It was Sunday evening, but the clock said two a.m., Monday morning. He was awake in an instant. Someone was trying to kick his door in. Adrenalin started to flow. Grabbing his squash racquet, he strode to the door, turned the lock as quietly as he could, then snatched the door bolt open quickly. The sight that met him was terrible. Tom stood in front of him, soaking wet, covered in mud, with red eyes and a look of terror. Ewan pulled him in, checked that the corridor was empty, closed the door and slid the bolt across.

Dripping puddles on the floor, Tom looked as if ghosts had chased him. He was shaking all over, and his stammer prevented any recognisable words. Then this normally bluff Yorkshireman collapsed into Ewan’s arms. The hug was wet and cold. Tom was sobbing. Something was seriously wrong.