horror of what Llewellyn is telling me.

‘Are you okay?’ Llewellyn asks.

‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘Frank’s paw,’ I continue. ‘They must have cut it, mustn’t they? Whoever is doing this, whoever is hounding me, it was them who cut my cat’s paw, wasn’t it?’

Neither of the officers replies.

‘Wasn’t it?’ I say.

‘We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ Llewellyn says. ‘But it does look that way. Yes.’

I stand up and start pacing the room. ‘I don’t believe this. Did you get any prints off any of the letters?’

‘I’m afraid not. But we’re working on other avenues.’

‘Like what?’ I ask.

‘Like where the paper and envelopes were bought. That kind of thing.’

‘What about Leon Whittaker? Have you spoken to him again?’

‘Not yet. But in light of all these new incidents we’ll be finding out his whereabouts for yesterday and today. Checking if he has any alibis.’

‘My neighbour…’ I begin, and then tail off.

‘What about your neighbour?’ Llewellyn asks.

PC Matt Ryan is writing in his notebook again.

‘Ian Clutterbuck,’ I say. ‘He…’ But I have no evidence that my neighbour has done anything. I can’t accuse him simply because he gave me this weird look one time. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s harmless, but then again, I’m not sure what to think any more. Maybe you should speak to all my neighbours. Find out if they’ve seen anything strange, or anyone hanging around.’

‘We’ll do that,’ Llewellyn says. ‘Any reason why you singled out this Ian Clutterbuck person?’

‘No. Only that… he lives next door. If he’s got anything to do with it, he’d be able to see my comings and goings. It would be easy for him to follow me.’

‘And that’s all? No other reason you mention his name? Has he behaved inappropriately towards you? Said anything strange?’

‘No, he hasn’t. In fact, Joe and I went round there for dinner with him and his girlfriend last week.’

She nods slowly. ‘And what about your other neighbours?’

‘I only know Mrs P, on the other side of us. She’s my old school teacher. Really nice. Said she’d keep an eye out for me.’

‘And your neighbours opposite?’

‘I don’t really know any of them.’

‘Okay,’ Llewellyn says, getting to her feet. ‘Matt and I will start going door to door. We might have to come back to finish up later, as most people will probably be at work. Talking of work, feel free to head off to the shop, if you’re up to it. But no one would blame you if you took the day off.’

‘Thanks. But I’d rather go in than sit around at home worrying.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Llewellyn says. ‘Actually, why don’t I drop you in while Matt makes a start on the door-to-doors?’

Matt raises an eyebrow and then nods at his superior.

‘Really?’ I say, feeling relieved. ‘Would that be okay? I don’t feel safe walking on my own at the moment.’

‘Of course,’ Llewellyn says. ‘And please make sure you get a lift home after work, too. I don’t want you out on your own at all. Not until we’ve caught this person. I thought I told you that last time we met?’

‘You did,’ I say.

‘Well, please, Lizzy, take my advice this time.’

‘I will.’ I nod, wishing I’d taken it the first time. ‘Can you give me ten minutes to get myself together?’

‘We’ll make a start on the neighbours,’ she says. ‘Meet me outside when you’re ready.’

The two of them leave and I sink into the sofa, pulling my legs up under me and closing my eyes. I can barely take it all in. Two weeks ago I was living a peaceful, normal life. Now I’m living in the middle of a nightmare. I don’t know what to think. How to be. I feel absolutely exhausted and overwhelmed. I mentioned Leon and Ian to the police, so why didn’t I tell them my suspicions about Emma? She lives in Bristol, so she could have been in that crowd yesterday, but what about all the hand-delivered letters? She works full-time, so how would she have managed that?

I should call her at work. See if she’s in today. If she’s not there, then it makes it more likely that she was here hanging up that air freshener and stealing my spy cam. But she could have done all that last night and still made it back in time for work in Bristol. The truth is, I don’t want to believe it’s her.

My phone buzzes in my lap. It must be Pippa. I’d better go. It’s almost half ten. My customers will be going mad wondering why we’re not open. I check my messages and see that I’ve received another text. It’s from an unknown number. Part of me hopes it’s a spammy marketing text, but the other part knows it won’t be. My heart twangs as I open the text:

I read it again, my stomach swirling.

They have my number! Who is it? Who is it?

My shock and terror suddenly morph into something harder. Before I can stop myself, I find myself tapping out a reply:

There’s no reply, so I write another text:

Still no reply. I furiously tap out another one.

The phone buzzes in my hand, making me jump. A reply comes back with just a single emoticon – a crying-with-laughter face.

I clench my fists and throw my phone onto the sofa. It bounces onto the floor and lands face up, the laughing icon staring straight back at me, like my stalker is watching me through my phone screen. I kick the handset over with my toe so it ends up face down on the floor. But that laughing face remains stamped on my brain. How am I going to make this nightmare stop?