But even through the haze of agony and grief and the overwhelming knowledge of degradation, Carol knew she couldn’t just lie there and endure her suffering. He was going to kill Tony. It was probably already too late to do anything to stop him, but she had to try.

She tested the bonds on her wrists again. It was no use. Whatever he had used to pinion her had no give. She tried to move her legs, then realized they too were bound. A sob of despair caught in her throat. Somehow, she was going to have to manage.

Carol dug her heels into the bed, wincing at the fresh waves of suffering that pulsed from her lower abdomen and spread through her body. Gradually, inch by excruciating inch, she dragged herself to the bottom of the bed. She wriggled forward and managed to get her feet on the floor. Her muscles screamed their objections as she struggled into a sitting position. The effort left her gasping for breath.

Gingerly, she tried to stand. At the first effort, her knees wobbled disastrously and she collapsed back on the bed. Bile rose in her throat and she spat it out, past caring as it dribbled down her chest. On the second attempt, she coped better. She was swaying like a reed bed in a sea breeze, but she was upright.

Upright but incapable of forward movement. She could no more jump with her feet tied than she could have swung from the ceiling with her bound wrists. There was nothing else for it. She was going to have to roll. Almost weeping with the distress, she let herself fall to the floor. With a mixture of rolling and convulsive crawling, she made it through to the living room, bouncing painfully off the door jambs as she went. The phone on the desk seemed an impossible distance away, but she knew she had to get there. All that kept her going was the knowledge that Tony’s life might depend on what fragile strength she had left in her. She couldn’t afford to dwell on what had been done to her; there was more at stake than that.

In a blur of anguish, she crossed the room and banged into the desk. She squirmed round so she could grip the phone cable in her teeth and, with a backward jerk of her head, yanked it to the floor, the handset bouncing a foot away from her head. Through eyes puffed with tears and bruising, she peered at the push buttons. She knew she had memorized Petra’s mobile number in what felt like a past life and prayed she could remember it now.