A Fear of Choking to Death

CHAPTER 1

The puke was sports drink pure and fresh. Jon retched it up all over her face. It did nothing to wash away the blood sticking to her hair. The killer wound was obvious, even to a squinting, unfocused stare, the right-side of her skull smashed open. Her blood red eyes still screaming the terror.

Why here? Why now? Why Ann?

Just seconds ago, Jon walking, a minute from home, a five mile run still fresh in his chest. His mind still emptied, at peace. He ran the Shropshire Hills, swam the pools and lakes. Always alone. A taste of something wild. His one taste now that Ann had told the truth and laughed their affair dead.

Her body lay planted. A den of trees gave cover. It was a place they had come for alfresco fun. It led from his garden out towards the hills.

He felt no guilt. No blood on his hands. The eyes of the living told him little, confused and dazzled him. The eyes of the dead were an easier view, thoughtless, turned off with nothing to hide.

He was not the killer. But the panic he felt erupting inside was a scramble to save himself. A life shattered, his own, flashed before his eyes. The consequences of murder came piling down on him alone. Exposure threatened him.

He ran, a minute's sprint to get back home. An upstairs window - the den of trees concealed the stain on an otherwise idyllic view. Autumn strokes brushed pasture land. A single house crashed the scene.

Find a body, be a suspect, be investigated. Jon knew this. Vomit left the trail. Their history scraped the groove deeper into granite. He would have to call the police. Of course, he should.

Ann seduced him. They met inside the village shop, a typical Londis, but with an additional line in bulk animal feed. He was countryside newbie with four months credit. He came for shelter - the hills and the solitude. He had little wish to integrate; he didn't think he could.

The Londis was usually out of bounds. Emergency supplies only. The anonymous expanse of a Tesco Extra, a fifteen-mile drive into the nearest town, suited his needs better. He dabbled with Tesco online, but the primal thrill of driving his nearly new Volvo XC90, just six months old and still in its birth year of 2016, kept his grocery shopping real. He was the boss; he worked from home. He shopped early morning when the store had an exclusive air. A VIP in the first class lounge ushered away from the hordes.

The day they first met. He went to Londis for a bag of coffee. Over-dressed as usual, head-to-toe Canali, his favourite luxury Italian menswear brand. The apparel he shared that Tuesday mid-morning with the village folk: a rust coloured wool/cashmere peacoat, black shirt, cream lightweight chinos and a pair of blue suede driving moccasins.

Such style made him think he looked like an important somebody going somewhere important with an obvious need to hurry. Entering Londis, a conversation with the lady behind the counter rehearsed in his mind,

I like your coat.

It's Canali.

Who?

They're Italian.

Never heard of them.

I know. They're not like Armani. You can't buy their cologne in Superdrug.

I wish my hubby would dress like you.

I annually visit the charity shop to drop-off the waste. I could let you have first dibs.

He hasn't got your physique.

Right. Well. Bye.

Changing in and out of his uniform took five times as long as getting to Londis and back. Once home, and back at work, he returned the Canali to its spacious closet then returned to the office wearing pyjamas or sometimes only pants.

What scared him about Londis was the village inquisition. Their file on him was incomplete. They knew his name, and the lie he'd told - he was a day trader of shares and currencies working for himself from home. Why lie? Why not? He earned a small living building and hosting websites for not very successful sole traders, a majority being driving instructors. He didn't learn to drive until he was twenty-nine, eight years ago, which up until the moment in time was his darkest most shameful secret. While studying for his driving test, he realised many independent driving instructors had no internet presence. It was a market he could exploit, which he did, ruthlessly. As he worked from home, his parent's house, his overheads were minimal. He stacked them high and sold them cheap, undercutting all competition. He had four website designs which he mixed and matched several hundred times to provide websites for clients from all over the country. His current annual profit was £27,800. He felt himself a professional success, a man who had forged his own independent way in the world. Winning a six-figure sum on the lottery also helped, as did his parents who both died well - cheaply, long before incurring the costs of a nursing home. The day trader lie was to accommodate the fruits of his secret good fortune.

Jon knew good luck had come his way, although this wasn't simply randomness with an outcome favouring him. He thought himself more deserving of positive randomness than anyone else. Jon couldn't believe in true randomness, even though he believed in nothing spiritual, the freak was somehow always preordained. The lottery win was his by some exceptional right, a reward or gift for some unknown quality behaviour perhaps to do with his sartorial promotions.

