Charming, he thought. Without looking for a switch, he used the beam of his torch – the battery marker now on red, 18 per cent left – to guide him to the dining room. There he crossed to the door from which Madame had carried their platters of food. He went in and shone the feeble beam around a large, spotless kitchen. Their hosts had evidently gone to bed – wherever in this vast place their private living area was.

Go to bed, Roy, you’re on holiday. You’re meant to be taking time off, relaxing. Jack will be fine, the holiday voice inside his head told him. He’ll rock up with a perfectly good reason for being so late. All will become clear in the morning!

But what if something’s happened to Jack and he needs to get in touch urgently? the professional voice said. You won’t sleep tonight until you’ve done every single damned thing you can to contact him.

And he knew he had to get a phone signal. Whatever it took.

13

Ignoring the staring cats, Roy let himself back out of the front door and instantly gagged at the awful stink of a dog poo at the bottom of the steps. Using his torch sparingly, the battery steadily ticking down – 17 per cent now – he made his way around the circular driveway, until he found the tree-lined avenue he’d driven up some five hours earlier. The air felt fresher, clearer, with the heady smell of wet grass and leaves.

He stopped, turned off Bluetooth and Wi-Fi on his phone and switched it to low-power mode.

A crackle of feathers right above him startled him, as something flew off into the night. An owl?

He walked fast, occasionally switching on the torch and using the moonlight for guidance, checking for a signal every few minutes. It took a full twenty minutes before he reached the deserted road at the bottom of the drive.

Still no signal.

Then he froze. The sound of something trampling through the undergrowth in the woods to his left. A grunting noise. A snort. Another, closer. He swung the light at it and saw a pair of small, yellow eyes. Staring at him from a huge, hairy head.

A wild boar. Stationary, watching him. He had read, somewhere, about these creatures. How dangerous they were, that they could charge and kill you. He stood his ground, holding the beam steady on its beady eyes. More boldly than he felt, he shouted at it, ‘Make my day, punk!’ and took a step towards it. Followed by another. ‘COME ON, BIG BOY, MAKE MY BLOODY DAY!’

With a wheezy snort it turned and trotted off into the forest.