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The timing was just about right. It was early evening and the sun was setting in a blaze of colour, tinting the clouds a multiplicity of shades. A painter would be in ecstasies over the view, but that was not what I was here for.

She must have thought she was safe, strolling along the banks of the local lake, stopping occasionally as her dog sniffed something interesting, or to watch him chase after the stick she threw for him to retrieve.

She was dressed sensibly in heavy cord jeans and a warm coat. The evenings were cool here once the sun had gone down, and dusk soon became night. I walked casually towards her, and she didn't notice me at first. When she did a frown creased her brow.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, checking her step slightly as she came abreast of me.

I didn't reply, but grabbed her arm, none too gently as I didn't want her to break away from my grip. She struggled, and cried out, but she was no match for me, and soon I had frog marched her to my car.

"Get in!" I shouted as I opened the door. She didn't want to, but again my superior strength told and I forced her into the back seat. The dog had followed us, and made to jump into the car as well.

Slamming the door I yelled, "Stay." He looked at me nonplussed, but obeyed, settling onto his haunches in the short grass, watching as I drove off.

The woman was becoming enraged by now, demanding to know what I thought I was doing. I didn't answer, but drove as fast as I dared to where all the answers to her questions would become crystal clear.

I had previously sussed out the derelict block of apartments that I was headed for, making one of them in particular very secure.

Sometime later I was dragging her up the stairs, and settling her into her new accommodation. If my plan worked, and I was sure that it would, no one would ever find her here, at least not until it was much too late.

The door locked and her screams fading into the distance, I drove home. She would be fairly comfortable; I had made sure of that. A bed, a chair, a pantry stocked with food and even a radio so she could follow the frantic search for her on the local station. That tickled my fancy, I would be able to lie in my bed and envisage her struggling to hold on to her sanity. She had always been on the verge of a nervous breakdown when we lived together,

I had expected the police to contact me earlier, but it was almost two days before they came knocking on my door.

"Yes officer," I replied, "What is it?" He didn't answer, but strode none too gently past me into the hallway. I noticed that his companion only partly followed him, staying behind me as I swung round to face the first man.

"We are here to take you down to the station on suspicion of kidnapping your former wife." He grabbed my arm, but I broke free and tried to get out of the front door. The other policeman had chosen his position well though, and I had no chance.

The interview room was sparsely furnished, just a table, a couple of chairs. I noticed the usual tape recorder fastened to the wall as I was ordered to sit down.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," I blustered, determined to bluff it out. I told them that my former wife lived a long way away from me, and anyway I never saw her these days.

The sergeant sneered, "Your wife was released this morning after we were contacted by some alert children. She states that you kidnapped and imprisoned her in the block of flats." He paused, then played his trump card. "You really should have done something about the dog, he followed you, then sat outside the flats howling and barking until the children

Maybe I should have killed the dog, but I loved him. He had been my only solace in our marriage as my wife's love for me died.

I enjoyed John's story and congratulate him on being first up. I have one or two points to make which I hope are constructive.
There is little sense of conflict at the beginning of the story and it is only towards the very end of the piece that we discover the relationship between Peterson and the woman.

Perhaps by starting the story at the second paragraph and by using the woman's first name instead of 'she' a relationship would have been established. She is not a stranger to the narrator. The tension would have been built up by going next to the preparations Peterson had made to make the derelict flat secure and to stock it before returning to the 'action'.

But is there not a little inconsistency in 'no one would find her at least not until it was too late' and his provision of the wherewithal to keep her alive?

I liked the dog's part in the rescue. What a pity that we did not know more about him, like name, colour, even breed. After all, he meant a lot to Peterson.