Girl #2 turns into the narrow lane on time. The OTHER watches her walk past a double-glazing factory. She totters and sways on heels too high. She is oblivious to her surroundings. Too busy reading his messages on her phone.

The lane runs behind and beneath Waitrose. It is quiet. Secluded, yet accessible too. His phone buzzes.

‘I’m here. Where are you?’

‘One minute.’

She passes his car. Doesn’t even glance at him. Her overnight bag – tan leather – is heavy. She alternates between hands. Her cheeks are flushed, her brow glistens.

The OTHER gets out – takes a quick look around. No one coming. No one walking a dog or taking a short cut. He approaches her. She turns. Her face is a picture. Confusion – total and utter – creases her pretty features.

‘Sir? What are you doing here?’ she asks.

The OTHER smiles. ‘Surprised?’

She does not answer. Not with his hands clamped over her mouth and around her head. She doesn’t even struggle. Her eyes hold the scream that her mouth cannot cry.

‘The truth is a wonderful thing,’ he tells her.

He drags her to the car. Puts her in the boot. Closes it and goes to retrieve her bag. No point in leaving evidence lying around.

‘Welcome to celebrity,’ he chuckles, as he drives away.