‘No, about eight miles along the road. Trouble is the lighting packs up about a mile further on and I didn’t fancy trekking along there in the dark.’

Her voice was so full of life. George imagined she would be a lot of fun to live with. Could see her playing games with her children, baking her own bread. She looked the type who worried about the ozone layer and tropical rain forests. Riding her horses.

He giggled.

‘Are you all right? Only if I’m putting you to any trouble . . . ?’ She sounded even more uncertain now and George saw her eyes scanning the road for any oncoming vehicles. His face set in a grim mask. The child began to snore gently and George grinned at her.

‘Get out of the car.’

‘I . . . I beg your pardon?’

He pulled her by the arm.

‘I said, get out of the car.’

She went to pick up the child and George pulled the knife out. ‘Leave him there.’

Cynthia Redcar stared at the man. The confusion in her dark eyes was apparent. George could practically smell her fear. She stumbled from the car.

‘Take off your coat and cover him with it. He looks cold.’

Cynthia stood dumbstruck, staring at him.

George rolled his eyes. Why were women always so difficult?

He slapped her across the face, hard. ‘Don’t annoy me, I’m warning you. Just do as I say and everything will be fine.’

Cynthia took off her coat. The wind bit into her. She placed it gently over the child.

‘Now shut the door and we’ll go for a little walk.’

A minute later they were in the woods. In the dimness Cynthia felt his hand go to her breasts and instinctively she pushed it away.

‘What’s the little boy’s name?’ George’s voice was low and menacing and Cynthia felt the threat like a physical blow.

‘Please - please don’t hurt James. I’ll do anything, just don’t touch my little boy.’

This was more like it.

‘Take off your clothes.’

George watched her as she fumbled with the buttons on her jeans. As she pulled her jumper over her head. All the time her eyes were on him. He could see the shaking of her hands as she moved.

She had heavy baggy breasts. George guessed they were marked, could visualise the mauve veins in them from childbearing. Four children did she say she had? His mind was fuzzy again. It was the excitement from her fear. He loved the fear. He loved being in control. She was standing now in her bare feet, her hands across her breasts, trying to hide her nakedness.

‘Lie down.’

‘Please . . . whoever you are, don’t do this.’ Her voice was drenched with tears.

‘Lie down.’ He stepped towards her and she flinched as the blade of the knife neared her face.