The women had been there half an hour. Slater, still pretending to sip coffee, felt he was becoming noticeable. He’d seen Vicky glance at him twice in the last ten minutes. He just prayed that she didn’t recognise him. To forestall this he moved away, heading towards the trees which lined the boundary fence. Beyond it there was a litter-lined service road running in parallel to the lorry park. Then he spotted a car parked, apparently for concealment, in the shade of a tree. A compact white Honda Civic four-door. A bearded man with a ponytail, a heavily tattooed neck and sunglasses was sitting in the driving seat, and he seemed to be as interested in watching the red Citroën as Slater had been. He didn’t look much like Ozzy Blanchard, but then that’s the point of disappearing. Grow your hair, get some tattoos and you’re halfway there. Slater was confident that Ozzy didn’t know what he looked like, and approached the car. There was lots of luggage on the back seat, including some camping gear and a guitar case.

The man inside buzzed the window down. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m a bit lost, and my satnav is broken. Have you got a map of the area?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned towards the passenger door and pulled out an A3-sized AA atlas. ‘Where are you trying to get to?’

‘A place called Rissington Common. I’d never heard of it, to be honest.’

The man laughed. ‘I know it very well.’

‘I know you do, Ozzy.’ Slater pulled the Browning 9mm from his pocket, and pointed it at Blanchard’s head.

‘Oh, Christ. Who are you?’ the man said.

‘Never mind that.’ Slater opened the rear door, and squeezed in amongst all the gear on the seat immediately behind the driver. ‘We’re going for a little drive.’

Gun pressed to the back of Blanchard’s neck, Slater directed him to restart the engine, and had him drive around the service road and take a side-turning off onto a country lane which headed away from the service station. After half a mile he got Blanchard to turn off onto a single-track hedge-lined lane between arable fields. Slater told him to park the car in the gateway of a field near a pile of fly-tipped tyres and refrigerators. He got out of the car, keeping a bead on his captive. With his left hand he brought out his phone, and took a picture of the terrified-looking Blanchard, telling him to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘I’m afraid so.’