Which was just as well, Naysmith thought, as there was no Alan Peterson.

Kim was still asleep as he dressed. She looked so innocent, her dark hair tousled from the night before. He gently pulled the duvet up to cover her exposed shoulder and quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.

Time to go to work.

It was a bright, cold morning and he shivered as he carefully hung his jacket in the back of the car to save it from creasing on the journey. He turned on the radio just as the 6 a.m. news started, and listened for the traffic report as he drove out of the slumbering village and made for the main road. Golden sunlight dappled the lane through the overhanging trees, and he found the A36 still quiet enough for him to put his foot down and enjoy the drive. Everything boded well for a productive day.

He made excellent time as far as Bath, then started to run into some early-morning commuter traffic, but he was still in Bristol well before 8 a.m. Threading his way through the city centre as quickly as possible, it wasn’t long before he was driving up the hill into Clifton.

It fascinated him to think about his quarry. Where was she at this moment? What was she doing? Perhaps getting ready for work, maybe already on her way. Certainly she had no understanding of her significance, her part in the game. He wondered how far away she was from him, and imagined the distance closing . . .

There were a couple of empty spaces in the station car park. Getting out of the car, he stretched, then grabbed his jacket and hurried up the tarmac slope, past the station entrance on Whiteladies Road. Moments later, he was settled at a table in Starbucks that commanded a good view of the door, savouring his first coffee of the day, and recalling her image in his mind.

Early thirties, average height, slim figure, straight, mousy hair.

He checked his watch, then sent Kim a short text explaining that his meeting had been delayed, before settling himself into his chair.

From experience, he knew that the key to waiting lay in pacing himself. He had never been a particularly patient man, but he had learned – it was part of the game, like everything else. At first he’d struggled with boredom, frustration and all the other unwanted feelings that crept in to fill the vacuum of inactivity. He’d been too eager to progress and it had almost been his undoing in the early days.

Not now though. Now he knew how to sit so that his body was without tension. He knew how to slow his thoughts and allow his mind the freedom to wander, without ever losing sight of the target.

He had a newspaper in front of him – the Telegraph, which he’d picked up from the counter – but today that was just for show. It was something to put on the table in front of him, a prop he could fiddle with from time to time. It was what people would see when they looked at him – just an ordinary person reading the paper. And yet his eyes, though never too eager, kept glancing back at the door.

He didn’t react when she came in. Her mousy hair was tied back and she was wearing a dark green coat and black boots, but it was definitely her. She looked a little hurried – it was almost nine – but there were only two people in the queue at the counter and she was soon ordering her coffee. Naysmith finished his drink as she collected hers and calmly followed her out onto the street.

She walked with a quick, determined stride as she made her way up the hill, but it wasn’t difficult to stay with her. He allowed her to lead him along the row of shops and through the tempting aroma of fresh bread that drifted from the bakery. He was just a few paces behind her as she crossed the road by the church, but he let the distance between them open up again as they drew nearer to the park. She was some twenty yards ahead of him when she turned off at a terrace of Georgian town houses and hurried up a set of stone steps to a tall, blue door. There she halted to fumble with her handbag, then seemed to think better of it and buzzed the intercom.

Naysmith watched as the door opened and she let herself inside. He was close enough to hear the buzzer click off as he strolled along the pavement, glancing at a small glass plaque by the doorway as he passed: Goldmund & Hopkins Interior Design.

He continued on to the top of the street, then paused and thought for a moment. It was just after nine. There was little reason to wait around for her lunch hour – as long as he was back before five.

The Internet Café, like so many others he had visited, was a seedy place. A bank of computers sat on trestle tables facing the wall, each with its designated number and a plastic chair. They were all vacant save one, where a studious-looking Indian youth was quietly touch-typing to a distant friend. A sign, printed on sheets of A4 paper taped together, advertised web access for £5 per hour, £5 minimum.

Naysmith approached the swarthy man behind the cash desk and wordlessly held out a five-pound note. The man roused himself from his magazine and took the money, placing it quickly into a small cash tin. He then leaned over to his own terminal, tapped a couple of keys and pointed towards the trestle tables.

‘Number four,’ he rasped, then cleared his throat. ‘Any drinks? Tea? Coffee?’

Naysmith looked at the stack of white polystyrene cups and the jar of instant granules. A sheet of paper on the wall behind it read Hot Drinx – £1. He shook his head and silently declined the offer.

Sitting at screen number 4, he brought up a web browser and typed ‘goldmund hopkins interior’ into Google. When he hit Search, a page of entries appeared, but he didn’t need to look beyond the top listing:

Homepage – Goldmund & Hopkins Interior Design Ltd.

He followed the link to their website and was greeted by an impressive page displaying stylish, modern spaces filled with glass and light, but his eye was immediately drawn to the ‘Who We Are’ tab at the top of the screen. Clicking it, he found a section listing the principal members of staff, each with a small photo.

And there she was. Staring out at him from the web page, that same unmistakable face he’d watched in the coffee shop earlier that day, the same face he’d seen in the park a week ago.

Beside the smiling picture, he read her name – Vicky Sutherland.

Naysmith leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the screen. He didn’t usually know their names until afterwards.

At ten past five, the blue door opened and Vicky Sutherland appeared, briefly checking her bag before hurrying down the steps to the pavement. She turned onto Whiteladies Road and set off down the hill, buttoning her dark green coat as she walked. On the other side of the street, Naysmith matched her pace.

He’d spent an uplifting afternoon browsing among the dusty shelves of the second-hand bookshop he’d seen the week before. The proprietor, a small man with a shock of white hair and a threadbare grey cardigan, seemed content to sit and read until closing time, and Naysmith had enjoyed searching through the stacks of unwanted hardbacks. In the end, he’d settled on a slim volume of short stories by Somerset Maugham that he remembered reading years ago.

He didn’t look over too often, just enough to make sure he wasn’t getting ahead of that dark green coat. She walked quite quickly, as though she was eager to be away from the office, eager to be home. He wondered where her home was, and what it would be like.

They came to a pedestrian crossing just as the traffic lights were changing to red, halting the long line of cars. Naysmith was about to cross the road when he saw her change direction, stepping off the pavement to come over to his side. He slowed and turned away, pretending to study a shop window. In his mind, he visualised her walking across the road; he counted the steps and the seconds, not turning his head until he was sure she had passed.