From behind a banksia at the other end of the street, he watched the Commodore wagon turn right out of the driveway. Female driver. No other passengers. Had to be her. What would she be up to this time of the night out here in nowhereville?

The left indicator light came on about two hundred metres up the street. He eased the black BMW out from behind the tree and began to follow, slowing as he passed her driveway, swinging his eyes right. High metal fence, patchy lawn. And she’d shut the gate behind her—likely to be dogs.

An outside light was on in the corner of the house. The driveway was just two tracks, grass growing between, muddy from the rain, extending all the way down the side of the tiny yellow shack. A shed to the right-hand side and next to it, another vehicle, Nissan Patrol. Perhaps a visitor, one she trusts to leave in the house while she’s out.

He kept his distance. It was an easy tail. She followed the main road to Barnforth then turned into the marina and parked, swiped herself in. Very strange. He rolled in, lights out, waited, watched for ten minutes until the clock hit 10.30 p.m. Then another vehicle came into the marina carpark. A man—long, skinny legs, boardshorts. He loaded a number of shopping bags and a backpack into one of the trolleys, wheeled it to the gate and swiped himself in. He was wearing a white long-sleeved T-shirt with ‘Success’ emblazoned across the back.

He waited another half hour. Was she meeting this guy? If it was a regular thing, a weekly rendezvous or something, it might present a good opportunity. He’d have to check the security camera locations in advance.

After another fifteen minutes he called it a night. If it was sex with the Success bloke, on his boat, she wouldn’t leave till the morning. He might as well get some sleep.

The BMW rolled out of the carpark and headed to the Barnforth Best Western.