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trying to get to me, so I am leaving immediately for Our Special Place, and hope you will join me there to prove my fears are groundless. However, if you do not follow me within three days I will conclude youare lost to me, even dead, and will remain abroad. I will place this letter in the biscuit tin as I know from twenty-five years’ experience that reaching for the biscuit tin is always the first thing you do, my dear wife, having no willpower whatsoever. Buy your ticket with CASH. Check under the car VERY CAREFULLY . Steve. Above all, don’t WORRY, I know what you’re like.”
    I rang DS Law and told him. He said they’d just confirmed Steve had taken a flight to Malaga – our special place – but that otherwise they had no information. “You realise your husband is insanely paranoid?” DS Law said. I asked him, is it insanely paranoid not to have children because you’re afraid they’ll be used at some later date as hostages – and he said yes, that was more or less a definition of insanely paranoid, in his opinion. “You seem to have missed his three-day deadline,” he said. And I said, [
almost stunned; can’t believe her luck
] “Yes, that’s my reward for going mad and buying a new biscuit tin.” Then I counted the cash, which was over three thousand pounds, and rang Mrs Bryan with the good news. She said I could start back tomorrow, and the job of manageress was still open if I wanted it. She also said the goats had missed me, which I think was her way of apologising for thinking I’d stabbed my husband to death.
    It said on the news, by the way, that the Danish woman hadn’t been kidnapped after all! The lovely Elsa had run off with her younger lover and hadn’t known how to mention it. The adulterous carefree pair were last seen, funnily enough, in Malaga.

The Son
    MARK is
a casual, laid-back and rather shallow character who takes everything in his stride. He has been a staff photographer on a newspaper for twenty years. He loves his car and is proud of all the equipment, but isn’t much bothered about his art.
    Scene One: driving. He’s humming while driving, and interrupts himself to comment on the traffic
    All right, mate, you go. No, YOU go. Right-o. [
Hums. Reads sign
] Bexleyheath, right. What’s the time? Oh. Cushti. Just me on this job today. No poncey lady feature writer saying, “Oh take no notice of Mark, he’s just the photographer.” No, this is more like it. Simple news desk job. [
Happy sigh; contented with the normal routine of his life
] Find house, ring doorbell, “Hello, Mr Watts, you’re some sort of news story I understand, no don’t bother telling meabout it, I’m not remotely interested, yes, hello, Mrs Watts, well I wouldn’t say no, two sugars, can I move this lamp, is that a jaffa cake, ta very much, does that window open, can I use this socket, flash bang wallop, back in the car, laptop, mobile, bit of quick image manipulation, send, send, send, and back to me mum’s in Fulham in time for
The Weakest Link.
    [
Manoeuvring
] Bexleyheath. [
Remembering instructions
] Left at the roundabout. [
Manoeuvres
] Straight on for three miles. [
Sigh
]
    So, not like yesterday, that’s what I’m saying. Yesterday was well weird. I said to Kip on the picture desk, “Kippo, mate, you know me, I’m not into the arty stuff. I didn’t sign up for that. I’m more of what you might call an all-rounder, only with a particular aptitude for prison vans. That’s right, I’m a legend outside the law courts. The only snapper who can ALWAYS get a shot through the window of a moving black maria. And that’s not fluke. David Beckham practises free kicks round the wall. I practise black maria technique. You’ve got to jump EXACTLY the right height, see, at EXACTLY the right moment, holding the camera above your head at EXACTLY the right angle.” Kippo looks at me. “Straight up?” he says. And I say, [
confidential, as if giving away his secret
] “Well, yeah, fairly