The only thing that doesn’t stop me leaping from my chair is that Tom Leonard went missing before I’d even checked into the hotel. He was due at work yesterday morning – and I didn’t get there until late afternoon. I keep reading the name of the hotel, wondering if there might be two. There isn’t, of course. There’s not even a second hotel with a similar name.

I stare at Tom’s photo, wondering if I know him from somewhere – but he has one of those faces that could be anyone’s. His hair is slightly curly, his ears perhaps a little large – but it’s nothing unusual. We live a hundred miles apart, so he won’t be one of Olivia’s friends, either.

Something happened at the hotel on that day, though. I was there and then I wasn’t. Tom Leonard was supposed to be there – but he wasn’t.

For now, there’s only one thing for it – and that’s a cup of tea. I stand, waggling my mug and asking if anyone else in the office wants one. There’s a succession of shaken heads, so I nip to the small kitchen myself. It’s not really a kitchen, of course. The office isn’t big enough for that. It’s in the corner of the main area and more of a sideboard with a fridge underneath. The kettle hums but the only other noise in the office is the tapping of keyboards and Natasha quietly talking to Claire. There’s a moment in which the pair of them glance at me and then quickly turn away when they realise I’m facing their direction.

I might be watching – but I also feel watched.

It’s hard not to see conspiracies everywhere. Luke – if that is his real name – messing me around; Graham wanting to fire me; Dan moving my things; Natasha talking about me behind my back.

Or perhaps I’m looking to blame everyone else for my own failings?

I know I’ve been doing this job for too long. I’m going through the motions, caring about little other than the salary at the end of the month. It’s all about the money and nothing to do with a challenge. Sometimes, I think I should take some sort of online course, or perhaps quit and force myself to try a different career. If things were better with Dan, I probably would.

The kettle is still bubbling when I check my phone again. Luke hasn’t replied to my text, so I try calling. Once again there’s a pause and then nothing. No voicemail. Natasha giggles for seemingly no reason again and I wonder if it could be her. She set up a fake email and fake website, got hold of a pay-and-go SIM card and then… I don’t know. I end up wasting a few hours and look a bit stupid – but how does that benefit her?

I’m only a couple of sips into my tea when the yawns begin. I’ve not slept since waking up in the car a little after half-past-two – and it’s catching up to me. I sit at my desk, hiding behind the divider and trying to stifle the yawns. It’s the sort of tiredness that infects every part of a person, where the arms and legs feel floppy and useless. My eyes water and I find myself pinching the loose skin on the back of my hand to try to keep myself alert.

‘You all right over there?’

Natasha’s chirpy voice is loud enough that everyone else in the room can hear.

I tell her I’m fine and try to focus on Graham’s email. He’s forwarded the whole chain and it seems as if he and Declan have been going back and forth for a couple of weeks. I’m meeting the potential client at his office on a trading estate thirty miles or so away. I’ve got about three hours to sort myself out. I’ve never been there before but it all checks out, which is one step up from Luke and his cleaning company.

I was in earlier than I was supposed to be and figure no one will miss me. I tap Declan’s number into my phone, store the address in the maps app – and then tell everyone I’ll see them tomorrow.

---

Despite the tiredness from before, being in the car has woken me up again. The vents are blowing cool air and the radio is chirping with cosy local DJ voices and eighties pop hits. It’s when I reach the country roads that the twinge of anxiety returns. The hedges are tall, lining both sides of the lanes; and there are overgrown trees with branches dangling low, obscuring the signs. Everything’s in shadow, so dark in places that it’s like night.

I really don’t like these roads in the dark.

I turn the radio up louder, trying to focus on the voices of a man and a woman jabbering on about what they’re going to be up to that night. It doesn’t sound like much. One of them is going running, the other taking their kids to some football match.

My phone is acting as a satnav, telling me there’s another seven miles until I turn off these roads.

It’s a long seven miles. At one point, there’s a car coming towards me on the too-narrow carriageway. There’s only room for a car and a half, with frequent pull-in points. The driver is a young lad talking on his phone, not paying attention. He’s in the centre of the road and looks up when I beep my horn, swerving towards the verge, staring daggers as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. We avoid each other by barely centimetres.

Another half-mile and I think I see a fox off to the side. It’s skulking in the shadows, nose to the ground, looking for prey. There’s a flash of white and auburn but, when I get closer, there’s nothing – and I wonder if I imagined the entire thing.

When I finally get back into civilisation – street lights, shopfronts and, most importantly, people – it’s as if a weight has been lifted. The gasp of relief makes me realise I’ve been holding my breath intermittently. A red traffic light gives me a moment to compose myself to such a degree that it’s only the irritated beep of the car behind that makes me notice the light has gone green.

My phone directs me around a series of roundabouts until I’m in a concrete paradise. There are vast warehouses next to barely filled car parks. A crumbling, steepling chimney that’s a relic of a different age sits in the distance and there’s sign after sign warning of lorries that might be turning.

It’s the exact opposite of those country roads: flat open and grey – but this is equally as British. A vast expanse of factories and companies; anonymous and ignored.

