She pulled it, but it did not lengthen. She turned it to the left, then to the right and it began to rotate.

Gradually, dull spots of light appeared in the window. They merged into lines and the blind started to rise. After a few seconds it was up, and she was looking out of a window.

It was a view that was somehow familiar. A lawn sloped about fifty feet to a small stony beach, on the shore of a placid, grey lake. It looked like a large body of water, the far side about three hundred yards away.

And she realized that she knew this place.

She had the same feeling she’d had when she saw the kidnapper, face obscured by the hoodie. There was something about that slender, thin-hipped build and the measured, precise way they moved that she recognized.

It was the same now. She had seen this place before. She hadn’t been here, but it was familiar. It wasn’t the Lake District – there were no mountains – and she racked her brains for other bodies of water that she knew. Budworth Mere. Carsington Water. They were this kind of size, but it wasn’t them. She knew them. Maybe it was somewhere famous, maybe it had featured in a film or TV show.

God, it was frustrating. It was right there in her memory, but agonizingly out of view. She was sure that if she could just figure it out, it would hold the key to what was going on.

But it slipped away.

She turned to look at the room. To her left was a double bed. On the far side of the bed was a table with a lamp. To her right was a door. It was closed and, she had no doubt, would be locked. On the far wall was a desk, above which were shelves filled with books.

On the desk was a bottle of champagne, with two plastic flutes next to it. It looked set up for a romantic celebration.

She felt a shudder of apprehension.

The books were mainly fiction, a mixture of classics, Booker winners, modern authors. There was little that wasn’t considered literary.

On the top shelf was a set of encyclopedias. There were six volumes, so hardly the Britannica, but something.

And next to them were copies of her books.

All four of them.

The most recent, This Is Not the End, on the desktop itself.

Plus the translations.

All four into French, German and Spanish. The first two into Italian and Greek. The second one into Polish. The first into Korean, too.

There was a copy of everything.

What the fuck was this?

She ran to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t move. She hammered on it.

‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Open this door! Come here and tell me what’s going on?’

The words faded into the silence.