‘What about your tea? You’ve got time for a gulp or two surely?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Why are you taking the guitar?’

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

‘I saw you carrying it out from the garage.’

He stared around the driveway, as if there were answers to be found there. ‘Tell you later. I’ll be back by six.’

As the car slid onto the suburban road, it left an ominous silence behind in the house. In that emptiness grew pain. Through all their quarter of a century of life together, from the moment she and Ozzy had settled down, Angela had thought she could see where they were heading. A long, straight, predictable pipe, where each section fitted snugly onto the one before, heading to the horizon, their life together safely channelled within. All thanks to his good job, two holidays a year, and a decent pension at the end of it, now just four years away if he took the early retirement option. She’d thought she was happy.

Angela was an accommodating woman, and a little old-fashioned, but she wasn’t a fool. He was gone. He’d said he would be back by six. But actions speak louder than words. The tent, the guitar, the paperwork. It appeared to her he was leaving for good.

He’d been gone less than five minutes when the landline rang. She recognised the voice. Kelvin Arrowsmith, regional financial controller at Aqua, she thought. He didn’t introduce himself, but simply asked to speak to Ozzy. She told him that he had just gone back into work. ‘The Aqua site office, or regional HQ?’ he asked.

‘He didn’t say. Is that Kelvin?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Kelvin, honestly, he did seem in a bit of a flap.’

There was silence at the other end, then Kelvin said, ‘I can’t reach him on the mobile. When he calls in, ask him to ring me urgently. However late. Thank you, Angela.’

There was the briefest gap between the end of that sentence and Kelvin hanging up, not anywhere near enough for the many questions that Angela wanted to ask. But in that gap she distinctly heard the sound of Kelvin cursing under his breath.

Chapter Two

Ozzy Blanchard soon ran into heavy rain and winter darkness as he left Hemel Hempstead. The Hertfordshire town, just north-west of London, had been his home for two decades. No longer. The die was cast. He wasn’t going back. His destination was familiar, but this time the journey was urgent. The next hour would be crucial. Weeks ago he’d sketched out a plan B for this moment. Plan B wasn’t detailed, because he’d never expected to need it. Plan A should have worked.