Pull yourself together, she told herself. This is your home.

Bracing herself, she called his name, her voice loud, but with just a hint of nervousness in it as it cracked through the dead silence.

No answer.

‘George? Are you up there? It’s me. Amanda.’

Still no answer.

‘Look, I know you’re there. Your car’s outside.’

Slipping off her heels and taking a deep breath, she slowly made her way up the staircase and onto the long narrow landing that ran the width of the house. The lights were on but it was empty. To her left, the door to the master bedroom – the room she shared with George, at least when he wasn’t snoring like a chainsaw – was wide open. It was dark inside but she could see that the bed was unmade, the sheets piled up and ruffled. There was no doubt there’d been action in there today.

Turning away, she saw that the light was on in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the landing, and the door was ajar.

She took a step towards it, then another, before pausing and taking a deep breath that seemed loud in the silence. The house was suddenly utterly still. She kept walking towards the guest bedroom, her bare feet silent on the varnished floor, and stopped a foot away.

She couldn’t hear anything behind the door. Not even a breath. It was as if the whole world had stopped moving.

Reaching out a hand that was ever so slightly shaking, she gave the door a push, and as it creaked open a few inches, Amanda caught the pungent stink of blood and faeces, and saw the naked, bloodied foot sticking out on the carpet. The foot belonged to a woman. It was small and dainty, and the toenails were painted a bright, confident red, several shades lighter than the thick pool of blood forming on the carpet several feet further in.

Was that the noise she’d heard when she’d first come into the house? The final gasp of a dying woman?

If so, it could only mean one thing. The killer was still in the house.

Behind her, the floorboard creaked once again, and it felt as if icy fingers crawled up her spine.

Amanda swung round fast just as a man in dark clothing and a balaclava, taller and leaner than George, appeared in the doorway to their bedroom, barely twenty feet away.

For a long second, she didn’t move as her eyes focused on the hunting knife in his hand. Blood – fresh blood – ran down the groove and pooled at the tip, forming beads that dripped onto the floor.

She swallowed. There was no way she would reach the staircase before he did.

And then the intruder was coming towards her with long, confident strides, his boots banging hard and purposefully on the floor.

Acting entirely on instinct, Amanda scrambled over the landing stair rail, jumping the six feet down onto the staircase and falling down painfully on her behind, before scrambling to her feet again and bolting down the remainder of the steps, jumping the last five in one go as she heard him coming down behind her, moving just as fast as she was.

As her feet hit the floor at the bottom, she slipped on the floor and went down hard on her side, losing a precious second as the intruder charged down the staircase right behind her.

In one rapid movement, she jumped to her feet just as he threw himself down the last of the steps and landed barely a yard away from her.

Amanda had a choice of two exits – out of the back of the house or through the front – and only a split second to make her decision. Knowing that she hadn’t double-locked the front door behind her, as she usually did, she ran through the front hallway, trying desperately to keep her balance in her bare feet. She could hear his heavy breathing – he was that close – and it took all her willpower to slow up just enough to grab both handles of the door and yank it open, before throwing herself through the gap and into the cool outside air.

But she’d barely gone two yards when she felt a hand grab her jacket from behind, and she was yanked backwards into a tight embrace as his arm encircled her neck, the grip immediately tightening. Screaming as loudly as she could, Amanda thrashed wildly with a strength born of pure adrenalin, her arms flailing as she tried to fight her way out of his grip. She felt a surge of pure, hot pain as one arm collided with his knife, the blade slicing through the light jacket and shirt she was wearing, ripping through the flesh. But somehow she managed to drive an elbow into the side of his head with enough force for him to loosen his grip. Amanda went to the gym five times a week, and the previous year she’d done a boxing course. She was fit and she was strong and, right then, it counted in her favour. Wriggling free from his grip and dodging the knife, she threw a wild punch at him – something he clearly wasn’t expecting, the blow catching him full in the face.

He stumbled back, cursing and putting a hand to his nose, but still keeping the knife held out in front of him. Already he was beginning to right himself, and Amanda knew that she only had a few moments’ respite. Reaching down in one movement, she grabbed a handful of gravel from the driveway and flung it at him, before taking off in a run towards the thick wall of beech trees that bordered their property on three sides, ignoring the painful grind of the gravel on the soles of her feet.

Their nearest neighbour was Mrs Naseby, an elderly widow whose tiny cottage was about a hundred yards away. Other than exchanging Christmas cards, and occasional polite conversations if they crossed paths in the woods, she and George didn’t have much to do with Mrs Naseby, but Amanda was counting on the fact that she was home tonight as she sprinted through the trees, trying to put as much distance between herself and her house as possible. She stole a glance over her shoulder, but the dark space behind her was empty.

Mrs Naseby’s cottage loomed up out of the darkness in front of her, a dim light glowing from inside.

‘Be in,’ she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Be in.’

She vaulted the wooden trellis at the end of Mrs Naseby’s ramshackle garden and continued up to the front door without pause. Glancing once more behind her, she hammered on it hard and then bent down and shouted through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Naseby, are you there? It’s Amanda Rowan from next door. Can you let me in? Please! It’s very urgent.’

Amanda could hear the sound of talking on the TV, but nothing else. She hammered on the door again, looking round at the same time to check that her assailant wasn’t following. She couldn’t see anything, and all she could hear was the pounding in her chest. The gash on her right arm was a good four inches long, and bleeding profusely, but there was no longer any pain. The adrenalin was taking care of that.

‘Come on, come on,’ she called out, banging on the door again.

‘Who’s there?’ came an uncertain voice.

Amanda leaned back down to the letterbox again, speaking rapidly, the fear in her voice obvious. ‘It’s me, Amanda, from next door. There’s been an accident. I need to call the police urgently. Can you let me in?’

There was a brief hesitation, and then the door slowly opened on a chain, and Mrs Naseby’s face appeared. She looked nervous but as soon as she saw the terrified expression on Amanda’s face, her nervousness turned immediately to concern. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she gasped. ‘You’re hurt. Come in quickly. Let’s call you a doctor.’ She removed the chain – her movements slow and awkward, the result of arthritis – and shuffled aside to let Amanda in out of the cold.

Amanda almost knocked her over in her haste to get inside the house. ‘Lock the door quickly,’ she shouted. ‘There’s someone out there.’

Mrs Naseby’s eyes widened in shock as she got a better look at the huge tear in Amanda’s jacket and the blood staining it red as it seeped out of the wound. She had one hand on the door handle, the other on her walking stick, but she didn’t seem to be making any effort to close the door.