Jon slipped inside the Londis and sped towards the coffee, the route rehearsed and followed, his head down, the exact money required clenched in his fist, ready.

At the shelf, a label confirmed the price. His senses bristled. The store was busier than expected. A glance at the till revealed an opening. He took his chance and made his move.

Morning.

Morning

Coffee scanned. Price announced. Correct. Money passed. A quick count. Bingo.

That's it.

Thanks.

He turned to leave. The curtain fell, shattered. He stood exposed on the public stage, lost and unrehearsed, unable to improvise. Pam Croft: megaphone, truncheon, one-woman crowd control, self-appointed village headmistress, ranching pupils, all those caught within the village walls, and most considered special needs.

Ah, you! she boomed, victorious at having Jon trapped.

Jon blushed. Pam kept her contempt contained. She wanted Jon to volunteer. He had to, she said, as a newcomer to the village, he had to prove his mettle. Jon, startled by the suddenness, the unexpected barrage of scrambled communication, the prying eyes and judging stares. His mind went floppy. He couldn't read her face. The sound of her voice punished him, induced anxiety. He fell behind as she raced ahead but he remained trapped in the riot of her protest march. Slogans kept coming, pelted at him.

Community action against speeding drivers. A menace to the village! We must defend our borders! Children will die!

She looked past Jon at a customer behind and recounted how the police had finally relented and agreed to lend her a handheld laser speed camera gun. This pause gave Jon a moment to find his senses.

We shall catch the speeding vermin. I have high-visibility vests for all my troops. We shall stand on the roadside proud and defiant. The new knights of the village! Pam continued. Her focus returned to Jon.

I'm told you work from home. Doing what?

I trade shares. Ethical investments, he managed to say, words from a well practised script.

Yes. I've been told. So lucky us. You can man the rush hour shift. Take this leaflet. It has all the details you need.

Jon took the opportunity and gladly grabbed the leaflet that she offered in her hand.

Right. Yes, he said, backing away. But I do a lot for Christian Aid. He lied on auto-response.

To avoid having to negotiate a way past her impressive frame, he took the scenic route down two aisles towards the door. He bumbled along, a little unbalanced, too fast and too self-consciously, desperate to escape the stage. The narrow door induced a panic. To push or pull? To save some face or make complete the image of a weak, incompetent fool? Over-thinking. Numb with indecision. Wasn't the door automatic? Two seconds away, Jon racing on. A woman, Ann, calm and unhurried, glides inside his tunnel vision. She exits the store, door pushed open, her caressing hand holding it open. Jon followed, slowing to twist through the door ajar.

Thank you, he mumbled without stopping or looking her way.

No problem, Ann replied, walking with him side-by-side. Shall I take that, she plucked the leaflet out of his hand. I could put it with mine straight on the fire.

Her voice was soft and warm, calm and soothing, pure ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response) and nearly gave Jon the tingles. He couldn't help but glance at her, she faced forward, her stare tilted towards the ground. Her long brown hair concealed her face.

I'm Ann. We're on the same side, the sensitive souls.

Jon felt slightly wounded by that. He nearly replied, I'm socially phobic in a variety of ways.

That's your Volvo. How very impressive.

Correct. Better, he thought.

Handsome. Satisfying somehow. We should hop on in and speed through the village. Show Pam that souls like us refuse to live slow.

She laughed. Jon veered towards his XC90 parting from Ann who continued on her way.

Bye, Jon, she said, without turning to look at him then waving the leaflet above her head. And consider yourself free man, free of obligation.

All Jon wanted was to get inside his XC90 and shut the door on the outside world.

He sat, sealed inside his mobile gated community, relief outweighing shame. Glad to feel himself again with his personal space restored.

They met again two days later. Jon, close to finishing a three-mile run, passed the driveway that led to Ann's land - and a five bedroom cottage with stables, paddock, and annexe that Jon could see from his back upstairs windows. He heard his name shouted, an urgent, primal call. Startled, he stopped and looked. Ann came sprinting towards him. As the sky was cloudless, Jon wore his Oakley Radar Path sunglasses. With his eyes concealed, his emotions hidden, he felt less raw, barely exposed.

Running the hills made him feel as much of a man as he ever could. He felt empowered, elevated, greater than his usual self. He ran solo. Appalled by the thought of joining a club. Alone and at one with nature, he would sometimes imagine himself to be a giant bounding over the hills, forged from rock and bone.

