Last week’s opening episode of Rillington Place was a stunner: a creepy, horror-like examination of a deceitful, manipulative psychopath who successfully preserved his veneer of quietly-spoken respectability. Tim Roth’s Alan Bennet-on-Tramadol take on John ‘Reg’ Christie was terrifying in its banality; the fact that a man so shuffling, unassuming and insouciant could be so calculating, so manipulative and so dangerous was at the heart of his portrayal and the man’s benevolent charm. Also key to that first episode’s success was Samantha Morton’s superb, nuanced performance as Christie’s doomed wife, Ethel, and the fact that 10, Rillington Place was portrayed as a character all in itself. It was Christie’s dank, airless lair; a dark, monochromatically beige vortex, seemingly cloaked in a mist of constant dread that sucked life out of everything and everyone who entered. Now it was to suck the life out of a young, vibrant couple, who made the mistake of moving into the upstairs flat. Downstairs, Christie was watching. And waiting.