of another. Keeps doing the best she can for Mia, for her family. She is as tough as they come.
I start the car again and drive on, through the tunnel of overhanging trees, up and over the undulating Chiltern Hills through one village after another. Switching channels on the radio as a distraction, not really hearing the music, unable to settle on anything for more than a minute or two. Spots of rain spatter my windscreen as I drive south and east, picking up the main road back towards London, crossing under the M25 and hitting Saturday afternoon football traffic that ebbs and flows with a tide of cars and buses.
I’m a couple of miles away from my hotel when I realise I’m being followed.
A dark saloon, a few cars back, is shifting lanes to follow me. It’s smooth and subtle, nothing to attract attention and on a normal day – in a normal week – I wouldn’t have noticed it there at all. I change lanes again, filtering left at the last minute to leave the elevated section of the A40 and drop down onto city streets away from my route back to the Premier Inn. The dark car indicates and follows, calm as you like, and I finally get a glimpse of the driver. Male. Late twenties. Stubble. Dark baseball cap and sunglasses despite the gathering dusk. Angela’s words in my ear. Just flat-out lied about where he was. As if he’s got some other agenda.
Holt. Who had been in contact with Kathryn before she ran. A decision she had paid for with her life.
How long has he been following me? A few miles at least. Maybe more than that, maybe from the start of this journey back in Buckinghamshire. He could have been waiting in the lane outside Angela’s house. How did he know I’d be there? And what will he do when I stop?
For a moment I think of googling the nearest police station and pulling up outside but just as quickly dismiss the idea. He is the police. And more than that, I’m tired of being stalked and followed, of constantly looking over my shoulder. There’s a lump in my throat, a painful mixture of fear and anger, as I make another turn, right at a junction. Again, he slides into the lane behind me, one car back. I’m still heading in the wrong direction, away from where I need to go, compounding my sense of creeping dread.
As the next set of traffic lights approach I slow down and let a gap grow between me and the car in front. I dawdle on the green light, dropping down into third gear, then second, the driver behind me hooting furiously that I’m holding him up. When the traffic light turns orange I stamp on the accelerator and speed through the junction with the engine screaming, the car behind me forced to stop on red, his horn still blaring. I check my rearview mirror and feel a pulse of relief as I see Holt is stuck behind the angry driver, both of them receding behind me.
When the road curves out of sight, I brake hard and turn left into a busy shopping street, accelerate to the next junction and then take another left into a supermarket car park. I find a spot facing the road and kill the engine, sliding down in my seat. My heart is thumping, my hands slick with sweat on the steering wheel. Sure enough, thirty seconds later the dark saloon car roars past with Holt hunched behind the steering wheel. I don’t think he’s seen me but I’m not going to wait to be sure, reversing out quickly and returning the way I came.
I keep one eye on my mirrors all the way back.
*
I’ve eaten nothing since breakfast but the thought of sitting in the hotel restaurant – alone, exposed, surrounded by strangers – makes my palms itch. Instead I call in at a Tesco Express near the hotel, grabbing items with barely a glance and dropping them into my basket. A ready-to-eat pasta salad from the shelf. Crisps, flapjacks, chocolate chip cookies. Comfort food. I add a bottle of red wine and take it back to my hotel, fighting a powerful urge to ignore the food and get started on the wine straight away. I need a drink.
In the car park of the Premier Inn, I find a space in the corner with a view of the main entrance, checking all