‘Why are we on the motorway?’ I ask the driver. Through the gap between his seat and his headrest, I can see a patch of pink neck, white hair so neat and even it looks like a carpet, ending in a perfect straight line at the base of his skull. All three lanes of traffic are stationary. We’re in the middle one. Ahead, a few people have climbed out of their cars and are stretching, or leaning in through open windows to talk to other drivers. I wonder how long we’ve been here, how long I was asleep. It’s getting dark outside.

‘You want Spilling, don’t you?’

‘I was going to get the train,’ I tell him. ‘I thought you were taking me to a station.’

‘I was told to take you all the way, miss.’

‘No.’ I push away the desire to drift back into sleep’s comforting oblivion. ‘I haven’t got enough money for . . .’

‘You won’t be needing any,’ he says, twisting the mirror so that we can see one another. His eyes are grey, with pouches of skin above and below them, and heavy white eyebrows that sprout forward instead of lying flat against his skin. ‘It’s on the account. All I’ll need from you’s a signature when we get there. If we get there,’ he adds cheerfully.

‘The account?’

‘Villiers.’

‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I tell him.

‘No misunderstanding, miss. I was told to take you to Spilling. Looks like we might be in for a long haul, though. There’s been an accident two junctions ahead and they’ve closed traffic down to one lane. Are you thirsty? There’s some water in the freezer-bag back there. I’d have told you before, but you were out for the count.’

To my right, in the footwell, there’s a squat blue case. I undo my seat belt, lean down and unzip it. There are eight unopened bottles of mineral water in its chilled interior.

‘Help yourself,’ says the driver. ‘They’re for you, not for me.’

I’m confused. How can they be for me? Why would I need eight bottles of water? ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, uncomfortable with him watching me. ‘Really, I’d prefer it if you dropped me at a station.’ There’s a leather pocket attached to the back of his seat, with the top of a glossy, red-covered magazine sticking out of it: The Insider.

‘New to Villiers, are you? You look too young to have a daughter there. Job interview, was it?’

‘I was visiting someone.’