. . . but nothing to indicate she lived with a man – good.

He had been about to move on when he’d noticed a pair of muddy women’s running shoes, neatly placed on the mat in the small front porch. And that had given him the beginnings of an idea.

He’d done enough for one day though. Satisfied, he pulled the Somerset Maugham book from his jacket pocket, and began leafing through the familiar pages as the train rumbled out of the station.

4

Friday, 25 May

Naysmith stared down into Kim’s deep brown eyes, enjoying the way she lowered her gaze demurely. Those long lashes looked dark against her pale skin. He carefully swept an errant curl of hair away from her face onto the pillow, then placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

‘Come on,’ he grinned, rolling off her onto his back and looking up at the ceiling, ‘you’ll be late.’

‘I would have been ready hours ago if you hadn’t been here,’ she smiled, sitting up and tentatively lowering her small, bare feet onto the polished wooden floor.

‘Maybe, but you’re glad I decided to work at home this morning.’

He stretched his arms out across the bed as she looked back over her shoulder at him.

‘Of course I am.’ She stuck her tongue out playfully, then squealed as he tried to grab her. Jumping up, she put her hands on her hips and adopted a mock-serious expression. ‘Not again. I’ll be late.’

He watched her scamper naked into the bathroom, then sank back into the pillows for a moment. His hand found the watch on the bedside table and he held it up, squinting as sunlight from the window glinted on the bezel: 12.49 p.m. It was time to get ready.

Naysmith put the suitcase down on the tarmac and closed the car boot.

‘Say hi to your sister for me.’ He smiled.

‘I will.’ She checked her bag, then turned to him. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going?’

‘It was my idea,’ he reminded her.

‘You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?’

‘For goodness’ sake . . .’

He rolled his eyes, and she flinched. Very slightly, but he saw it – one of those nervous little tells that drew him to her, like a flame to a moth.

‘It’s only till Sunday,’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘Now go on, before you miss your train.’

She extended the handle from the case, then turned and stood on tiptoes to kiss him.

‘Call me tonight?’

‘I’ll call you tonight.’

He waved to her, watching her bump the wheeled suitcase through the doors and disappear into the station building. Then, sighing to himself, he got back into the car and leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel for a moment. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Time to focus.

He filled the car with petrol on his way out of Salisbury. Every forecourt had CCTV – that was unavoidable – but he deliberately paid in cash. Credit cards left permanent records that were simple to collate. Patterns and coincidences stood out too easily, and at this stage in the game he always disciplined himself to leave as little trace as possible. Tomorrow, he would refill the car somewhere else.

He didn’t take the turning for the village but drove on along the main road for a mile and a half before pulling off onto a narrow lane that led along the edge of a small copse. Leaving the car in the overgrown gateway to an empty field, he walked the short distance to the trees, pausing now and again to admire the rolling Wiltshire landscape, and to ensure there was nobody else around. Pushing on into the wood, he left the faint path and picked his way up a gentle incline, stopping when he came to a heap of rubble covered in ivy. He looked around, then stood very still, holding his breath and listening intently for a moment, but there was no sound other than the gentle rustle of the leaves above. Satisfied that he was alone, he crouched down and carefully pulled the undergrowth away from a small section of collapsed brick wall. Leaning forward, he reached into the gap underneath, searching with his fingers. It was further back than he remembered, but it was there, and he felt a tiny spark of excitement as he gained a grip on the plastic. Carefully, he drew out the long, flat parcel, wrapped in layer upon layer of black refuse sacks. He stood up, brushing the dirt and insects from it, and pushed the ivy back into place with his foot. Resisting the temptation to open it, he took his prize and started back down the slope towards the car.

It was almost five o’clock when he got home. Getting out of the car, he went straight into the garage, closing the door quietly behind him before turning on the light. It was a cramped space, cluttered with old packing cases and tools, and he had to step round the two bicycles to reach the cardboard boxes stacked along the back wall. One of them lacked the film of dust that covered the others. Opening it, he drew out two plastic bags and checked the contents.

Dark hooded top, anorak, jogging bottoms, black trainers, plain T-shirt, socks, gloves, cheap wristwatch . . .

To these he added a bottle of thin bleach, a roll of refuse sacks and a travel pack of hand-wipes. Every eventuality prepared for. Everything bought from the local supermarket, paid for with cash – anonymous items that could have come from any town.

He transferred the bags into a single refuse sack, which he carried out to the car, then went into the house.

A little before midnight, he called Kim, smiling as she struggled to hear him over the background noise of the bar she was in.

‘What was that?’

‘I said, tell your sister I can hear that screeching laugh from here.’

‘Rob, don’t be so mean.’

‘You’re right. She has a lovely screech.’

‘Stop it!’ Kim laughed. ‘So have you had a nice evening? You haven’t been too bored, have you?’

‘I’ve got a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and I’m watching The Godfather DVDs you got me,’ Naysmith lied. ‘I decided I was due a lazy night in.’

‘That’s good,’ Kim shouted. ‘Look, I can hardly hear you. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?’

‘Not too early.’

‘All right. Miss you.’

‘’Night.’

He stood up and walked into the living room. Pulling the box of The Godfather from the shelf, he took one of the discs and put it into the DVD player, then moved through to the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, he took out the large blue bottle and poured three-quarters of the Bombay Sapphire down the sink.

Details mattered.

The warm water felt good on his skin as he leaned back under the shower nozzle, energising him. It was part of the ritual that he went through every time, helping him to prepare physically and mentally for the challenge. He wrapped a towel around himself and padded through to the bedroom, where he clipped his fingernails short. All jewellery, along with his watch, his wallet and his mobile phone were left neatly on the bedside table – personal items were an unacceptable risk. He needed nothing but his keys and some cash.

Once dry, he dressed himself quickly and went downstairs. After switching on the TV and the sitting-room lights, he slipped quietly out into the cool night air.

The Warminster Road was deserted but he took no chances. He chose a quiet farm track, screened by tall hedges, and drove some distance before pulling over. Stepping out into the darkness, he went round to the back of the car and opened the boot. Carefully undoing the black plastic bags, he unwrapped the flat parcel to reveal a pair of car number plates and a small white envelope.

It had taken him time to source those plates. He’d noted the registrations of several cars the same colour and model as his own, eventually settling on one he saw in Basingstoke. Blank plates and self-adhesive letters were relatively simple to obtain, and after an evening’s work in the garage and some carefully applied grime, he had a pair of passable fakes. They weren’t perfect, but they were enough to give his own vehicle a different identity for all the watchful CCTV cameras – a legitimate identity that would attract no attention, and which had no connection to him if it was ever spotted. Time well spent.