He stood, waiting. He couldn't look away. Currents trapped him. Ann was older than him but beautiful, glowing country fresh. She ran freely, unashamed, speed, not gait, her only concern. She too was flushed from exercise. Jodhpurs, riding boots, and a polo shirt skinned her as tightly as Lycra skinned him. Sunglasses kept the surface smooth and knowable, hidden depths plugged. In one hand she carried a mobile phone, in the other, a whip.

She explained her urgent need,

I need a man to drive me!

Her frail mother had been taken ill. The care home had called just a minute ago advising her to come and visit as a matter of urgency. She couldn't drive herself. She was currently unable to do so. Please, could Jon be a hero and give her a lift?

Jon, flattered by the hero hype, and always willing to avoid conflict, agreed to her request.

I'll go and get my car then come and pick you up, he said.

No. It's only a few hundred metres. We'll run, she replied. You lead! Take me!

She held his hand. Dazzled by the moment, Jon felt no discomfort only the flow of adrenalin pumping between them.

To the XC90! he actually said it.

They set off, Jon the giant, cutting a path to safety. He steered them into a field of pasture that swept down towards the back of his house. Whenever their handheld bond got broken, it repaired to reunite them again. They passed through the den of trees. About to reach Jon's garden, Ann suddenly pulled away and answered her mobile phone. They both came to a stop. Jon watched as Ann spoke on her phone. He couldn't recall hearing it ring.

What?...Oh. Right...She is?...Great...That's great...Tomorrow. Yes. Yes. Tomorrow.

Jon could only think it was good news from the care home. He glanced at his XC90, which he could just about see parked on the driveway, and felt a pang of disappointment, more for it than him, as he knew it craved a moment to test and prove itself.

Ann ended the call and looked at him, deflated.

Emergency over. Oh, well, do I look a fool?

Jon hoped her reddened face was blushing; it would help level the field and make her more touchable.

I'm sorry, she continued.

Not a problem. Anytime, said Jon.

Deal. Thank you. But now, what now? Look at us so hot and breathless. And me with a whip. What will people think? Let them think anything. Anything. What concern is it to us?

She laughed vaguely then stepped towards him coming in close.

You'll have to excuse me, I'm somewhat giddy. It's all been so anti-climatic.

She looked unsteady. Jon held out a hand. She took it and held her balance.

The high of a ride flattened by the news of a mother in crisis. I had no hope. No way to reach her. But then, you. A hero? Maybe. Yes. A hero, you. We joined the race, but it led to where? To here. To only frustration. Our rush of adrenalin denied a climax, a satisfying completing release.

She embraced him tightly. Jon felt like a giant.

Isn't it terrible to see the aged so sad and decrepit?

Her voice, almost a whisper, trickled into Jon's ear. He felt beguiled

How long have we got to live as thrillingly as we can? To run, to ride, to feel whole, all the pleasures our bodies can offer?

Jon could think of nothing to say, or do.

Fuck me, Jon. Fuck me now.

Uh? What. OK. But you start it though, he replied.

So she did, all the way to the finishing line.

Once done, she thanked him,

Thank you. What a moment. Now, quickly, back to reality. She stood up, looking down on him. And as you said, Jon, anytime.

And with that she hurried away.

They met again two days later. Jon was at work building a website for a failed driving instructor whose new business venture was pet sitting - anything smaller than a cat that could be kept in a cage or tank. The doorbell rang, it had built-in CCTV. Jon had CCTV cameras guarding every inch of his property. He checked the colour video feed on his computer monitor and saw Ann standing by the door. He froze. Instinct's first call was to pretend to be out. Ann's presence shocked him. Home alone, sealed inside the bubble, thoughts of a third awkward encounter hadn't started to nag. Their al fresco adventure still played in his mind as a positive. It was one of the most successful encounters he had ever had with a woman. Could he perform as well again? The stars had aligned. He was a giant of a man. Here, now, he felt himself, a designer of shitty websites.

Ann pressed the doorbell a second time. Instinct held Jon firm. What did she want? A lift? Sex? To get to know him more, if not properly?

He watched her. Her perfectly tailored clothes were chic and formal. It was a look Jon could only admire. Her posture was calm and relaxed, and her smile naturally formed. He wanted her, to help her. Did she want a lift? He owed her one, at least. Be a man. Level the score. Don't even charge her petrol money. And pretending to be out would be just as stressful.

He pressed a button on the keyboard to activate the doorbell's intercom.

Hello, he said, not using her name to keep concealed his secret view.

Ann unfazed at hearing his intercom voice,

Jon? I hope that's you?

