‘I can drop you at the surgery then. The nurse will be able to get you cleaned up.’ He gestured at my head, frowning.

‘Honestly, it’s a few bumps and scrapes. What I really need is a hot shower and a change of clothes.’ I did my best to put on a nice, normal smile. ‘But my phone died last night so I can’t get hold of anyone. Would you have time to give me a lift to Damson Farm? I got totally lost last night, so I don’t even know what direction it’s in.’

He folded his arms, the frown deepening.

‘It’s near Ferrington. Salters Lane?’

‘I know where it is.’

Well, that was a start. Although he didn’t appear very willing to take me there.

‘Or, if you don’t have time, could I quickly borrow your phone and call a taxi?’ My weary legs wobbled again, causing me to suck in a sharp breath as pain shot up my back. I limped back a few steps and leant against the side of my car, which promptly slipped several inches further into the ditch.

‘Come on.’ The man had grabbed my arm just in time to stop me tumbling backwards into the empty space where the car had been. He started walking me over to his car, one arm around my waist as I rested my weight against his thick raincoat, too spent to argue.

‘Oh, I need my stuff!’ I only remembered this crucial information once I’d reached the Jeep and he’d helped boost me into the passenger seat. Before I could say anything else, he’d jogged back and fetched my shoulder bag. Finding the keys still in the ignition, he locked the car.

‘No, my things from the back. And the boot.’

‘I’ll fetch them later.’ He slid up into the seat next to me.

‘I really need to change my clothes.’ Or, more accurately, change into clothes that didn’t create the impression I’d absconded from a care home.

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it really isn’t fine!’ He started the Jeep and began pulling away, leaving me beginning to wonder just who I’d willingly climbed into a vehicle with on a deserted road at no-witnesses o’clock. For all I knew he was part of this whole thing – you idiot, Eleanor! I swivelled my aching neck around to get proper look at him. Hmmm. Tufts of dark hair poking out from under his woolly hat. More than a smidgen of stubble covering a tough-looking jaw and mouth set in a firm line. Wary hazel eyes fixed on the road ahead. I didn’t think his thick, curling eyelashes were relevant to this assessment, but the faint scar slashing from his eyebrow down to his earlobe was undeniably interesting. His hands were definitely working hands. Rough hands. Murderer’s hands, ready to strangle a woman and leave her for dead in a dirty ditch, far enough away from her abandoned car not to arouse suspicion?

As if echoing my increasingly lurid thoughts, a thin wail erupted behind me. The driver simply sighed.