Picture her now, slim figure, about five foot six, mousy blonde . . .

He moved purposefully towards the middle of the park, his gaze flickering left and right – it was vital that he saw her before she saw him – but there was no sign of her as he drew near the bench and found it deserted. He paused for a moment, then sat down where she had sat, placing his palms flat on the rough grey wood of the seat and leaning back.

It would have been her lunch hour. He turned his head, looking out over the park stretching away into the distance, then considered the buildings to his left, the shops and offices he’d passed on his walk yesterday.

Thoughtfully, he stood up and started back along the tarmac path, retracing his route from the day before. Still alert, he scrutinised every approaching figure, but the sky was overcast now and it was colder – the park was quiet today.

He reached the road and waited at the busy junction until he could cross over, his eyes drawn to the crescent of four-storey buildings that curved down to Whiteladies Road ahead of him. A bridal store, sports shop, Indian restaurant . . .

Picture her now. Smart grey trouser suit.

His eyes drifted up to the second-and third-storey windows. Some had net curtains – obviously flats – but as he walked down the hill he began to see more with vertical blinds, sterile fluorescent lights and stencilled business names.

She worked in an office.

He drifted slowly down the road, relaxed but watchful, stopping now and then to peer through the windows of cafés and sandwich shops – anywhere that workers might visit on an overcast lunchtime. His gaze flitted around the people on the street, resting longer on anyone slim, anyone about five foot six, anyone with mousy hair . . .

By 1 p.m., he began to sense that he’d missed his chance. Her lunch hour would be over and she’d be back at work. He looked up and down the road, lined on both sides with offices. There was no way of knowing which one she was in, or even if this was the right place to search. It was a daunting challenge, but he found the prospect pleasing.

Tired of walking up and down past the same shops, he turned his back on the park and followed the road as it sloped down in the general direction of the city centre. He decided to look in on the second-hand bookshop he’d passed the day before and see if it was open. Crossing the street, he continued to watch the people around him, just in case . . .

Two young women were walking up the hill towards him, deep in conversation. Both were casually dressed – one with short blonde hair, faded jeans and a tight green sweater, the other looked Asian with a tan suede jacket and dark trousers. He knew immediately that neither of them was his target, but the Asian girl was rather attractive and held his attention as she came closer, long dark hair swaying as she walked. As they drew level, she placed her hand on her friend’s arm and whispered something, almost spilling her companion’s coffee as they both giggled. She had a nice smile, but as they passed Naysmith stopped short.

Sitting on that bench in the park, average height, slim athletic figure . . .

He frowned, concentrating on the image in his mind.

. . . grey trouser suit, no ring . . .

The two women passed by, oblivious.

. . . and what was she holding?

‘Excuse me?’ Naysmith called after the two women, who turned and regarded him with puzzlement.

‘Sorry to bother you.’ He offered a wry grin, then pointed at the coffee cup in the blonde’s hand. ‘Just wondering if you could tell me where Starbucks is?’

The Asian girl pointed back down the hill. ‘Just keep going down there and you’ll see it on the right.’

‘Next to the station,’ her friend added.

The entrance to Clifton Down station was only a couple of minutes’ walk down Whiteladies Road, and just beyond it Naysmith found Starbucks. He went in and ordered a coffee. Standing at the counter, he casually glanced around the tables, but he knew she wouldn’t be there. Not now. Not today.

And yet she had bought a coffee from here, then walked up to the park with it – walked that same road he’d just been on.

He was getting warmer.

He folded his newspaper and looked out of the window as the train pulled into Salisbury. Getting to his feet, he stretched, then joined the other passengers already huddled around the door, waiting for it to open.

He walked quickly, deftly negotiating the obstacle course of people and luggage to ensure he got a taxi. Instructing the driver in a tone that didn’t invite further conversation, he slammed the door and sank back into his seat. The traffic was still slow with the tail end of the rush hour, but they soon broke free of the town. Gazing out at the familiar trees and hedgerows, he distracted himself by calculating his commission on the Merentha deal, and planning what he might do with the money. In the window, his reflection smiled back at him.

He watched the taxi turn and head off back through the village, then made his way to the white front door and, taking a key from his pocket, let himself in.

‘Rob?’ a woman’s voice called down from upstairs as the door slammed. ‘Is that you?’

‘It’s me,’ he replied, putting his phone and keys on the table. ‘Kim, come down for a minute.’

Kim appeared at the corner of the stairwell, looking at him with a slight frown. Five foot six, with a youthful grace that belied her twenty-eight years . . . and there was something very arousing about her when she was cross.

‘I called you today, just before lunch,’ she began, toying with her shoulder-length dark hair, ‘and you “busied” me.’

‘I was with a client,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, you know how it is.’

‘You never called me back.’ Her large hazel eyes studied him accusingly from across the room. She was wearing a simple white top and jeans that accentuated her narrow waist and small, slender frame.

‘Ah.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘That’s because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.’

She walked slowly over to him, more intrigued than suspicious now. ‘What surprise?’

‘Well, I had some good luck in Bristol,’ he smiled. Taking her hand, he pulled her close, enjoying the feel of her against him. She didn’t resist.

‘Your meetings went well?’

‘Very well,’ he murmured, leaning forward to smell her hair.

‘Don’t tease,’ she scolded him. ‘What surprise?’

‘All right,’ he laughed. ‘I got the deal – the whole thing – and it’s going to mean a really good bonus. I thought we might have a long weekend in Rome—’

‘Oh Rob, that’s perfect!’ She hugged him excitedly, then left her arms around his neck as she gazed up at him. ‘Sorry . . . you know, if I was a bit moody . . .’

‘Forget it.’ He smiled. ‘Now, run upstairs and put something else on – I’m taking you out to dinner.’

‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘Do you want to come and help me choose what to wear?’

He looked at her for a long, lingering moment.

‘Tempting,’ he said slowly. ‘But if I have to watch you getting dressed, you know what’ll happen.’

She turned and gave him a coy look. ‘I don’t mind . . .’

‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘but first I’m taking you for a meal at Mirabelle’s.’

He watched her obediently skipping up the stairs, and sighed quietly. At moments like this, he was genuinely fond of her.

3

Wednesday, 9 May

He had prepared for it as he would for any other appointment. An entry in his work calendar read Alan Peterson, 9 a.m., Bristol, and the rest of the day was blocked out. The meeting was to discuss a potential lead for what could be a lucrative software contract – he had the brochures and sales sheets in his bag – but a week after landing the Merentha deal, nobody at the office was particularly concerned about how he spent his time.