‘You’re going to Australia?’ he said stupidly.

‘Yes, Geoffrey, I am.’

‘When?’

‘In about an hour’s time, not that it’s any business of yours.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can do exactly as I please.’

The snow was coming down faster now, the cars on the M40 slowing to a crawl. Traffic, even at this time of night. Geoffrey leaned forward in the driver’s seat, trying to get a clearer look through the glass. His vision swam. Perhaps he wasn’t as sober as he’d thought.

‘I forbid it,’ he said.

She laughed. The bitch actually laughed. ‘You can’t forbid me. I’m not your property.’

Clutching at straws now, seeing his career disappear down the plughole, he went for the jugular. ‘I’ll put a stop on the credit card. Cancel your plane ticket.’

To his surprise, she laughed again. ‘You must think I’m stupid,’ she said. ‘I’ve been saving up for years. My rainy day fund. And it’s raining now. Very heavily.’

He switched tack. ‘Please don’t go, darling. Or put it off for a couple of days, at least.’ He lowered his voice, grovelling. ‘I need you.’

The red lights of the car in front of him flared and his foot pumped the brake, narrowly avoiding a collision. He swore into the quiet of the car. That was a close call.

‘Barbara?’ he said, mentally crossing his fingers his entreaty had worked. ‘Barbara?’

But she had hung up on him.

He hit redial but the landline was engaged. She must have taken the phone off the hook.

His mind sparked into life. Where would she fly from? Heathrow, most likely. The traffic was starting to move again. He would make his way to the airport, meet her there. She hated public scenes. If he was quick, he could cut across to the M4 and catch her before she went through security. Make her change her mind.

He turned up the radio, glanced into his rear-view mirror and pulled into the middle lane.

A long, low sound filled the air, like the groan of a wounded animal.

Too late, Geoffrey saw the twin headlights of a petrol tanker bearing down on him, its horn blaring into the frozen night. Too late, he realized he’d misjudged its distance, its travelling speed.

He grasped the steering wheel, making hard, frantic turns, but the tyres wouldn’t bite, spinning on the icy road. He veered into the slow lane, but a minibus, too close now to brake, hit the flank of his car and pushed it back into the path of the tanker.

The petrol tanker’s driver, David Mason, a father of five and keen gambler, tried to avoid the car just ahead as it spun in circles like a roulette wheel, but there were vehicles in both lanes either side of him and there was nowhere for him to go. The odds were not in his favour.