"He is a serial killer," I reply. "He has already tried to kill me once. What the fuck do you think I am worried about?"
Reeves apparently thinks I am joking, for he breaks into a belly laugh. The guy doesn't understand my sense of humour, or lack of. He has a prominent Adam's Apple. Momentarily I think about strangling him.
"So you think it was him then? You're in London now. He only killed in Wales. We haven't heard a thing from him in thirty years. Why should it be him?"
What? Is he looking for a rise? I count to three before replying. I am quietly confident, from his general demeanour, that he wouldn't respond well to being told to go fuck himself. I need to be more calculated than that. I decide to play him for the fool. "You don't think he could have a fucking Oyster card? You know how dumb that sounds?" I smile. His feathers are ruffled. "Listen, I have a fake identity. Nobody knows who I am. That is the whole purpose of the fake identity."
Reeves raises an eyebrow and holds my gaze for a moment, like he is sizing me up. "Oh come on, Marcus; you are an intelligent man, and I'm sure you can't be that naive. The news of your attack caused an international news frenzy. At the time, people were scared to leave their homes. The country hadn't seen anything like this since the Yorkshire Ripper. Only, Peter Sutcliffe targeted prostitutes. This guy wasn't so particular about who he targeted, was he? There are hundreds of books on the subject, not to mention that phenomenon that is social media. You can't possibly imagine that, just because you changed your name, lost some poundage and grew a beard, somebody couldn't work out who you really are if they wanted to? You're smarter than that; I'm sure of it. There are obsessive people out there. There are trolls. It could be the person who sits next to you on the train or the person who lives next to you. It could literally be anybody."
That was reassuring then, wasn't it? Maybe this guy had missed a training course or two? I was concerned when I entered his room, but I am petrified now.
"Is there anybody you have pissed off? Anybody you can think of who might want to rattle your cage?" he asks.
I think about this. I've met plenty of potential oddballs over the years, but I can't remember any I majorly pissed off. That person would need to care enough to actually find out who I was. They would need to have a reason to suspect I was once Jeffrey Allen. I tried to stay away from social media as much as I could, but sometimes our paths inevitably passed. Even I knew that it offered an endless avenue for crackpots. If this person wasn't him then it was most likely to be some obsessive from the internet with a penchant for serial killers.
I tell Reeves that there is nobody.
"Has there been any contact from this person since Friday, since 1st June? Anything that doesn't quite seem right?"
I shake my head.
He softens his tone. He probably has a form to fill in about my visit; I assume he relishes admin. He needs to tick all the boxes. Reeves pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. Clearly, he isn't going to get a result from me. It is best to get me out of the door as quickly as he can so he can concentrate on hitting his targets.
"Is the murder enquiry even open?" I ask.
"This was a very serious murder enquiry, involving a serial killer," Reeves says. "This wasn't just a domestic incident that went tragically wrong. I assure you that the enquiry will most likely always be open. We actively follow up any leads that we find."
"So South Wales Police are still busy on the case then?"
"As far as I'm aware, there haven't been any real leads for a long time. So I don't think they are actively doing anything on the case. But as I said, they will if they are given a lead."
"Hmmm."
"Listen, I do appreciate you coming here, and it was the right thing to do. At the moment, though, we have nothing to go on. This person hasn't committed any crime. He didn't threaten you and he didn't harm you. It was probably absolutely nothing, just some sad case who got a kick out of scaring you. You'll probably hear nothing again and it will all blow over. If you do hear anything - anything at all - then you promise to call me, you hear? I do hope I never speak to you again, though," he says, grinning. "And I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course."
Fuck you. He probably uses the line with every poor soul he wants to see the back of. I nod my head and join in with the joviality, thanking him for his time, for seeing me at short notice. I stop as I reach the door, though. I think I can hear him sigh. I know what he's thinking. Oh, for fucks sake. He thought he'd got rid of me. I have one final question. It has been playing on my mind, vying for attention with all the other unwanted thoughts.
"So why don't you think it is him, then? After all, he was never caught. Why can't
