She wasn’t usually the nervous type, but there was something about Peter Cartwright that made her feel uneasy from the moment she first met him eight months ago when she started her new job in the city.

Cartwright was a commissionaire at the reception desk in the main entrance hall. His job was to welcome visitors and direct them to the appropriate office within that large glass-fronted building where Angela worked as a secretary.

Cartwright was in his mid-fifties; tall and lean. He wore an ornate uniform with shiny brass buttons which gave him a military appearance, and he liked to make it known that he’d been a soldier in some special unit in the army for many years.

‘We’re not supposed to talk about it,’ he said. ‘Sworn to secrecy. Under-cover work. Special assignments.’

Everyone knew it was a figment of his imagination. His poor eyesight and damaged right leg would have prevented him joining any elite section of the army. But the other employees played along with the pretence, called him Sergeant Major, and told him they felt safer with him on guard duty against any potential terrorists entering the building.

But Angela didn’t feel safer. In fact she felt uncomfortable when she came to work and saw him standing at the main door as if he were waiting for her. She forced herself to smile at his mock salute as she hurried past him into the lift that carried her to the fifth floor, away from that sly grin and those prying eyes.

She asked the other secretaries what they thought about him. Whether they too felt uneasy in his presence?

‘He’s an oddball but harmless,’ said her friend Jenny. ‘Likes to pretend he was a war hero. Got shot in the leg on active service during the Gulf War. Or so he says.’

‘Is that why he limps?’

Jenny shrugged. ‘I have my doubts. Probably just looking for sympathy from some young female.’ She grinned. ‘And I reckon he’s taken a fancy to you.’

It was said jokingly, but Angela was not amused. She shivered at the thought of being singled out by this strange man.

When the sun shone she liked to get out of her stuffy office and picnic in the park at lunchtime – sometimes with Jenny and sometimes alone. On two different occasions she thought she saw the Sergeant Major standing by the gate at the entrance to the park, looking in her direction. But she wasn’t completely certain.

‘Are you sure you saw him?’ asked Jenny. ‘You don’t think you’re getting just a tiny bit over-anxious about him?’

Angela tried to laugh it off; told herself that she was imagining it. Or maybe it was just a coincidence?

But during the next few weeks a series of events happened which were more than just a coincidence.

On her birthday her colleagues at work took her out for a celebratory lunch at the local Italian restaurant. They gave her birthday cards and the usual gifts such as perfume and inexpensive costume jewellery. And when she got home she found another parcel waiting for her on the doorstep – no stamps, no address label. Simply marked “For the birthday girl”.

Inside the parcel was a typed card reading, “Sorry I missed the birthday lunch. Hope my little gift gives you as much enjoyment as it did me!”

The word ‘enjoyment’ was underlined in red and the card lay on top of a lilac-and-black basque with matching suspender belt and G string.

At first she thought it was from her boyfriend, Nicholas. But she’d only known him for two months and he wasn’t the sort who would search through the lingerie section of the local department store for such a dubious and intimate present.

No, this was the type of thing a man would buy from one of those seedy catalogues aimed at sexually frustrated males. She could imagine a male hand touching it, feeling it, before he put it in the parcel which he delivered personally to her front door.

The thought made her shiver with revulsion, and she automatically let the parcel fall from her hands.

When she arrived at work next day she was determined to face up to Peter Cartwright and ask him if he had sent the parcel. She expected to see him in the entrance hall, giving her that ridiculous salute and that inane grin. But he wasn’t there.

‘Phoned in earlier this morning,’ explained the other commissionaire. ‘Wasn’t feeling too well. Probably one of those twenty-four hour bugs that are going around. Should be back by tomorrow, Miss.’

Part of her was angry at his absence but another part was relieved. What if he denied sending the parcel? She couldn’t prove anything, could she? And he might complain to her boss about being falsely accused.

By the end of the day she had calmed down a little and decided to forget the incident.

