He sighed. It was one thing to go through all that when he really was screwing someone else, but he didn’t want to argue when he wasn’t.

The aroma from the bakery aisle tugged at him and he stopped to select a crusty loaf before moving on to find a good bottle of wine.

He would say it was a networking event. There was nothing unusual about that – his work often took him to industry get-togethers – and mentioning a noisy bar in London would explain why he couldn’t answer his phone. If he had to stay out all night, he could tell her he’d drunk a little too much. The key was to mention it to her as soon as possible. Last-minute absences were suspicious, but dates on next week’s calendar were less spontaneous and somehow more believable.

He put a couple of bottles of Merlot into the trolley and turned towards the checkouts. In front of him, an older man finished placing his items on the conveyor belt and stood, waiting to pay. This man had thicker, darker hair, but there was a definite similarity to the target – five foot ten, same age, same podgy build. Naysmith gazed at him for a moment as he joined the queue. So close now, just inches away, he considered how quickly someone of that build moved, wondered how heavy he was. And then, as he stared at the back of the man’s head, he suddenly knew how he would do it.

Friday came, and there was still a lot of preparation to be done. He drove down the hill into West Meon, braking hard just before the ‘30’ speed-limit sign. He knew the road quite well now. Glancing briefly at the turn off for High Street, he continued on through the village, just as he had that first time, eight days ago. The road twisted one way, then the other before he saw the side street he wanted and swung left into Station Road.

It was narrow, with old flint walls and hedgerows pressing close on either side. There were a couple of houses and then the countryside closed in again, with tall trees lining the road as it started to climb. Naysmith slowed and turned onto a gravel track that bent away to the right. Following it round, he emerged into a small car park, deserted save for one other vehicle. He switched off the engine and opened the door, drinking in the quiet, listening to the faint rustle of the leaves above.

This was the northern end of a walking trail that followed the course of a disused railway south along the Meon Valley. At another time it would have been appealing to explore it and see where it went, but today he had something else in mind. He was dressed appropriately in jeans and an anorak – just like any other walker, except that he’d deliberately avoided bright colours. There was no sense in standing out.

Locking the car, he made his way along to the end of the car park, grinding small stones underfoot until he found the muddy path that led into the trees. Snaking through the bushes, it swept down onto the grass-covered remains of the railway line. He halted suddenly, listening. There were faint voices ahead, growing steadily louder. It would have been better to go unseen, but there was no reason why anyone should remember him – he was just another walker. The key was to avoid anything that would attract suspicion. He set off in the direction of the sounds and soon met a grey-haired couple coming back up the path towards him. They nodded and offered a polite ‘Good afternoon’ as they passed. Naysmith gave them a warm smile and continued to walk on into the trees, listening to their voices gently dwindling in the distance. Slowing now, he glanced over his shoulder, checking that they were out of sight, then turned around and stalked silently back up the track behind them. Ignoring the way that led to the car park, he pushed hurriedly on through the bushes, following the overgrown trackbed. Once he was clear of the path, he paused, listening intently. Not far away, a car started and he heard the tyres bite into the gravel as it slowly drove away.

For a moment, it seemed as though a blanket of silence fell on the woods, but then he became aware of the gentle sigh of the trees as a faint wind drifted through the branches above him. He was alone.

Each footstep was somehow louder in the stillness, his boots swishing through the long grass and crackling down into the undergrowth. He moved quickly but carefully, watching the ground for obstructions. The trackbed seemed lower here, and he suddenly realised that what had looked like earthen banks on either side of him were actually two overgrown platforms wreathed in brambles. Decades ago, this must have been West Meon station. He paused to look around, suddenly seeing the shapes beneath the moss, glimpsing the memory of another time. There were no buildings left, but here and there a piece of crumbling brickwork was visible among the nettles, and a few worn steps led up into a tangle of bushes. In front of him, right where the old steam trains would have passed, a young tree had forced its way up towards the light as the last remnants of the railway were gradually swallowed up by the forest.

Beyond the station, the foliage grew thicker and less light filtered down through the canopy above. The track ran into a deep, overgrown cutting before passing under an arched brick bridge, and the air was heavy with the sickly-sweet smell of nettles.

There was a faint tingle of déjà vu as he stepped forward into the shadow of the bridge, and he found that he was smiling. The memory of that day in Winchester came back to him as he picked his way through the damp darkness, drawing strength from it as he emerged into the light, clean air beyond. Ahead of him, the trackbed curved away, a swathe of grass and leaves, twigs and ivy. The railway had not endured, but he had. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

He walked on along the damp ground, stopping for a moment to listen, but there was nothing – just the long flat curve stretching out in front of him. He’d done his homework, studied the maps – he knew that High Street was just a few hundred yards ahead through the trees – but it wasn’t real until you walked the route for the first time. It was important to prepare properly.

Now the ground began to fall away on either side, with steep grassy slopes tumbling down to the forest floor and green fields beyond. He found himself almost in the canopy of the trees that lined the foot of the embankment below as it swept on in a gentle arc.

And then, quite suddenly, the trackbed came to an abrupt end. Naysmith stepped forward to the edge and gazed out across the void before him. This was where the bridge had stood, carrying the rails on, high above the road and the meandering river just visible through the foliage below. It must have been a huge construction – he couldn’t even see the other side through the trees – but now nothing was left except some ancient, ivy-covered pilings down there in the bushes by the roadside. He sat down slowly, thinking.

This was his third visit to West Meon. It had been chance that had brought him to the village on Wednesday evening, earlier that week. After visiting a client in Sussex, he’d decided to stop here on his way home. It wasn’t too much of a detour and it saved him making a special trip.

He’d parked a little way outside the village and walked back along the road, hoping to take a look at the target’s house. By the time he got there, it was dusk, with dark clouds closing in across the deep red sky. The lane was deserted, but he walked close to the high hedge, staying in the shadows as he approached the driveway. Gravel was a nuisance – far too noisy. Hopefully there would be another, easier way into the garden. Entering the house itself was not something he favoured. Even if the target lived alone, it still tilted the odds against you, putting them on familiar territory. It also increased the risk of evidence being recovered. He knew the importance of varying his attacks, doing things differently each time, but going into houses seemed amateurish. For now, all he wanted was to look around and learn more about the man he was hunting.