Theft? Internal? Phone Jake.

Helen Barton checked her watch again. Twenty minutes had elapsed since she last tried her husband's phone number. Frustrated, she tapped out a brief staccato on the photocopy of an invoice. Her pencilled notes scribbled hastily in the margin, summed up her confusion.

The invoice was for Glen Transport-the transport company contracted to deliver the Prebble Snackfood Company's raw goods. It seemed to indicate the unauthorised removal of finished product. Weird. Only Phillmore Transport carried the contract for finished product. Could it have something to do with the tonnage discrepancy the accounting department was investigating? That the original invoice had disappeared just after she'd photocopied it was even more worrisome.

She leaned back in the chair and sighed. Her husband, Jake, would know what to do, but his flight must be late. It was the only reason he wouldn't have his phone on.

Frowning, she rose from the chair, absently folding the photocopy in half and fanning herself with it. She just didn't have an investigative mind like Jake's. His whole world was industrial espionage. He was used to it. She threw the paper on the seat of the chair and walked from the study into the kitchen. Tea always calmed her.

The ceiling light cast a warm glow around the well-organised kitchen. Herb canisters sat neatly arranged on a small shelf over the stove. The sweet citrus smell of fresh oranges purchased earlier that day permeated the room. She always tried to have fresh food on hand whenever Jake was due home from overseas. She loved to spoil him. Absently she plucked a seedless grape from the bunch in the bowl and popped it into her mouth. Her nose screwed up. It was tart, still too green.

Helen smiled at the thought of his homecoming. The house was far too silent when he was away. She peered at her reflection in the darkened window, and pushed a lock of hair back behind one ear. A movement beyond reach of the kitchen light caught her attention. She leaned over the bench trying to see into the night. "Gonzo? Is that you? Here, puddy-puddy."

Straightening, she stepped quickly into the laundry room, her high heels clacking on the tiles. She spoke affectionately as she unlocked the back door. "C'mon, puss. It's past dinnertime. Where have you been?"

The door exploded inward, its edge smashing against her hip. She slammed against the wall. Her scream of pain was silent, shock and surprise choking off all sound.

She opened her mouth to scream again. The masked man in the open doorway swung his arm, knocking her sideways into the washing machine. Skin tore as her temple struck the metal corner. Warm blood coated her face. Her vision blurring, her head ringing with echoing, sickening pain, she sank to the floor. "No," she thought through rising panic. "This can't be happening."

The intruder hauled her to her feet and propelled her through the kitchen and into the study. He smelled of Old Spice after-shave. "I know that scent. Who?" She staggered and would have fallen, except for the brutal grip like steel talons tearing into her bicep.

"Please, don't hurt me," she sobbed. "There's money in my purse." Tears streamed down her face, mingling with blood.

His eyes glared at her from two slits in the dark mask stretched over his head.

"So familiar?" she thought through her pain. "And the smell?"

Movement just beyond the kitchen doorway gave her hope. Terror revitalised her-fed off her panic. She tore free and lunged toward the front window. One step, then the intruder yanked her back, jerking her around to face him. She put up an arm to defend herself.

Helen saw the flash of bright steel as he grunted in surprise. A tug on her clothing-a pressure on her stomach-a sting that lasted only an instant. How strange. She slumped to the floor. I can feel the knife inside me, but there's no pain. It's like having a tooth pulled under anaesthetic. The intruder stood in apparent shock, first peering at her, then at the bloodied knife.

"Fool," a male voice from somewhere behind her said. "Get on with it."

The man whirled and yanked the chair out from the desk. He scattered paperwork, searching through her briefcase and desk drawers. Her blurring gaze followed the folded photocopy as it fluttered to the floor near to her.

He skimmed through folders, tossing them onto the floor as he discarded them. One landed on top of the photocopied invoice, covering it.

Please let Jake find it, she prayed, as an ebony veil closed over her eyes.