Yes, focus on his plans, on making the bitch lawyer’s life a complete misery. Oh, what the hell, drug the little brat. Give her some more medication. It would at least give him time to think. He reached through the bars, clutching Lottie’s left arm and pulling her increasingly emaciated, unconscious body towards him. ‘Right, you little brat, you’re going to live another day. Aren’t you the fortunate one? My deceased father’s drug it is. There’s plenty left if we need it. He had a rather generous supply.’

Heath glared in at Lottie again as he prepared to administer the tranquillising chemical. She was lying curled up on the hard, soiled floor of the cage, blissfully oblivious to the realities of her new existence. Lost to the welcome oblivion of drug-induced sleep.

He spoke to her again with animated passion, as if she could hear and understand every word he uttered. ‘What the fuck you’ve done to deserve such mercy is a complete mystery to me. I’m too nice for my own good sometimes, that’s my problem. But don’t get too comfortable, you little bitch. There’s only so long I’ll look after you. The temptation to harm is too strong.’

Heath tore open the paper packaging covering the needle and picked up a syringe, fixing the needle carefully in place. While holding the injection in one hand, he took a glass vial containing a potent sedative drug from his pocket and broke off its top with a distinctive snap that made him jump. He inserted the needle through the mouth of the vial, and slowly drew the clear liquid into the syringe chamber. Finally, he pressed the black rubber plunger gently with his thumb, forcing out the air, until a tiny drop of the liquid squirted from the tip. There, done.

The ready availability of his father’s medication was fortuitous. Thank you, lung cancer! And at least the old git served a purpose. Rot in hell, you hypercritical old bastard. Heath smiled coldly as childhood memories resonated in his mind.

Heath plunged the needle deep into Lottie’s upper arm, administering the drug with well-practised speed and efficiency, before discarding the syringe in a wicker wastepaper basket he’d brought into the attic for the purpose.

He pulled on the dark wig again before approaching the mirror, studying his image in the light of a single, bare 100-watt bulb, which highlighted every flaw in his eyes, every blemish, every wrinkle. It seemed time and gravity were taking their inevitable toll despite his relative youth. Maybe he should change the bulb. Perhaps it was too bright. A sixty maybe, or even a forty, something a little more sympathetic.

Another burst of inspiration. Just pop to the shops. Find the time, wear a suitable disguise. And keep a low profile too, something he was good at, head bowed, collar up, eyes focused on the pavement. That’s all he had to do. Not get spotted. Keep his purpose secret from a judgemental world.

Heath applied that same cherry-red lipstick, pouting, taking his time, and then black mascara, removing the wand from the white plastic tube by twisting back and forth, wiping off the excess cosmetic on a paper tissue, and then looking up to lift the lashes. He studied his reflection again once satisfied with his efforts, taking a backward step as his image was gradually replaced by that of his mother, whose face filled the mirror.