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6pm, December 22nd, 1989.

In the East London suburb of Walthamstow, a Friday evening.

39-year-old Terry Gooderham and his 32-year-old girlfriend, Maxine Arnold,

are having an early dinner at their apartment before heading out to meet Maxine's mother violet for a Christmas drink.

They're a glamorous couple, typical London up-and-comers.

Terry's an accountant and stock taker, while Maxine works in the city's booming insurance trade.

Around 6.45pm, though, the night takes the turn.

Maxine receives a call.

It's one of her colleagues, she says, but she's tense,

and she tells Terry they have to go somewhere. They have to do it now. The pair rush out the

door, their food half-eatered. Maxine doesn't grab her purse, nor Terry his wallet. They climb into Terry's black Mercedes

and they head away from town, towards Epping Forest, a 6,000 acres slither of ancient woodland

that pokes into northeast London like a knife. Something's not right. In fact, something is deeply is deeply deeply off folks spot the Mercedes

bering erratically and flashing its lights between 715 and 745 p as Maxine and Terry head out

of London some even say they can see a man in the back seat. They're wrong.

In fact, there are two men crouched in the back of the car.

Later that evening, Violet stopped by the couple's flat.

It's not like Terry and Maxine to miss a night out,

and when Violet takes a look around, alarm bells ring. There's food out, the gas

...