As she left the office building it started to rain – a heavy downpour which quickly developed into a fierce storm. There was no chance of getting a taxi and the queues for buses were twice as long as normal. She would have to walk to the railway station. It would take about twenty minutes but there was no alternative.

Hurrying along the busy street, hidden beneath her umbrella, she tried to avoid the umbrellas of people coming in the opposite direction. It was like knights on horseback charging at each other with multi-coloured lances.

When she glanced up to see if it was safe to cross the road, she noticed a tall man in a black raincoat walking along the other side of the road.

It was the way he moved that attracted her attention – slowly, awkwardly. Like a lame horse that avoids putting too much weight on a tender foot. She couldn’t see his face. The collar of his raincoat was turned up. But she knew it was him. She was sure it was him.

She tried to cross the road but the constant flow of traffic prevented her, and by the time she managed to get to the other side the dark-coated figure had hobbled out of sight. With tears of anger and frustration she continued walking to the railway station, and it was only when she arrived home and closed the front door behind her that she felt safe from those prying eyes.

The first thing she did was check all the doors and windows. They all seemed secure. Then she removed her raincoat, kicked off her damp shoes, and walked upstairs to the bathroom where she switched on the shower and allowed the water to run while she got undressed.

The heat of the water helped to soothe her tense body and wash away some of the nervous frustration of the past two hours. She stayed in the shower much longer than normal, until she felt relaxed both physically and mentally.

Stepping out of the shower she automatically reached for the pink bathrobe hanging behind the door. But it wasn’t there.

For a moment she was uncertain what to do. Standing with water dripping from her hair, her face, her naked body, she was like a timid fawn looking nervously around her with worried brown eyes.

She always kept her bathrobe there. On the hook behind the door. She had another robe -- in the airing cupboard – which she used when the pink one was being washed.

Maybe that’s what happened? Maybe she’d put the pink one in the basket next to the washing machine ready for washing? Her mind was so bewildered these days.

Wrapping a large towel around her, she went downstairs to the kitchen. But the pink bathrobe wasn’t in the basket with the other clothes waiting to be washed. It was lying neatly folded in the pile of items already ironed.

Strange? She couldn’t remember washing it. But she must have done. And then forgotten to put it back in the bathroom again.

Her hands were trembling nervously. Her head was spinning with confusion. What she needed was a cup of hot, strong coffee. An injection of caffeine to calm her nerves.

Everything else in the kitchen was in its usual place. The electric kettle stood on the ceramic surface near the window; her favourite coffee mug was in the small cupboard under the sink; the jar of instant coffee was next to the kettle.

The only thing missing was the sugar which she kept in the ornate glass bowl her mother gave her years ago. The bowl was in its usual place, but empty. She must have forgotten to fill it. And there was no more in the larder. Well, it was too late to worry about such a minor thing. She’d buy some more sugar tomorrow on her way home from work.

When she awoke next morning and opened the bedroom curtains she saw a grey sky with dark clouds threatening rain. Remembering the awful journey the previous day, she decided to go to work by car. The roads would be crowded with commuters but at least she could park in the large underground car-park beneath the office building. It was a rather dismal place -- grey concrete and badly lit. But she was lucky to have somewhere to park these days.

Peter Cartwright was back on duty in the entrance hall and she wondered whether to question him about the parcel left on her doorstep. But he was talking to one of the company directors in that subservient, obsequious way he had when dealing with the bosses, so she decided not to intervene.

For the rest of the day she was too busy to think about Peter Cartwright or anything else. There was a major panic in the office to complete the details for a multi-million pound construction contract. Angela’s boss asked if she could work late to get the document finished.

When the last page of the contract was typed and printed, she felt both relieved and pleased with herself. The hard work had driven out the nasty thoughts she’d been having about Peter Cartwright.

Her boss thanked her for staying late and said he’d arrange for one of the company cars to take her home.

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my own car. In the company car park. But thanks all the same.’

When the doors of the elevator opened at basement level, she hesitated before stepping out into the semi-darkness of that large concrete area.

Normally the place was full of cars, but at this time of the evening only four cars remained; standing like forlorn toys abandoned by their owners.

