He walked back down the lane, past the van to the five-barred gate. It rattled and shook as he climbed over. Five or six black and white Friesians stood flicking their ears in the shade of an oak tree, chewing the cud, saliva dripping from their soft mouths as they stared at him. He looked at his watch and then at the sun: it was just touching the top of the oak tree. Boyd headed across on his rough bearing towards a hawthorn bush on the far side of the field. Beyond the hawthorn hedge was a small coppice of silver birches, and bending low he hurried towards it.
The copse had been allowed to run wild and thin saplings grew everywhere, with runners slanting up from the roots of established trees to impede his movements. At the edge of the copse he stood just behind the outer clump of trees.
Forty or fifty yards ahead of him he could see the marksman. He was dressed in a loose brown suede jacket and lightweight slacks. His rifle was on the grass beside and in front of him, turned on its side, its thin leather strap already looped to take his hand. The butt was custom-made, so was the cheek rest. As Boyd watched, the man lifted the rifle, pulled it to his shoulder, and raising his head he looked through the telescopic sights. He held the rifle there for a minute or so and then placed it back on the grass. The rifle had been aimed at the concrete slabs where he would have parked the car.
Slowly and quietly Boyd went back through the copse and skirted around it away from the sun. It was beginning to set, casting long shadows from the trees, and Boyd sat waiting for the light to go.
Almost an hour later he moved off in the darkness, heading towards the orchard at the back of the cottage. A tangle of wild blackberry bushes snagged at his clothes as he reached the first of the ancient apple trees. Their branches were so low that he had to crawl. The thick overgrown grass was wet with dew and his trousers clung heavily to his legs when he eventually stood up. He could see the back of the cottage, barely distinguishable in the special darkness of dusk before the moon comes up. There would almost certainly be a man at the back of the cottage. And then as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw what could be the shadowy shape of a man at the near corner of the cottage. He waited, breathing shallowly and then the shadow moved. There were no lights on anywhere in the cottage but there could be someone inside. He would have to take this first man with his hands, or the marksman would be around to help him.
Boyd turned up the collar of his jacket to hide the light colour of his shirt. He moved forward slowly on all fours, and then a hand grabbed at his ankle and a heavy body flung itself on top of him. He twisted to one side as a hand grasped at his throat. As he bent his legs to fend off the man a boot landed deep in his belly, and above him a man called out. Boyd reached out for where the face must be and the man grunted as Boyd’s fingers scraped his face and then grabbed for his throat. The man twisted violently but Boyd’s strong fingers were squeezing his wind-pipe. Slowly his fingers pressed on the man’s throat until he felt him sagging heavily on top of him. Then a boot crashed against Boyd’s head, stunning him temporarily, a torch shone on his face and a voice said, “That’s him. Go on.” As the muzzle of the gun jabbed at his eye the pain was almost like an anaesthetic and when the bullet crashed into his skull he didn’t even feel it. He died instantly with no need for a second shot, and as Carter looked down to the pool of light from his torch he saw Boyd’s right hand shaking violently as the last messages from his nervous system did their work. The fingers closed, gripping tightly, and then they relaxed, spreading out again in the wet grass.
Grabowski gripped his gun tighter and smashed his foot against the cottage door. It swung open easily and he realized that it hadn’t been locked. He glanced around the living room and walked through to the old-fashioned scullery. There were used plates and mugs and dirty cutlery in a red plastic bowl filled with water, and all the signs that this was where they had been, but there was no sign of Symons.
Walking back into the living room he saw the narrow flight of stairs. Slowly and cautiously, peering upwards, the gun pushed forward, he made his way up the stairs. The first bedroom was empty, the second bedroom was locked. Bracing his back against the wall he put his foot up beside the lock and pushed. For a second the door held before it sprang open. Symons was lying on the bed, his hands behind his back, his ankles roped together, and a roughly cut piece of foam rubber sticking out of his mouth. His face was bruised and bloody, his nose swollen to twice its normal size.
There was a gush of blood from Symons’s mouth as Grabowski pulled out the gag and he moaned softly as Grabowski turned him over to release his hands. When he saw the handcuffs Grabowski turned him onto his back again and putting the gun on the bed he untied the ropes binding Symons’s ankles.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible. I think he’s broken my nose. Why did it take so long?”
“It’s only been a few days.”
“Can you get a key for these handcuffs, they’ve cut into my wrists.”
“I’ll have to get a key from the local police.”
“Where’s Boyd?”
“He’s dead.”
“For Christ’s sake. What happened?”
“He was shot.”
“Who shot
