Nonchalantly surveying the empty kitchen, her eyes came to rest on the open storeroom door at the back. She knew the rules of the kitchen well and she knew that particular door shouldn’t have been left open. One of her sloppier colleagues had obviously neglected to close it the previous night. The storeroom door had to be kept shut because that’s where all the non-perishable foodstuffs were kept and if the door was left open then the rats might get in, and that just wouldn’t do.

Sharon pushed herself off the counter and walked over to the door in order to close it. But as she got there, she was suddenly seized by the irrational notion that maybe someone was in there. Quite why anyone would be in there was beyond her, but there was something about the crack of darkness behind the partially open door that ignited a tiny ember of uncertainty.

She paused in her tracks, her hand wavering a few centimetres from the door handle. Should she close it or should she check inside? And if she did look inside, what would she find?

She took a deep breath and, with a firm shove, she pushed the door wide open.

Inside it was dark, dry and cool. She reached in and switched on the light. Nothing but the shelves stacked high with big sacks of rice, pasta and sugar, and industrial-sized drums of cooking oil. There was no one in here.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Switching the light off, she pulled the door firmly shut behind her. What had got into her all of a sudden? Probably all these damn murders, secretly eating away at her nerves without her noticing. And now she was all keyed-up for no reason. She cursed under her breath. Get a grip, Sharon, she told herself. You’re not some chicken-hearted scaredy-cat.

She turned around and made her way back to where she had been standing before. As she did so, she noticed a motion out of the corner of her eye. She looked around sharply.

On the far side of the kitchen, one of the shiny steel saucepans was swinging on the hook from which it was suspended, as if someone had knocked it whilst walking past. It certainly hadn’t been her.

Was there someone else in here? Another one of the workers? That’s all she hoped it was. Just another one of the workers.

Turning in a slow three hundred and sixty degree circle, she scrutinised the kitchen. Apart from the swinging saucepan, there was no motion and no noise.

But then, on the glass surface of one of the oven doors, she caught a flicker of movement.

She spun around. There was no one there.

Maybe this was a set-up.

She glanced around anxiously, her gaze coming to rest on the knife rack. One of those would come in handy. Unfortunately, however, all of the knives were locked and tethered behind reinforced glass in a special cabinet and only the kitchen supervisor had the key. She cursed again under her breath and looked around for a suitable means with which to arm herself.