Laverack had expressed great enthusiasm for the project and wanted to see some sample material as soon as possible, asking for it to be emailed to him. But Abbott was far too cautious to risk exposing his precious manuscript to the transparency of online communications. Paranoid about security, he’d disabled his home internet connection so that there was no chance of anyone hacking into his computer. He’d also purchased an anonymous mobile phone for all communications with the agency. After meticulously checking and re-checking the sample of his manuscript he’d dropped the material onto an encrypted flash drive, which was duly sent off to London by special delivery. Abbott gave Laverack the secret passcode over the phone, with his permission for the agent to share it with his business partner, Roland Seaward.

Satisfied that he’d covered his tracks, all Abbott had had to do then was wait for the agency to secure him a massive publishing deal, while he cracked on with the rest of the book. If they thought the sample was sensational, they hadn’t seen anything yet.

At this moment, Abbott was recalling a particularly macabre incident that had occurred at a Satanic worship ceremony some years back, in which he remembered gleefully participating along with two very prominent members of government and a top police chief. The anecdote would have readers throwing up over themselves; in fact it was so irresistibly vile that he had decided to devote an entire chapter to it. What fun he was having!

Sitting there tapping away at the laptop, engrossed in his work and pausing only for the occasional sip of coffee, he suddenly thought he’d heard a strange noise coming from downstairs. He stopped typing and listened. Yes, there it was again. Like something moving about.

Abbott thought that perhaps another one of those jackdaws had come down the dining room chimney and was flapping around the room. Those pestilential creatures were the bane of his life, always nesting in every nook and cranny. They had no right to live, like some people he could mention. He closed his laptop, got up from the desk and went out of the study to stand listening at the top of the stairs. He glanced at his watch. 11.44 a.m. He’d been writing away for over two hours. How time flew when you were enjoying yourself.

Now he could hear nothing. Had he imagined it? Still worth checking. The last thing he needed was bird shit splattered all over the furniture. He padded down the stairs to the hallway, and turned towards the dining room door. ‘I’ll pull your fucking wings off if I catch you, you little bastard,’ he warned.

And then something hit him so hard across the back of the head that his vision exploded in a white flash and he felt himself plunging forwards into a bottomless abyss.

After that, Anthony Abbott knew nothing more, and never would.

Chapter 31