Declan’s office is on a rank of five single-storey glass-fronted offices. Of the five, four have a ‘To Let’ sign – and it’s only the one on the end that has lights illuminating the inside. When I pull into the parking space outside, a man is standing on the kerb, talking into his phone. After clocking the car, he hangs up, waiting for me to get out, and then introduces himself as ‘Call Me Declan’.

He’s in his early twenties, wearing a tight-fitting suit with spiky dark hair. He’s fit and his face is a little shiny; one of those blokes who spend a good hour in front of the mirror each morning. We exchange the usual niceties, ‘How was the traffic?’ ‘Aren’t those roadworks a nightmare?’ ‘Did you hear it’s likely to rain later in the week?’ – that sort of thing. It’s more autopilot stuff. Almost everyone has this meaningless drivel nailed down that it’s strange when this isn’t the pattern.

The office is a wide, open space that is filled with two desks and computers at the front, and piles of boxes at the back. The floor is bare concrete and there’s a loose electrical wire hanging from a switch off to the side. It makes our office look luxurious.

Declan explains he and a business partner have only just moved in. Previously, they were working out of bedrooms and garages. The company sells nutrition and fitness products via the internet. Things are starting to pick up, but to such a degree that they’re becoming overwhelmed. They need IT infrastructure and then more employees. It all sounds very familiar.

He’s one of those people that forces eye contact a little too much. It isn’t simply a friendly thing; it goes beyond that. Every sentence feels as if it’s being vehemently shoved into my brain. His handshake was firm and needlessly forceful. I suspect he’s been on one of those weekend courses about management and assertiveness. The type of thing Graham loves that gives a certificate to everyone at the end.

‘This is just the start,’ Declan says, turning in a half-circle to show off the barren space.

I tell him about our services and he seems keen, though he doesn’t interrupt to ask any follow-up questions. He’s a bit like a nodding dog, enthusiastically bobbing along with everything I say, still holding my gaze. It’s hard to read him and I’m unsure if this means he’s not that interested, or if he doesn’t understand everything I’m saying.

I ask if he has any questions and he does that horrific finger-point gun thing: ‘We do need everything to work twenty-four-seven,’ he says.

‘We offer full round-the-clock service,’ I reply. ‘Everything is guaranteed to work all day, every day. If there are any issues, we have twenty-four-hour off-site support, or remote engineers who can be on-site within ninety minutes. It’s usually quicker than that.’

His eyes narrow. He has really long, dark eyelashes and it’s hard to figure out if they’re natural or if he wears some sort of mascara. ‘You do know what twenty-four-seven means, don’t you?’ he adds.

I stare back at him, wondering if I’ve missed a joke. I haven’t: He’s serious.

‘I understand,’ I tell him. ‘Our services are twenty-four-seven.’

Declan eyes me for a moment longer, apparently unconvinced, and then turns away, nodding. He walks himself in a circle, his shiny shoes clip-clopping on the hard floor.

‘What about the price?’ he asks – this time not looking at me.

I tell him about our standard package, as well as the first-month discount, or a bulk support package where he could pay for a full year up front. All the while, he continues pacing and I’m not sure if he’s listening. He picks at his fingernail and brushes away non-existent strands of hair from his face.

After a standard start, it’s all gone a bit odd and I’m not sure what I’m missing. Potential customers usually haggle over price but he doesn’t seem too bothered. There are always follow-up questions as well, mainly to do with how our service can be tailored specifically for their company. It’s expected and perfectly normal – except there’s none of that here.

There’s an awkward silence when I finish talking, with Declan standing and staring through the glass front to the nearly empty car park beyond.

‘How does that sound?’ I ask.

He spins and reaches into an inside pocket, removing a light-grey business card which he passes across. I exchange it for one of my own, slipping his into the pocket of my jacket. He examines mine to such a degree that I wonder if there’s an errant spelling mistake. I’ve had them for years and never noticed anything before but he’s staring unwaveringly at the card in his palm.

‘Rose Denton,’ he says. ‘Is that short for Rosemary?’

‘No,’ I reply, slightly surprised given that he’d shown no interest in me until now. ‘It was only ever Rose on my birth certificate.’

‘It’s a nice name.’

‘Thank you.’

He’s staring me up and down once more.

‘I’ll have to talk to my partner and then I’ll be in contact,’ Declan adds. ‘Should I touch base directly with you, or that Graham bloke?’

I force myself not to cringe at ‘touch base’. He’ll be ‘reaching out’ next.

‘Either,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll probably be able to get back to you quicker.’

Declan stretches out his hand and we shake. His grip is once again overly firm, but this time, when I motion to pull away, he holds onto me. It’s only a fraction of a second, but there’s steel in his eyes when he does so. I’ve been meeting men and women in various corners of the country for years. It’s often one-on-one, away from the public’s glare, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve felt genuinely vulnerable.

And then, as quickly as the panic arrives, it’s gone again when Declan releases me.

‘I’ll be in contact,’ he says.

I instinctively pull my jacket tighter, unable to hide that he’s flustered me. He smirks, knowing what he’s done – and then I head for the door.