Yes. Jon.

It's Ann. We've met twice before. I'm sure you recall. She laughed carefree. Jon, could I possibly trouble you for a lift? Please say no if you must. I would hate to be a pain, but you did say to me, as I said to you, anytime, the need or fancy takes us.

He froze a second time. He could pretend to be ill, infectious.

Jon? Just a lift. A one way trip just four to five miles.

Her voice, so calming.

Oh. Right. Yes. I'll be a minute.

He whipped off his vest/pants combo and scrambled into his emergency Canali.

When Jon finally stepped outside, Ann was standing by the XC90. She glanced at him briefly and flashed a gentle wave. The distance between them and Ann's averted gaze gave Jon's nerves reprieve. He faced the front door pretending to check it was properly locked and secure. He needed a final secluded moment. Once psyched ready, he turned and scurried towards her acting out his 'man in a hurry' routine.

Ann stood waiting, looking into the distance. Quick-draw style, Jon whipped out the car key fob, aimed and fired. The car unlocked. Ann glanced at him and smiled a silent thank you. She opened the driver's side back door and climbed inside. Jon was elated, inadvertently releasing a fist-pump. It was the best seat she could have chosen. Closing the door, she disappeared behind the tinted privacy glass.

Jon joined her inside. Ann was out of sight sitting directly behind him. He couldn't even see her in the rear view mirror.

Right. Ready to roll, he said, hurrying to secure the seatbelt and turn the engine on.

Wonderful. To Brockton. To the care home where my mother resides, replied Ann, her voice soft and unhurried.

Brockton. Oh, Brockton. Yes. I know Brockton. I won't even need to sat nav it.

A warning bong started to sound. Jon knew why but the explanation wouldn't leave his lips.

Is that my bong or yours? asked Ann.

You're not wearing your seatbelt, said Jon.

Naughty me.

It is a Volvo. It's got certain standards. It will bong all the way.

Then strap me in, Mr Volvo.

I don't mind if you don't. It's your responsibility. You're over the age of fourteen.

Lucky for you.

Uh? then getting her meaning. Definitely. The bonging stopped. Right. To Brockton. Just give me a minute to pull out safely. It's a big car for the narrow country lane.

Jon feigned intense concentration, and the silence that came with it, as he drove slowly out of his driveway onto a narrow single-track road.

A warning bong began to sound. Jon glanced at the dash, Ann's seatbelt had been released. Her voice, her mouth just inches from his ear.

Jon, please, don't think you have to talk to me. Don't worry about amusing me or keeping me entertained. This shouldn't be stressful for you. It should be a simple, easy pleasure. It will be for me every moment we share. We should agree to enjoy each other's strengths. Words are cheap and often false. What matters to me is the driving. The fact that you are actually doing something for me, helping me. That is what I rate and judge you on. Many women detest such silence, but let me assure you, I am not one of them. In fact, in many ways, as someone who can live inside their own imagination, I, like you, often find it preferable.

Ann sat back. The bonging stopped. Her voice remained inside Jon, making his body tingle.

Nothing more was said until they reached the care home. Jon parked. Ann moved to get out.

Thank you. Thank you very much. I will see you soon. No need to wait. I have it all under control.

Three days later, she called on Jon again. They talked via the intercom. She required a lift. Jon was a little reluctant but couldn't say no.

Jon opened the front door expecting to see Ann waiting by the Volvo, but she loomed in large standing just outside.

Jon, you're such a good man.

She stepped forward coming inside. Jon stepped back into the hall. She opened her full-length coat and let it fall to the floor leaving only a suspender belt and stockings to stun Jon rigid. As before, she started it. Jon was totally unprepared. Ann had to work hard to warm him out of his freeze, but animal instinct saved his day. The front door remained open. Jon feared exposure and noise pollution. Ann groaned and cooed but, thankfully, released no rapturous screams.

All that porn saturating us. Thank god I've got you to make me feel so fucking real, she told him while riding him on top.

Initially shocked by this, and the smell of alcohol staining her breath at 12.15pm, he later concluded it was possibly the nicest thing a woman had ever said to him.

When finished, Ann had no time to hang around.

That lift. Could you possibly run me home? she asked.

Jon couldn't refuse. Once there, they exchanged phone numbers. From then on, when needing a lift, she would always call ahead and Jon would always pick her up.

