A trained chimp would possess a greater degree of knowledge of things mechanical. After twenty minutes of confusion, effort, loss of temper and failed attempts to make sense of the Jaguar’s manual which was now turning into a soggy mess, he had managed to remove the spare wheel and jack from the boot, located the latter under the car, and was now heaving and straining to loosen the wheel nuts. He was soaking.

The noise of a vehicle entering the car park momentarily attracted his attention. He quickly lost interest when it was plainly not the RAC. Even the approaching footsteps failed to distract him from the war he was waging with a recalcitrant wheel nut. The cold metal being pressed against neck had a wonderfully focusing effect on his mind.

‘Do yourself a favour, Mr Muirhead. Just stay where you are and listen very, very carefully.’

Someone playing a daft joke at this time of night and in the pissing rain was the last thing Muirhead needed. This idiot with the phoney Irish accent was going to get a mouthful, whoever he was. Muirhead started to move.

‘Very funny. I’m stuck here in the pissing rain and you’re...’

The metal was jammed roughly into the back of his neck causing his forehead to collide with the wheel arch of the car.

‘This is no joke, believe me. What you can feel is a gun. It’s loaded and if you want me to use it, I will. Personally, I don’t care if I blow your fucking head off, or not. In fact, Mr Muirhead, that will be your decision at the end of the day. Just think on this. Your puncture was no accident. I made it happen. I caused you to be here, alone, at my mercy, so to speak. I did this to you. I can just as easily finish with you and then do the same to Gill and the children. Robert and Sarah, I believe.’

Thoughts of his family flashed through his mind. The notion that someone might harm his family caused the bile to rise in Muirhead’s throat. Gill, so full of life and fun. How easily she could take the mickey out of him and make him smile when she felt he was being boring or pompous. Robbie, easygoing Robbie. Nothing ever seemed to worry him. School, sport, getting a row, everything taken in his stride. And Sarah, daddy’s little girl. She would sit beside him at his desk while he ploughed through bundles of papers. Asking questions. Sensible questions for an adult, never mind a ten year old.

‘That’s good, Mr M. I can see you’re thinking. I take it we understand each other?’

Muirhead tried to nod his head, but was shaking so much he could not make even such an insignificant voluntary gesture.

The gun was pressed in again.

‘I understand. What do you want?’