It was 2.15 in the morning when the telephone rang. Polly woke instantly. Her eyes were wide and her body tense before the phone had completed so much as a single ring. And as she woke, in the tiny moment between sleep and consciousness, before she was even aware of the telephone’s bell, she felt scared. It was not the phone that jolted Polly so completely from her dreams, but fear.

And who could argue with the reasoning powers of Polly’s subconscious self? Of course she was scared. After all, when the phone rings at 2.15 in the morning it’s unlikely to be heralding something pleasant. What chance is there of its being good news? None. Only someone bad would ring at such an hour. Or someone good with bad news.

That telephone was sounding a warning bell. Something, somewhere, was wrong. So much was obvious. Particularly to a woman who lived alone, and Polly lived alone.

Of course it might be no more wrong than a wrong number. Something bad, but bad for someone else, something that would touch Polly’s life only for a moment, utterly infuriate her and then be gone.

“Got the Charlie?”

“There’s no Charlie at this number.”

“Don’t bullshit me, arsehole.”

“What number are you trying to call? This is three, four, zero, one…”

“Three, four, zero? I’m awfully sorry. I think I’ve dialled the wrong number.”

That would be a good result. A wrong number would be the best possible result. To find yourself returning to bed furiously muttering, “Stupid bastard,” while trying to pretend to yourself that you haven’t actually woken up; that would be a good result. Polly hoped the warning bell was meant for someone else.

If your phone rings at 2.15 a.m. you’d better hope that too. Because if someone actually wants you you’re in trouble.