So when he asked her out, she couldn’t say no. Despite having Tony. She slept with Phil. Repeatedly. And surprised herself: rather than feeling guilty about betraying Tony, she began to feel increasingly that her future lay with Phil.

And then came Martin Fletcher.

The Gemma Hardy case was finished. Martin Fletcher had been caught, the team had celebrated. Marina included. Her first foray into police work had been a resounding success. She had put her name forward for more. Everything was looking good for her.

She had gone back to university after the case had concluded, and was in her office one evening, straightening out some of the paperwork that had accrued in her absence. She was meeting Phil later, happy to work until that time. He had arranged to pick her up from her office, said he wanted to see where she worked. She was pleased about that, looking forward to showing the place off to him. No qualms about being seen on campus with another man, because she had decided to tell Tony it was all over. Consequently, her mobile was switched off in case he phoned her.

There was a knock on the door. Hesitant at first, then more self-assured. She shouted for the person to come in. He did. As she looked up, her heart seemed to stop. Her pen fell from her grasp. Martin Fletcher was standing in her office.

‘What . . . what d’you want?’

He gazed around, as if searching for the answer to the question on the shelves of her office. Then looked directly at her.

‘You,’ he said. ‘You.’

Marina was terrified. She glanced to the door, calculated the distance, the obstacles in her way. Fletcher must have had the same idea. He turned, and before she could even rise from her chair, he had locked it and put his back against it.

‘Don’t scream,’ he said, menace in his voice. ‘Don’t.’

She swallowed. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. ‘There’s someone . . . someone coming here in a minute. Very soon.’

‘No there’s not. They’ve all gone home.’

‘Yes, yes there is.’ She was breathing so hard, her heart felt like it was going to burst. ‘Phil . . . Phil Brennan. Detective Inspector. He’s meeting me here.’

A wave of fear passed across Fletcher’s features at the mention of the police. Despite being terrified, Marina was thinking like a psychologist. He’s scared of the police but not of me. He’s angry but can’t take it out on them, so I’m the target. The thought was less than comforting.

‘What are you doing out?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were on remand.’

He smiled then. It was eerie, like he was listening to a joke told by a ghost on a distant radio. ‘They let me go. On bail. Technicality.’ Then the anger returned. ‘You.You ruined my life.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did.’ He was starting to get angry now. He moved away from the door, started coming towards her. ‘You took away my life. Turned Gemma against me.You did that.’

Marina looked round for a weapon, something she could use. Could see nothing. Phil, she thought, hurry up . . .

She had to keep him talking, try to reason with him. ‘No, Martin, you’re wrong. I didn’t ruin your life.’

‘Yes you did!’

She flinched at his anger. Forced herself to keep calm. Breathed deeply. ‘No. No I didn’t. And Gemma was never your girlfriend. That was Louisa, Gemma’s flatmate.’

‘No . . .’ He put his hands to his head, started hitting his temples. ‘No, no . . .’

‘Yes she was, Martin. Louisa was your girlfriend. Not Gemma.’

‘No, no . . .’

‘Gemma was her friend. But not your girlfriend. Let it go, Martin, you’ve got to let it go . . .’

His next words were inaudible, just a shriek of pain as he kept hitting himself, eyes tight shut, seemingly trying to knock her words out of his head.

Marina looked round once again for a weapon, anything. There was no time to turn her mobile on. She saw the phone on the table. If she could get to that, quickly make a call . . .

She looked at Martin Fletcher, eyes closed, still hitting himself, then back to the phone. She could do it. Just reach out, grab it . . .

As her hand wrapped round the receiver, he opened his eyes and, with a scream, lunged forward. She tried to punch in the numbers but he was on her, his hand over hers, pulling the receiver from her, wrenching the phone from the wall, flinging it on the floor.

‘Bitch! You’re going to pay . . .’

She made a lunge for the door, knowing that she probably wouldn’t reach it. She was right. He was on her straight away, pulling her back by her hair. She put her hands up to her head, tried to prise his fingers away, but to no avail. He flung her to the floor. She felt hair being pulled out by the roots, thought parts of her scalp could have gone too.

She landed hard and curled up into a ball, instinctively trying to protect herself while she got her breath back. She knew blows were coming and closed her eyes, placed her hands over her head and face.

‘Please, don’t hurt me . . . don’t hurt me . . .’

He knelt on her, his weight pushing her down, making it hard for her to catch her breath, clamped a hand roughly over her mouth. ‘Shut up. Don’t say anything. Don’t scream, don’t . . . just don’t . . .’

She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut. Said the same words over and over again like a prayer, a mantra: Phil will be here soon, Phil will be here soon . . .

Then the slapping started. More startling than painful. She felt him attacking her around her face. She quickly moved her hands to ward off the stinging blows.

‘Bitch . . . bitch . . .’

He was using the words to build himself up. The slaps were getting harder, more forceful. Then she felt a punch to her chest. She grunted. That hurt. Then another one. Then another.

She had to do something, try to stop him before he lost control completely.

She opened her eyes, squinting at the expected blow. She looked up, saw Fletcher, his face twisted ugly with anger and hatred, his eyes almost closed. She glanced to the side. Saw the phone lying there. That would have to do.

She could move her left arm; he didn’t have any weight on that. Good. She snaked it out, groped for the phone. Found it. Flinching from the slaps and punches, she gripped it, hefted it in her hand and brought her arm round as fast and as hard as she could.

The phone connected with the side of Martin Fletcher’s head.

Not trusting to luck, she did it again.

He opened his eyes, looked at her. The anger had gone, replaced by shock. She didn’t have time to think about his reaction now; she just had to capitalise on it. So for a third time, roaring as she did so, she hefted the phone, putting all her strength behind it, feeling it crunch once more against the side of his head.

Martin Fletcher sat back, stunned. Marina used his confusion to wriggle her body free of his. She dashed to the door, tried to undo the lock, but her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get a grip on it. Instead she started banging.

‘Help! Help me! Somebody help me! Help!’

‘No . . . don’t . . . don’t do that . . . please . . .’ Martin Fletcher’s voice was small and fragile. He stayed where he was on the floor, rubbing his head where the phone had connected, from where blood was beginning to trickle.

Marina ignored him, kept shouting.

‘No, please don’t . . .’

His anger was completely gone now; just that tremulous, fearful voice in its place. She turned to him, the psychologist in her ascendant once more.

‘Your power’s gone, Martin. I’m not scared of you any more . . .’

He shuffled away from her, squashed himself into the corner of the room. Covered his head with his hands.

Then came the sound of banging on the door.

‘Phil!’ Marina shouted. ‘I’m in here!’

There was more than one voice, muffled by the heavy wood. Marina took strength from the voices, managed to turn the lock. The door opened. There were two overseas students standing there, along with a maintenance worker. But no Phil.