LITMIR.BIZ

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Gemma said. ‘I’ll believe you. Millions wouldn’t, but I will. So, have you got plans for the weekend?’

      ‘I’m getting an early night tonight,’ Kate said. ‘I’m exhausted. And I haven’t thought beyond that.’

      ‘Want to get together tomorrow? Matt’s going to Anfield – a friend of his got some tickets for the game – and they’ll be going out in Liverpool afterwards.’

      ‘Sure,’ Kate said. ‘I was thinking of going to the Trafford Centre. I need an autumn coat.’

      ‘And then we could go out. Maybe eat in the Thai place in the village?’

      ‘Sounds great. I’ll pick you up? Three?’

      Arrangements made, she hung up, and pulled off the motorway onto the A49. Ten minutes to home, a bath, pour that glass of wine, then bed and sleep, a sleep that would not be interrupted by a six a.m. alarm, a sleep that would leave her fresh and invigorated and restored.

      Half a mile from her house she turned off the main road onto a street lined with red-brick Victorian terraced houses. A left, a right, a left and she’d be home.

      A car pulled out from one of the narrow alleys that ran behind the warren of terraced houses. It was moving quickly and, within a second or two, it was only feet from her rear bumper. She looked in the rear-view mirror and, before she could make out the driver’s face, the high beams came on.

      They were dazzling; the reflections from the wing-mirrors blinded her and she narrowed her eyes to shield them from the brightness.

      She sounded her horn; the car behind came closer.

      Her first thought was that she had done something wrong, cut the guy up – she assumed it was a guy – or was driving too slowly, or had committed some other offence, but she hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t. He’d pulled out behind her, at speed, and quite deliberately.

      And now he was trying to intimidate her. It was almost as though he had been waiting for her to pass so he could follow her, lights blazing, to her house.

      She felt the first fluttering of panic, and then, shortly afterwards, the real thing: heart-racing, palms sweaty, mind struggling to focus.

      It was him. The killer. No one else would be waiting for her like this. She was the next victim. She scrabbled in her bag for the alarm. If he ran her off the road, she would open the door and press it as hard as she could.

      Had he done this to the other victims, too? Was this part of his sick routine? She knew from TV shows and films and books that these kinds of people did things in a certain way, a way that allowed them to reap the full pleasure they got from their twisted activities.

      She was approaching her street, but she couldn’t go home. Even in the panic, she knew that. She couldn’t lead him straight to her door.

      She carried on past her street, then turned towards the village centre.

      Where there were people. Pubs. Restaurants.

      And a police station.

      She wasn’t going to take this. She wasn’t about to let this bastard – serial killer or drunk fool or casual bully – intimidate her. The station would be closed at this time, but there would be cops around, policing the village. She’d park right outside it and go and find one.

      The car behind her flashed its lights, on and off, on and off. She tried to make out what type of car it was, but it was impossible to see through the dazzle of the high beams. She turned right, back onto the main road. For a moment she thought about accelerating, about putting some distance between her and the other car, but she decided not to. She was not going to show fear. She was going to drive at a steady, measured pace to a safe location.

      But God, she was frightened. It was all she could do to stop herself dissolving into a tearful, gibbering wreck.

      And then, the lights went out. She looked in the rear-view mirror. The car – a dark saloon of some description – was turning into a residential street, and then it was gone.

      She parked by the police station – closed, as she had thought – and dialled 999. The operator picked up and Kate asked for the police.

      ‘I’ve been followed,’ she said, when the dispatcher came on the line. ‘In my car.’

      ‘Where are you now, madam?’ asked the dispatcher, a woman with a neutral BBC accent.

      ‘I’m outside the police station in Stockton Heath,’ Kate said.

      ‘And can you explain what happened?’

      Kate took her through it: the car pulling out, dazzling her with its high beams, and then leaving her alone when she headed for the village.

      ‘I think he was hoping I’d go home,’ she said. ‘So he could follow me there. I live alone,’ she added.

      ‘You did the right thing not to return to your residence,’ the dispatcher said. ‘Are you going home now?’

      ‘I think so. Should I?’

      ‘That’s up to you. But if you do plan to, let me know. We’ll send an officer round to take a statement. They’ll be with you shortly.’

      ‘Like five minutes?’

      ‘Maybe thirty minutes,’ the dispatcher said. ‘And try not to worry. I’m sure it will all be fine.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll meet them there.’ She recited her address, and hung up.

       14

      She had driven the route from the village to the house hundreds – maybe thousands – of times, but it had never felt like it did this time. It looked the same, but every turning, every house, every alley was now a threat, a possible hiding place for a faceless man who wanted to kill her. As she passed each one she glanced at it, waiting for a car to pull out.

      None did.

      She parked outside the house. Fortunately, the spot right outside her front door was free so she did not have to walk far from the car to the house. She opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

      And realized someone was watching her.

      She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. She’d read once that the feeling you got when you were being watched or followed was the result of your subconscious picking up clues that your conscious mind didn’t notice. It felt like it was a sixth sense, a paranormal or telepathic ability, but it wasn’t. It was simply that the mind took in a great deal more information than it could process at the conscious level and, when some of that information represented a threat, it made itself known by creating the uneasy feeling of a prickle on the back of the neck that said You are not alone.

      Whatever her subconscious had noticed was at the end of the street. There was a large yew tree – some said that it meant there had once been a graveyard there – at the corner, under which there was a bench. It was mossy now, and rotten, so nobody ever sat on it, but there was someone on it now, hiding in the shadows.

      She turned and looked. It was hard to make out anything specific, but she was sure that there was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest, a kind of stillness under the tree which was different from what surrounded it.

      ‘Who’s there?’ she shouted. ‘Who are you?’

      There was no answer. ‘Leave me alone!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know what you want, but leave me alone!’

      The door to the house next door opened. Carl stood there, framed in the light.

      ‘You OK?’ he said. ‘What’s all the shouting about?’

      The relief at seeing him, at not being alone, left her dizzy.

      ‘There’s

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