Their affair lasted nearly four months. It was based on sex and chauffeuring. Jon drove Ann to a variety of places - the care home, a health club, a salon, a farm shop, the dentist, the hospital for a smear test, into Shrewsbury - sometimes dropping her off, other times waiting for her then driving her home.

The sex, which Ann always initiated, was never bedroom based. In terms of each other's houses, they never got passed the hallway. For Jon, this was perfect, his inner sanctum remained his own, unviolated.

At first, having sex in the Volvo felt wrong. But Jon forced himself to accommodate Ann's needs. So a blow job while parked-up at the care home became the routine.

Ann never threatened Jon's personal space. He never felt watched or judged. What conversation they shared was thin and direct. Like master and servant their eyes rarely met. She made him feel as comfortable as it was possible for him to feel. There were no emotional emergencies or crises of a personal kind that she brought to his door. She never sought his advice or asked how he was feeling. Her only demand was that they keep the affair secret, to which Jon readily agreed.

The XC90 performed brilliantly. A two week period saw a torrent of snow, but the XC90 would not bow down. It ploughed on through without missing a beat. Ann loved the car as much as Jon. Yes, a four-by-four of this size driven exclusively in a town or city is a monstrosity. But out here, in the deepest wilds of Shropshire, such a car is an absolute essential bit of kit. You'd have to be desperate quite literally desperate to manage with anything less, she said on more than one occasion.

Although Jon had difficulties reading peoples' emotions and understanding their motives, he understood their affair and relationship was ninety percent sex, which he was convinced Ann not only enjoyed but craved. Yes, he drove her here-and-there, but this, for her, was little more than a perk that came for free with a lover like him. To prove his thesis, he started keeping a record - a sex to lift ratio.

He started to wonder if their affair could develop into something deeper like maybe they could risk renting a cottage in Wales for the weekend, Aberdovey would be nice and quiet. Having pondered the idea for a couple of weeks, Jon was ready to suggest it to Ann. But unfortunately her thirteen-month ban for drink-driving came to an end, and she dumped him.

Ann told him straight to his face, well, at times via the rear-view mirror. It was the last time she was ever to sit in the backseat of Jon's Volvo.

It's over. I have to tell you. It has to come to an end, her voice was harsh, uncompromising.

Why?

It doesn't matter. Don't look so humiliated. It makes you look pathetic, humiliated by such a trivial concern. I'm telling you straight and in person. We worked well together, all three of us. Let's leave it at that. Don't start whimpering or feeling sorry for yourself.

If I look humiliated it's because you are telling me in person. I'd have been happier with a text.

Well it's over. There won't be a next time.

How will you get around?

I'll drive myself. I've got my license back. I've ordered a new XC90.

Brand new? On this year's plate?

Yes.

Bitch! he said to himself.

I could call it Jon, her voice was tinged with laughter.

Don't! These cars are always female anyway.

Fine. Well, just to make myself perfectly clear, don't dare make trouble for me, Jon. The quiet ones, are they the worst? A deep well of potential trouble? Well if they are, you don't scare me. Don't think I haven't got anything on you. Cause me trouble, trust me, I will leave a permanent look of humiliation fixed to your face. We had a mutually satisfying dalliance. Accept it and move on. Go out. Meet new people. There's plenty of tarts in the village to keep you entertained. But, be wise, don't you dare, ever, mention us.

Trust me, I wouldn't want to.

Her voice softened. I know. And I'll thank you for it. I'll say this too you're an excellent driver. You really would make a first rate chauffeur. The sex? Well, it was fun, but you run up hills I was expecting a much more commitment, more stamina, power and thrust. If anything, it was more akin to running down hill, too fast, on the edge of control, always expecting you to trip and fall at any moment.

I can work on my fitness and improve my stamina. But you, there's not much you can do for your fading looks. You've been up and down that hill too many times. It won't be long before you're over it.

She laughed, pleased and surprised by his comeback.

There's plenty I can do. It's amazing what surgeons can offer these days. Give them a call, they may be able to build you an average sized dick.

This did little to hurt Jon. He had Googled his measurements long ago with positive results returned.

When Jon got back home, he correlated the data he had recorded. The pie chart he produced powerfully visualized the truth: acts of chauffeuring, eight-one percent; acts of sex, nineteen percent.

So be it, he thought. At least it ended well - completely and permanently. A clean break with no splinters left flying through the air. She wouldn't talk about him and he wouldn't talk about her. Perfect. A moment of time sealed, gone.

Jon bolted from his window view. He rushed around the house pulling blinds and curtains shut. His thoughts dizzy, hyperventilating.