Her own car was in the far right-hand corner of the place; about seventy yards away. As she walked towards it the only sound was the clicking of her high-heels echoing off the concrete walls.

Fumbling in her handbag for the car keys, her fingers twitched nervously.The keys fell to the floor. She bent down to retrieve them, reaching close to the rear tyre. And as she stood up she heard footsteps, running; felt a man’s arm encircle her neck from behind; felt his body hard up against her and heard his harsh voice saying ‘Don’t scream, bitch!’

She wanted to scream. She tried to scream. But his arm pressed tighter and tighter against her throat, so all she could manage was a harsh, croaking sound as she fought to get air into her lungs.

She was going to die. Strangled. Raped. By that repulsive pervert. That twisted little ---

‘Get off her!’

The voice came from far away; the other side of the car park. And then footsteps; hurrying; uneven.

She felt the arm round her throat relax; fall away. Then her attacker was running; fast; away from her; towards the exit.

She watched the back of the man disappear up the slope leading to the street outside.Then two hands stretched out to catch her as she collapsed against the car and slid towards the floor; unconscious.

It was the noise of traffic and the steady hum of the car engine that brought her back to consciousness. She was lying on the back seat of a car; her body covered by a black raincoat and her head cushioned by a man’s jacket. Cartwright’s jacket.

‘Where am I?’ she asked.

‘Soon be home,’ he answered.

‘What…What happened?’

‘A junkie…Hiding in the car park… Tried to mug you.’

‘Did you catch him?’

‘No. He was too fast for me. But I scared the hell out of him.’ He reached across and picked up the handgun from the passenger seat. ‘Only a replica. But he didn’t know that.’ And he gave an odd little giggle.

She had been about to thank him, but that strange giggle was the sort of sound a naughty schoolboy would make as he pulled the legs off a captive spider. So she kept quiet and watched the houses flashing past outside.

He’d said he was taking her ‘home’. But whose home? Hers…or his?

Then she recognised the area and knew they were close to the road where she lived.

When he stopped outside her house she had to wait until he got out first to open the rear door for her.

‘Thank you,’ she said ‘ for what you did. And for bringing me home.’ She held out her hand as if to shake hands with him, but he gripped her arm and led her forcibly up the short path to her front door.

What could she do? How could she handle the situation? The man had probably saved her life but all she wanted to do was get rid of him. Get him out of her house.

She watched him sort through a bunch of keys – her keys. The keys she’d dropped in the car park. He must have picked them up… Or did he already have a spare set?

She felt guilty about being suspicious and about the way she’d treated him in the past. She could be lying dead in that car park if he hadn’t intervened and put his own life at risk.

Or had he?

Still gripping her arm, he led her into the house, her home – the place which until recently had been a safe haven but was now a place of captivity.

She noticed that when he closed the front door he also locked it. ‘Better to be on the safe side, ‘ he said. ‘Don’t want strangers creeping up on you again, do we?’

And again that strange, demented giggle.

‘Why don’t you go upstairs? Have a nice shower?’ He licked his lips, slowly. ‘And change into something more relaxing…more interesting? And I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.’

His voice was thick with lust. He was enjoying being alone with her and enjoying the uncertainty in her eyes.

Was this some sort of cruel game, she thought? Was the whole thing just a pretence? A means of winning her over by pretending to save her life from an accomplice?

Or had she become so paranoid that she convinced herself that Cartwright had organised that whole charade in the car park? Had delivered that erotic birthday gift to her front door? Had actually entered her house and handled her bathrobe, her dresses, her panties?

It was too ludicrous, too far-fetched to be true. But the fear factor still remained.

‘Here we are,’ he announced as he opened the door to her bedroom and saw her looking down at the intimate clothes in her drawer. ‘Just what you need to get over the shock. A nice cup of hot, sweet, tea.’

As he held out the tray she noticed the ornate glass bowl now filled to the brim with pure, white sugar.

And then she was sure. And she screamed.