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It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Speeding through the city streets, Emilia felt stronger, happier, younger even, as if facing her nemesis, confronting her trauma, had rejuvenated her.

Only now did she realize how the events of the past, her rage, her bitterness, her sense of injustice, had coloured every aspect of her life, making her cynical, defensive and wary.

It seemed incredible to her now that she hadn’t realized this before, her past mistakes all too evidently a product of childhood trauma.

Now, however, it felt as if all that pain, that heartache, had just slipped away, as if it had never even existed.

A professional scribe, Emilia worked hard to avoid cliché, but today really did feel like the first day of the rest of her life.

And the fun wasn’t over yet. In fact, the best was yet to come.

Gripping the wheel, she kept one eye glued to her phone, relieved to see that the little blue dot was still stationary.

As it had been thirty minutes ago and thirty minutes before that.

She had lost count of the number of times she’d checked it since she left the Westquay, but the result remained the same.

Unless Emilia was badly off beam, unless the tracking device had fallen off or been discovered, the progress of her nemesis was clear.

Having left their meeting, he had headed east, out of the city, making his way to Dearham Farm, a nondescript place which used to grow arable crops, but now seemed to be some kind of recycling centre or waste disposal facility.

She could think of nicer places in the Hampshire countryside to spend the night, but as long as the Dutchman stayed put, Emilia wasn’t complaining.

Pushing down hard on the accelerator, she sped on.

Initially, she’d been tempted to call the police, the safest course of action given her attacker’s track record, but in the end her journalistic instincts had won out, hence her mission to seek out the farm now.

She wanted more – she wanted to know what he was up to now, who he was working with and in what manner of inventive ways she might ruin his life.

He thought he’d won, he thought he’d forced her hand, but she was determined to have the last laugh.

Only when she was sure what she was dealing with, how best to ensure his total downfall, would she consider calling in the authorities.

She had no desire to confront him herself, but she would make sure she was on hand to witness his arrest, her faithful Nikon poised to capture the magic moment.

She was making good progress, using her local knowledge to avoid the predictable bottlenecks.

Soon, she was crossing the Itchen Toll Bridge, her nervous energy rising as she hastened to the inevitable showdown.

Had her whole adult life been leading to this moment?

Emilia couldn’t answer that for sure, but it certainly felt that way.

Suppressing her anxiety, she drove on, rehearsing in her head what she would say to her tormentor when he was dragged off, what sweet morsels of abuse she might muster.

But she had barely completed her first mental denunciation when her phone started ringing, the announcement of an Unknown Number suddenly impeding her view of the tracking app.

Angry, she rejected the call, relieved to see the little blue dot re-appear.

Moments later, however, her phone rang again: the same, persistent Unknown Caller.

‘Bloody hell …’ Emilia muttered, as she stabbed Accept. ‘Emilia Garantia. How can I help?’

She was keen to be rid of them, her tone harsh and imperious, prompting the caller to hesitate.

‘Well?’ she demanded impatiently.

‘Ms Garanita, it’s Sarah Fuller here. I’m the governor at HMP Winchester.’

Taken aback, Emilia slowed the car, suddenly confused and concerned. Her mystification was short-lived, however, the governor adding in a solemn tone:

‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your father passed away this afternoon.’