Call the police, be a suspect! Call the police, and they'll call you, suspect number one. Be watched. Investigated. Interrogated. Pressed.

He tried to fight, to cling to reason.

Call the police. Start the process. The sooner it begins, the sooner it ends. You've nothing to hide. Trust the police. Trust the public. Fuck no! Trust Ann? Ditto! 'Don't think I haven't got anything on you.' She said it. She made the threat. Created lies, to add to mine.

He felt threatened, exposed. Paranoia crept inside. Why was the body left so close to his house? A message? A set-up? On land nobody used, only him, and Ann, those times they....

What did the killer know? That Jon was ripe to stand accused, a perfect fit ready to catch the blame?

I knew her. We had an affair. She ended it. She used me. Threatened to humiliate me.

He had to call the police. He had no other option. His vomit, his sweat, linked him to body and scene.

I will be a suspect. Smoke and fire. Everything public. Dragged through the system. Falsely accused. Falsely convicted? Could they find me guilty? Sent to prison. Condemned to my worst nightmare. Confined to a space saturated with ugly, loud, stupid men.

Could the evidence be compromised? Could he wash it away? Would the weather do his bidding? Could the murderer have set the corpse alight?

What time did Jon have? Who else could stumble upon the body? No one walks that land. Who could report Ann missing? She lived alone. A step-daughter, her only child, lived in the annexe. From what Jon knew, they didn't get on and rarely spoke. It could be several days before someone informed the police. Did this give him time? Not without risk. If the body was found, or if the police later discovered Jon delayed reporting his find, he would stink of guilt.

Fire is quick and devastating. But a corpse would still exist. The flames would be a beacon. A murder investigation would crawl close, if not all over him.

If only the body would vanish, the murder could, for now, be concealed. A temporary measure. A missing person left behind to give his investigation time to discover who and why. To give him time to save himself, to foil any plot against him. The dead aren't impatient. They demand no justice.

Pigs. Hundreds of pigs. Free range, outdoor reared, organic pigs. All a short run away. Give each a nibble, a tasty morsel. A treat. A different fucking day! Remove the body and me, as much as I can, from the criminal equation. But could I?

It would mean destroying valuable evidence. But if he promised, vowed, to do all in his power to investigate the crime and bring the murderer to justice then, could he? A selfish act, but one to bring balance. A brave act to stop an injustice, the one that threatened him.

Inform the police now or dispose of the body now.

The logistics? Easy. Think the minute, the DNA. Keep everything clean, contained. The act? Driven by fear. Know the fear. Know the consequences of failure, of not completing the act. The risk, number one, bringing the body home. But just one short run out in the open from the den of trees to your own back garden. The cover of darkness? Too far away. One night to get the job done. The pigs must have a midnight feast.

Act now or call the police.

He picked up the phone. A panic attack surged through him. He slammed the phone back down then ran to the garage.

He had the tent, a two-man self-erector. A minute later, it stood on the floor ready to use. Unable to peg it, he used two bags of sand to weigh it down. He had the tools, a hand-held electric reciprocating saw with six-inch blade and a George wet and dry vacuum cleaner. He plugged them in and positioned them ready to use. Other tools he placed inside the tent included scissors, a boning knife and a pair of garden loppers.

He searched for a pair of overalls, but knew he owned none. It fuelled his panic until an idea propelled him away.

He ran upstairs. From a wardrobe, he pulled his wetsuit. Noticing his snorkel and diving mask, he grabbed them too.

Back in the garage, he stripped naked, putting all clothes into a refuse bag, then struggled into the wetsuit. While doing so, he psyched himself up.

The person has gone. There is nothing there. You do not fear chicken bones. You chop up meat! You cut the guts out of trout!

An idea flashed, listen to music, like he did when cooking. Create an atmosphere of normality, drift away into song.

He ran into the kitchen to fetch his iPod. A laptop, he sometimes used to stream TV, was on the worktop. It gave him another idea, to manipulate his digital footprint, to create evidence of normal activity. He logged on to Netflix and started a stream, an episode of Top Gear. Safe and believable. Good, honest men having good, clean fun together. And all available episodes already watched several times so no trouble in recounting his alibi.

The garage set-up was complete. Jon stood, his thoughts racing, rehearsing the events about to unfold.

How to dispose of the soiled tent and clothes? Burn them. The pizza oven. The previous owner of the house had installed an outdoor wood-fired brick oven. Ann loved it, said her friends would adore the chance