‘Ow, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.’ She fought back tears, not of pain, but of anxiety that having let him down, he might go off her.

‘Did you bring the petrol can?’

‘Yes, it’s in the boot. I filled it up yesterday.’

‘Get it.’ He dragged her out of the driver’s seat, and pushed her towards the back. ‘There’s matches and wadding – run to the Range Rover, it’s just a quarter of a mile on the right. Burn it. I’ll text you the rest of the instructions.’

Vanessa opened the boot and pulled out the canvas bag which contained all the arsonist’s tools she needed. She was just about to return to the passenger seat when Kyle said, ‘Close the boot, idiot.’

She did so, and she watched in amazement as Kyle reversed the Fiat, almost knocking her down. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a lift?’ she shouted through the open window, as she ran after the car. ‘My clothes are in there, in my bag.’

‘No time,’ he bellowed, pointing to his wristwatch. ‘Remember what I said? Make the rendezvous. Don’t put your phone on until eleven, understand? Don’t go home or contact anyone else.’

Vanessa blew him a kiss as he reversed away from her down the lane towards the main road. He didn’t see her, because he had his arm over the passenger seat, and was looking behind him.

‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘Looking forward to seeing you tonight.’

After the car had disappeared and its engine note dwindled to nothing, she shouldered the heavy canvas bag and turned on her heels, slogging down the lane away from the main road. Crows were cawing in the still-bare trees. It felt lonely here, and sad. A few hundred yards on, sure enough, the black Range Rover was there, in a muddy passing place on the quiet twisty lane. The car was unlocked, and the keys in the ignition. There was an enormous red plastic suitcase in the boot. He hadn’t mentioned that to her. Maybe it was something important that he had forgotten.

In the months that she had known this wonderful, exciting man, he had told her many tales of working for British military intelligence in Afghanistan. How there had been cover-ups of terrible crimes against civilians by American forces, crimes Kyle had witnessed, and that was why he now had to live under a pseudonym. The British government always did what it was told by the Americans, which is why the British police were after him. It had all made sense when he’d explained. Kyle had built this dossier on a datastick that he kept with him at all times in his silver briefcase. One day soon, when the data was complete, he would reveal it to WikiLeaks.

But things had gone wrong.

The German violinist girl had some vital information which he needed to prove his case, and had come all the way to Britain to give it to him, but at their rendezvous told him she had been poisoned at a London hotel. She gave him the information he needed but died in the back seat of the big green car. He took her body to his workshop under the arches.