“I got Bantock’s address from the telephone directory and a handy little free map showing where Butterbur Lane was from the tourist office. Half an hour later, I was at Whistler’s Cot hammering on the door. I felt sure Louise was there, even though her car wasn’t. But I was wrong. Bantock came round from the back, demanding to know what all the racket was for. He recognized me from the exhibition. I had the wit to claim I was on holiday in the area and was keen to see his work. He asked me in and showed me his studio. Work in progress. That sort of thing. Well, it was obvious Louise wasn’t there. But I was still convinced she would be before long. Maybe she’d stopped in London. Whatever the reason, I’d somehow overtaken her en route.

“Bantock said he had to go out and I was glad of the excuse to cut my visit short. My imitation of an art buff was wearing pathetically thin by then. He offered me a lift, but I said I preferred to walk. I set off at a slow pace and he passed me halfway down the lane in his car. As soon as he was out of sight, I doubled back and followed the lane past Whistler’s Cot out onto the common. Then I prowled around the fields above the lane until I found myself on the other side of the hedge opposite the cottage. I could see over the hedge well enough and the height of the bank below meant I was on a level with the bedroom windows. I settled down in the shade of a beech tree that overhung the hedge and waited for them to return. I was certain it would be them. Bantock had gone to meet her and would come back with her sooner or later. I had no doubt of it. When he did, I’d be ready.

“At about five o’clock, Louise arrived in her car. I was positively elated to be proved correct. But I’d got one thing wrong. Bantock wasn’t with her. She knocked at the door, then went round the back. I thought she was going to wait for Bantock inside, but she came out a few minutes later and drove off again. I couldn’t understand it. But I was still determined to stick it out. It could only be a matter of time.

“I had a couple of lagers in my rucksack. Drinking them was a mistake, because what with the heat and the stress and strain of the journey, I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was nearly dark and I was cold. There was no sign of life at Whistler’s Cot. I began to feel a bit of a fool. My confidence began to drain away. Much longer and I’d have given up and gone. But just then, at about nine o’clock, Louise’s Merc came back up the lane, followed closely by a yellow van. Both vehicles pulled in by the cottage. She had somebody with her this time. But it wasn’t Bantock. Oh no. It was somebody I’d never seen before. I’ve seen photographs of him since, of course. It was Shaun Naylor. He looked what he is. A handsome young thug. The sort you’d expect to see selling bootleg perfume on a street-corner or prowling round a car park trying the locks. Rough and ready. Ready, in fact, for anything. With a narcissistic streak thrown in for good measure. What he was doing with Louise I just couldn’t work out. He wasn’t her type at all. So I’d have thought, anyway.

“But I didn’t know what her type was, did I? All I knew was that she’d picked this piece of garbage up from somewhere. And not long ago, to judge by the few words they exchanged before going indoors. ‘You nearly lost me back there,’ he said to her in a cockney accent. ‘I wouldn’t have let that happen,’ she replied. ‘Not when I’ve only just found you.’ Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her roughly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing-or hearing. She leant up and whispered something in his ear. ‘You’re a real tease, aren’t you?’ he said in response. ‘Who’s teasing?’ she answered. ‘Shall we go in?’

“She led him round to the back. A few seconds later, some lights came on. Just downstairs at first, where I couldn’t see much. Then, after about ten minutes, on the landing and in one of the bedrooms. I had a clear view straight in through the window. I saw Louise and Naylor walk into the room. Neither of them made a move for the curtains. Perhaps they didn’t think there’d be anybody outside, watching them. Perhaps they just didn’t care. At the time, I had the crazy idea Louise knew I was there and wanted me to see what she was capable of-with the right sort of man.

“I’m not going to describe what she let him do to her. Well, there wasn’t much she didn’t let him do. She was a willing partner all right. Like Naylor said at his trial, it wasn’t rape. If only it had been. I could have rushed in and tried to rescue her then. I could have been her white knight in shining armour. Instead, I just sat there and watched what would have been a Peeping Tom’s dream come true. It was horrible. Not because of the sex itself. That was just two bodies moving together in a rectangle of light. Like a pornographic movie on a TV screen. No, it was the pleasure on her face, the leisurely expertise of her actions that so appalled me. It couldn’t have been the first time she’d done such things. It was a practised performance. She did it well. As well as the most accomplished of whores. I could almost have believed that’s what she was. A high-class tart for this… creature she’d found… to use and abuse. Anyone’s. If the money was right. Or she took a fancy to you. Anyone’s at all. But not mine. Never mine.

“He didn’t stay long afterwards. Got dressed and walked out, leaving her in bed. Well, on the bed. She didn’t even bother to cover herself. He came out and drove away. She didn’t get up. She must have fallen asleep. I went on watching her for a few minutes. Disbelief turned to jealousy. And jealousy became rage. I wanted to punish her for denying me everything she’d so casually given to a stranger. For shattering the image of her I’d built up in my mind. For not being the woman I’d dreamt she was.

“I scrambled through a gap in the hedge, dropped down the bank into the lane and crept round to the back of the cottage. The door wasn’t locked, of course. I went in, moving as quietly as I could. I still didn’t really know what I was going to do. The lights were on in the kitchen and the lounge. The studio door was open. I glanced in and noticed a coil of picture-hanging wire on a bench. I stood staring at the wire, until I’d convinced myself she deserved it. Until I’d committed myself to the act so completely it seemed inevitable. I picked up some pliers that were lying next to the wire and cut off a length. Then I put on an old pair of leather gloves I’d seen on a shelf near the back door. I wasn’t thinking about fingerprints. It was just I didn’t want the wire to cut into my hands. As I knew it would, when I drew it tight around her neck.

“I can’t remember exactly what happened next. The surge of conflicting emotions blots out part of the memory, I suppose. I went up to the bedroom. But whether I tiptoed or ran I can’t say. I was suddenly in the room, looking down at her, naked on the bed. She was lying on her side, her face averted. She heard something and stirred. ‘Shaun?’ she said. ‘Is that-’ Then I was on her, forcing her down against the mattress with the weight of my own body as I looped the wire over her head and pulled it taut around her throat. She gagged and tried to throw me off. But I was too strong for her. ‘It’s me, you bitch,’ I shouted in her ear as I strained at the wire. ‘It’s Paul.’ She choked and writhed and struggled. But there was no way out now. For either of us. It went on longer than I’d expected. So much longer. But, in the end, all the life was squeezed out. And she lay limp and still beneath me. No breath. No movement. No flicker of the eyes. She was dead.

“I stood up and looked down at her beautiful body, which I’d once longed to touch and caress. But now there was nothing there. Just her pale flesh, growing colder by the second. I turned round and saw a reflection of the scene in a large mirror that filled most of the wall facing me. Seeing myself, hollow-eyed and panting, with her body on the bed behind me, made it somehow even worse. I lashed out at the mirror with my boot, splintering one of the corners. Then I rushed out of the room.