I pull up on the side of the road about twenty metres from the entrance to their drive and look around. There is a group of kids of about twelve years old on their way to school, but they are fooling around and I’m sure they won’t look at me. A car goes past, but nothing else is happening, so I open the door, get out and close it quietly. I move quickly along the pavement, but not so hurriedly that people will feel compelled to look, and nip up the drive of the house. The gravel cuts into my feet, but I have to get out of sight of the road. I creep down the side of the house, praying that neither of my neighbours has come down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

There is light shining onto the back garden. It has to be spilling from a window, so I approach the corner of the house with caution. Their garden is not well maintained, and even at this time of year is something of a jungle. I’m hoping this will be to my advantage. The branches of a couple of neglected trees hang low over the ground, and if I can duck beneath these I could be at the end of the garden in seconds. But first I need to see where the light is coming from.

Creeping slowly forward, I peer around the corner and sigh with relief. The light is coming from the bathroom, which I know has a frosted-glass window, so moving as quietly as I can I hurry over the weeds and thistles, resisting the urge to cry out as they sting my feet, until I am sheltered by the trees. I stop and turn, knowing that I’m hidden by the gloom from all but the most determined watcher. The light is still on in the bathroom, but suddenly the kitchen light comes on too, and the old lady wanders into the room in her pale blue dressing gown. Thank God I made it.

It’s only then that I realise I will have to return this way when I have retrieved my things from the house. I will have to come back over the wall, and by then they are bound to be up. Should I escape now while her back is turned, or carry on with my plan?

I pause for no more than a few seconds. I don’t think I have a choice, so I turn away from the house and tread slowly and carefully towards the wall. I want to run, but I’m terrified that any quick movement will attract attention.

Finally, I reach the wall that separates our back gardens. With the help of a rusty old chair I am over the wall in less than thirty seconds and in my own garden, staring at the back of my house.

The house where I killed a man.

CHAPTER 50

50