After what seemed an age the car slowed and made a sharp turning, then after a further hundred yards or so she heard the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels before it finally came to a halt. They'd already stopped a while back for about ten minutes, but this time she instinctively knew that this was their final destination.

She heard footsteps on the gravel and the sound of muffled voices, then the boot was flung open and the man with the gun shouted at her to shut her eyes, threatening death if she disobeyed.

There was no danger of that. She squeezed them shut like a young kid playing hide and seek as a hood was pulled roughly over her head. She was then led along the gravel by two men, each holding an arm, and dragging her, so she had to move fast. She was taken through several doors, then up some stairs and through yet another door, before finally being pushed roughly into a chair.

In silence they handcuffed her wrists behind the chair and strapped her to its back from stomach to neck with a roll of masking tape. She couldn't move an inch, and her hope began to evaporate. She still had the set of picks in her sock but there was no way of getting to them now.

The man with the gun told his colleague to leave, and there was a throaty edge to his voice as he spoke. Then he pulled off Tina's hood. His lips cracked into a smile, a look of undisguised lust in the big staring eyes, and she felt her heart sink. She knew then that this bastard had been telling the truth when he said he was going to kill her.

But it was clear that he wanted to have some fun first.

When they were back in the Jaguar, having finished at the crime scene and having briefed DCI Miller about their hunt for Tina Boyd, Mike Bolt let out a long, deep sigh. 'I tell you, Mo, sometimes this job really gets to me.'

'It gets to all of us, boss. You know that.' Mo turned, and Bolt could see the lines of tension on his face. This had been tough for him, too.

'You know, I haven't seen her in more than a year, but if it had been her I think I would have fallen apart. I never knew she'd had that much of an effect on me.'

'But it wasn't Tina, was it? Which is a good sign. That's the way you've got to look at it, boss. Accentuate the positive. Keep the faith.'

'But where the hell is she?' said Bolt, staring out of the window at the trees.

The fact was, they'd run out of leads. The Land Cruiser Tina had photographed earlier had disappeared off the ANPR's radar, having last been spotted thirty miles away in Essex, and now Tina had disappeared too. All that remained was an anonymous woman shot dead in what appeared to be a professional hit. One that bore Hook's hallmarks – and Bolt could guess his motive: to hijack the victim's car and make it as hard as possible for him to be followed. As always, he seemed to be one step ahead.

'We're not going to stop searching for her,' said Mo eventually, his voice weary. 'Of course we're not. But I don't think there's much more we can do tonight.'

Bolt nodded. Mo was right. There really wasn't much else they could do. An alert had been put out to all the UK 's police forces and now it was simply a matter of waiting. Without another word, he started the engine and pulled away.

But they'd barely been driving five minutes when Bolt's mobile started ringing.

'Who is it?' asked Mo, as he picked up the handset and examined the screen.

Bolt frowned. 'An old informant of mine. Strictly small time. His name's Maxwell.'

When I woke up, I didn't have a clue where I was. Then I saw the empty armchair opposite me and the coffee table with the half-full ashtray and the Peroni bottles beside it, and I remembered I was at Maxwell's place.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The lights were on in the sitting room and the curtains were pulled but I could tell it was dark outside. I looked at my watch. Twenty past ten. I'd been out for an hour at least, probably longer. I got to my feet. The door to the kitchen was closed, but I could hear Maxwell in there. I needed a drink of water, then I needed to get to bed.

But I only took one step before the door opened and I realized with a single jolt of sheer terror that it wasn't Maxwell in the kitchen at all.

'Hello again,' said the Irishman, coming into the room, a gun with silencer raised in front of him. He was dressed in a black boiler suit and black boots, the saucer eyes cold and angry.

My stomach churned, and my legs felt like they were going to go from under me. All my optimistic thoughts of carrying on until I found Jenny, of defying the men I was up against – so attractive when I'd been sitting in the comfort of Maxwell's cottage with a large beer in my hand – turned immediately to dust, and I was once again what I'd always been: a terrified man out of my depth.

I didn't even think about running. There was no point. I was trapped. I tried to think of something to say, something that might stop him from doing what I knew he was about to do, but nothing came out.

'Didn't you believe me when I said I'd kill you if you carried on with your foolishness?' asked the Irishman, his harsh accent tinged with incredulity that I could be so stupid.

And the thing was, he was right. I had been stupid, utterly stupid, ever to have got involved. In that moment, I cursed Jenny Brakspear. And I cursed Maxwell too. I couldn't believe he had betrayed me like this. I knew he'd not been the most morally upright guy in the world, but I'd trusted him.

'Now it's time to pay for what you've done,' he said, grabbing my arm in a tight grip and pushing me back into the kitchen with the butt of the gun.

I could smell the chicken soup as I was shoved through the door. I saw Maxwell in there with the second kidnapper, the big lumbering guy with the shaven head. Both men had their backs to me, and even in my fear I felt a burst of rage. 'What's the matter, Maxwell? Can't you bear to face me, you treacherous bastard?'

Maxwell and Shaven Head turned round almost as one, which was when I realized that Maxwell wasn't a part of this at all. His face was bloodied and he had a deep cut above one eye. A rope had been pulled tight round his neck, the pressure making his eyes bug out. Shaven Head held one end of it in a gloved hand while his other held a gun, which was pressed hard against Maxwell's side. Maxwell, who was dwarfed in size by his captor, looked exactly like I felt: terrified. He wasn't even making any attempt to hide it, and this more than anything else extinguished any hope that I'd had. If even a hard bastard like Maxwell could be overpowered by these people, what the hell chance did I have?

'All right, let's go,' said the Irishman impatiently.

Shaven Head nodded and dragged Maxwell out into the hallway. I was given a shove and made to follow.

They seemed to know where they were going because they took us through the hall to the cottage's back door. I wondered immediately why they were taking us this way. It was only Maxwell's beloved vegetable patch that was out there.

The answer became obvious as soon as we were outside: the Irishman picked up a pair of shovels that were leaning against the door and handed one to each of us.

My heart beat savagely in my chest as I took mine and watched Maxwell take the other. Then I heard him groan because he too knew what we were going to have to do now.

I can't adequately describe the fear I experienced then. It was total and all-encompassing. My life didn't flash before me. Nothing like that. There was only the sure, solid knowledge that this was the end, that soon there would only be black nothingness. I wished I was religious, that I could have some small hope of salvation to cling on to, but I hadn't believed since I was a child, and death had always seemed too far away to care about.