There was a long pause. ‘I don’t disagree,’ Wynne said.

‘So what’s next?’ Matt said.

‘We have an alert out for his car. We think he’s in his silver Audi.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’

‘We’ll think of something else,’ Wynne said. She did not sound convinced. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Westbrook. I will call as soon as I hear anything.’

He put the phone down. He didn’t know what was most unbelievable – that it was Guy or that the police had let him slip through their fingers.

No – he knew what was most unbelievable.

The fact it was Guy.

That bastard had been calling, offering support.

And getting information on what was happening. He’d told him about the drone, and then Guy had gone on the motorway, to escape. He’d told him everything.

Matt groaned and sank to his knees.

This was over. His wife was gone. And there was nothing he could do about it.

There it is. The final piece of the puzzle. Her name, in her own hand. I study it for a moment. Would she have thought quickly enough to sign differently to her normal signature?

I try to picture the contracts she has signed. I think it is her signature. But it is what I have, and I will go with it. I have no choice.

I begin to write.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

WE HAVE DECIDED THAT WE HAVE ONLY ONE COURSE OF ACTION AVAILABLE TO US.

WE WANT TO BE TOGETHER, FOR ETERNITY, AND WE KNOW NOW THAT WILL BE IMPOSSIBLE, SO WE HAVE DECIDED TO TAKE MATTERS INTO OUR OWN HANDS.

WHAT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND IS THAT WE LOVE EACH OTHER. WE ALWAYS HAVE. BUT ANNABELLE BECAME TRAPPED IN AN ABUSIVE MARRIAGE. WE WILL NOT SAY WHAT SHE SUFFERED, BUT SUFFICE IT TO SAY SHE WAS MISTREATED IN EVERY IMAGINABLE WAY BY HER SO-CALLED HUSBAND.

This may or may not be true, but I like the thought that the world will think it is. A final revenge on that fool.

WE HAVE DECIDED TO TAKE OUR LIVES TOGETHER. IT IS A FITTING END TO A GREAT LOVE STORY. DO NOT MOURN FOR US; WE ARE HAPPY. THIS IS WHAT WE WANT.

WITH LOVE,

I sign my name next to hers and read it again.

It is perfect.

Annabelle

Annabelle watched him write on the paper she had signed. It was a letter, but she had no idea what.

He put the pad down on the passenger seat and started the engine. He turned to look at her, a complacent grin on his face.

She glared at him, and raised her fingers in a ‘V’.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You’re feeling defiant. Better late than never, I suppose.’ He held up the paper. ‘You know what this is?’

She didn’t respond.

‘It’s a suicide note.’