He hadn’t expected to be this scared. The first part of plan B was that he should take a different route from usual. Minor roads, country lanes. Break the routine. His prep hadn’t been great. Everything should have been packed and ready. Was he not a professional project manager? But to make the plan in all its detail would have meant considering the worst-case scenario. Ideally he should have taken his own car, not the company one. But this one had more space and was fuelled up. Taking the Ford Focus would have slowed him up and left Angela stuck without wheels. Only one of many ways in which she was destined to be screwed over by his unscheduled departure. He felt guilty, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford. She’d be all right, eventually. It was his survival at stake here, not hers.

As he drove he cursed the name, again and again. Just one man had put him in this predicament. A greedy, smug bastard. And now his life was at risk.

It was gone five when Blanchard sat impatiently at a set of roadworks traffic lights, a long queue of rain-smeared tail lights visible through the sweeping wipers. A huge four-wheel-drive, its lights on full beam, sat right on his tail, gunning the engine impatiently. He could hear the thump of music, too. It brought his enemies to mind and made him nervous. He reset the satnav, and turned off right on a minor rural road. As the Volvo splashed through the puddles, Ozzy Blanchard tried to think. Every change of route would cost him time, but unless they had discovered everything he would still be safe. Or should be. They couldn’t have discovered everything, could they? Not yet. Once he arrived at that familiar village, got her into the car and away, they would be safe. Their new life could begin.

He rang her on the hands-free, and after six rings it went to the message. He whispered, as if being overheard: ‘It’s me, pick up if you can.’

An hour later, Blanchard was edging the big Volvo down the cramped, puddled lane of Victorian cottages. Familiar, welcoming, the soft warm glow of lights from within, families sitting down to an evening meal, a night in front of the TV. Reassuring. He edged up outside the house, flecks of rain drifting through the beams of the headlamps. The kitchen light was on, and one upstairs behind curtains. He rang her again, and again left a message. ‘Come on. It’s me. I’m here.’

Suddenly headlamps flicked on from a big dark vehicle parked further down the lane, and an engine roared. The door of the cottage opened, and a man he recognised leapt out, running down the garden path towards him.

It was a trap.