She googled Eastbourne and read the Wikipedia page. It was in the county of East Sussex, population 107,000 as of July 2019.

Nineteen miles east of Brighton.

And immediately east of Beachy Head.

There followed facts about Beachy Head. It was the highest chalk cliff in Great Britain, apparently.

It was also a famous suicide spot and, Wynne thought, the perfect spot for a murder.

She reached for her phone. As she did it rang. It was the same number.

‘PC Travis?’ she said.

‘Yes. Our officers returned to the lay-by.’

‘And?’

‘The Audi was gone.’

‘I think I know where they’re headed,’ Wynne said. ‘We need people there, right away.’

‘Where?’

‘Beachy Head,’ Wynne said. ‘They’re going to Beachy Head.’

Annabelle

He was humming.

He was about to end her life and he was humming.

She didn’t know what she felt most: the fear of what was coming, or the terror she would never see Matt and Norman and Keith and Molly again or the hatred of Guy or the desire to survive, to get out of this at any cost.

No, she did know. It was the last of them.

It was the desire to survive.

At that moment she decided she would do whatever it took to stop this. There was no line she would not cross.

The car pulled to a stop. They were next to a hedge that bordered a field.

‘Car parks are too busy,’ he said. ‘It’s a short walk to the cliffs, but we’ll be fine.’ He looked out of the window at the grey skies. Drizzle spotted the windscreen. ‘There won’t be too many people out today. So we should be able to find a quiet place.’

He turned to look at her.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let’s you and me have us a little chat.’ He was speaking in a faux-American accent, like a grotesque cowboy. ‘You need to know a couple of things, buttercup. Firstly’ – now he was back to his normal voice – ‘I’m going to untie your feet. Not your hands, of course, but you need to be able to walk. And I don’t want you running away, or even trying to. I don’t want you drawing attention to us. If you do’ – he drew out the last word and, as he did, raised his right hand. He was holding a kitchen knife. Even in the dull light the blade glinted – ‘I will slit your throat. It will take seconds. And I’ll be gone.’ He held her gaze. His eyes were flat and emotionless. ‘And then I will do the same to your children. Remember that. You struggle, and you and they die. You don’t, and it’s just you.’

He opened the car door and got out, the knife tucked under his armpit, then opened her door.

‘Put your feet out,’ he said.