He’s gagging on his own vomit. I drive my fist into his back, he’s not dying now. The force makes him cough, unblocking his airways. I did the math. Force feeding him that many tablets should have been just enough to make him sick, but not kill him. I guess he’s more pathetic than I thought.

Next, I take a rope and fasten it to the rafters on the ceiling. I fashion a noose out of the other end and hook it round his neck, making it painfully difficult to stand normally, but he can just about breathe if he stands on his tiptoes. Eventually I get it right, but he doesn’t seem grateful. I laugh at his indignant, spluttering face.

He takes a ragged breath, “let me down! Are you some kind of sadist?”

That’s exactly what I am! Who’d have thought that Mr Lowe would be such a good judge of character?

After an hour of watching him snort and snuffle like a farmyard pig, I let him down. After catching his breath, he tells me “my wife knows where I am. The police will be here any minute”.

So full of misguided hope. I’d already told Mrs Lowe that I’d be taking care of her husband this afternoon, that I had a wonderful set of surprises for him. She thanked me, and gave me a freshly baked apple pie for my troubles.

I consulted my list. Water boarding was next, how fun! I’d always wanted to see how that looked in real life. We spent a lovely hour with him gargling and spluttering. “See!” I tell him brightly, “It’s basically backwards swimming!”

There’s just one final thing on my list. I get to use my biggest, favourite knife for this one! I slowly trace it down the veins in his forearms. Not too deep, mind! I want him conscious.

“Mr Lowe” I start, formally. “Do you know that you’ve taken 6, almost 7 lives, both directly and indirectly?”

He looks up at me, weak and pale. A dawning realisation starts across his face.

“Sally Anderson, 9 years old when you killed her. Her mother took an overdose a year later”.

He starts to deny it, but I interrupt.

“Timothy Castas, 8 years old when you stabbed him. His brother hanged himself just last year.”

He just looks at me.

“Ben Wallis, 15 when you murdered him. His father drowned himself 2 years ago.”

He has nothing to say.

“Finally, Melinda Lowe. You started beating her in the first year of your marriage. You know she’s slit her wrists 3 times over the course of your married life, but you’ve always managed to find her in time.”

He hangs his head, muttering something about me being a psychopath.

I’m no psychopath. He had it right the first time. Professional sadist, at your service. Available to hire, for a price. Discounts available, if they deserve it. Mrs Lowe only had to pay an apple pie.