I do a circuit of the place, stopping frequently, but by the time I’ve done a full circle and am standing by the front door I’ve noticed nothing that would lead me to believe Klaasen is inside. I reach a hand out and place it against the wood before applying very soft pressure. It starts to open, and it seems, despite the rustic nature of the place, to be on well-oiled hinges. I step in quietly and try to let my eyes adjust to the even darker interior. My breathing’s slow and quiet, controlled, ears pricked for any movement inside. Anything that might hint at Klaasen being here.

The dim interior starts to take shape. A metal sink is attached to the wall, the plumbing exposed underneath. A couple of basic shelves display a few glasses and cans of food, too dark to make out the labels. There are a couple of mismatched armchairs, though both are in competition to see which can sag the most. There are thick cross-beams at intervals and above the internal triangle of the roof. To my right there’s a wall with a door. It must be the bedroom. I slip towards it, staying as close to the wall as possible, hoping the boards will be less likely to creak than walking across their middles. There’s a mustiness to the air.

I pause by the door, my ear up against it, primed for any noise at all. But after a minute or so I’m sure there’s no one on the other side. I push it open slowly. About halfway gravity takes over and it swings away from me, creaking loudly as it does.

Stock-still, ears primed.

Nothing.

I step inside. There’s a bed with a bare mattress, and a crumpled sleeping bag on top. It looks old, worn, but when I put my hand on it I feel warmth.

Which is when the figure suspended on one of the cross-beams drops down and hits me hard, slamming me into the wall. Before I can recover I feel the cold touch of a gun against my neck.

‘Nice of you to join me.’

I recognize the voice. It’s Klaasen.

Make Them Pay

He slips cable ties round my wrists and pulls them tight. They bite into my skin. The floor creaks. Something scuttles across the roof. There’s a strong smell of damp and kerosine and something else I can’t place.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he whispers in my ear.

I have no choice. He keeps the gun jammed against my neck. We walk out of the bedroom, out of the house and into the trees, through thick undergrowth which gradually transforms into brambles. Klaasen pushes me hard, and soon my shins and knees are ripped and bleeding. And still we march on, rain prickling my face.

‘I know why you did it,’ I tell him. ‘I know about your brother.’