He watched the man walk from his office. Old Jonesy . . . He supposed they called him Old Markham. He looked at his watch. It was five thirty-five. He got out of his chair and, putting on his jacket, made his way out of the building.

Kortone Separates was a thriving firm, even in the recession. George worked in the book-keeping department of accounts.

He left the small corridor and went to the stairway that led to the car park. He never used the lifts. As he walked down the stairs he saw Miss Pearson kneeling on the floor picking up some papers. She was young, only about eighteen, and had worked for Kortone’s for a year. George had never spoken to her. She had left three buttons undone and from the landing above her George could see the swelling of her bosom as she stretched out her arms to gather the papers.

He stared down at her. The creamy flesh was firm and inviting. The girl looked up at him. He saw the heavily made-up face and forced himself to move down the stairs. He bent down and retrieved some papers, handing them to her silently.

‘Thank you, Mr Markham.’

She knew his name! George felt an enormous surge of pleasure over this little fact.

‘You’re welcome.’ He stood up and looked down at her again. Then the door above opened and Peter Renshaw’s voice boomed down to them.

‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You sly old fox, George. Might have known you’d be where the pretty girls are!’

Miss Pearson looked at Peter and gave a broad smile. George watched her face closely.

‘Oh, Peter.’ Her voice was husky and breathless. ‘I waited for you but . . .’

George was aware of Peter Renshaw’s footsteps on the stairs, bringing him closer. He quickly picked up the rest of the papers from the floor and handed them to Miss Pearson.

George walked away from them, certain that he would not be noticed. He was right. Neither of them said a word to him. He walked out of the building and unlocked his car, an A-reg Orion. He sat in the driving seat, waiting.

The couple finally left the building and walked towards Peter’s car, Renshaw’s arm draped across the girl’s shoulder, one hand squeezing her breast. Miss Pearson giggled and pushed it away.

Another slut. Another whore. What had Peter said? Dying for it? George closed his eyes and savoured the picture his words had conjured up.

He visualised Miss Pearson, her body open to him, her legs sprawled apart, tied to the legs of a bed. Her hands tied behind her back, her heavily made-up face smiling at him as he approached her. She was begging for it. Begging and pleading with him . . .

‘Mr Markham?’ George’s eyes flew open.

‘Are you all right? You look very white.’