This must be how Meredith had felt, he thought, and had to swallow back down the vomit in his throat. The thought of her feeling half as terrified as he did now made tears of horror spring thickly into his eyes. How had he never properly understood before? He’d been a terrible brother. They hadn’t even been talking at that stage. She’d gone through all that – all this – on her own.

Stop it, Pete. Focus.

His kidnapper must have used the wheelbarrow to transport him from the barge into the van. Perhaps he put a plank across to wheel it ashore. Couldn’t have been easy. Pete was skinny, but six feet tall. He must have been forced into the kneeling position first, taped together like a Christmas turkey, then lifted into the wheelbarrow. Jesus. There must be at least two of them; surely that would be too hard on your own? He strained his ears to hear if there was any conversation going on in the van’s cabin, but he heard nothing apart from his own panting breaths and the van’s engine. He couldn’t tell what sort of vehicle it was. He didn’t think the engine was throaty enough to be a lorry, and although he couldn’t see anything, the space felt bigger than a micro van.

He needed to get out of this wheelbarrow.

He rocked himself from side to side, as vigorously as he could, trying to ignore the howling pain in his head. If it was a twin-wheeled one, he was screwed, but if it was a traditional one-wheeler, he might just be able to tip himself…

Crash. He’d done it! He lay gasping on his side on the van floor, his heart hammering as he waited for the van’s driver to slam on the brakes and come round to see what the noise was. But nothing. The vehicle continued to bounce along. They hadn’t noticed.

But what good had it done him? He was still immobilised.

The van seemed to be going uphill. Pete could hear the strain of the engine, and feel the tilt of gravity as it made him slide backwards a little way. They’d been driving for at least twenty minutes, he guessed – but it could’ve been much longer, depending on how long he was unconscious for. Twenty minutes or so since he came round.

With the long fingernails of his right hand, the ones he’d cultivated to be able to play the guitar without a plectrum, he scratched away at the tape around his ankles. But it felt like that thick black electrical tape, and it wasn’t giving an inch. Straining against it did no good at all, of course, but he found himself repeatedly doing so anyway, making his wrists cramp and throb in tandem with his head.

It was hopeless. He’d just have to take his chances when the van finally stopped.