Something rose in front of him, large and white...
He stood still, heart-thumping, prepared for flight as a solitary sheep rushed off bleating at his approach.
He breathed again. Then the sound of hoofs, heavy this time.
A stray horse, riderless, swerved from his path, whinnied and disappeared.
Another shadow.
A man. The outline of head and shoulders, a soft-moving, gliding shadow.
'Hector! Hector?' he called. 'Over here.'
The air behind him was cut by a whirring sound. Instinctively, swiftly, he ducked and the arrow that was to have killed him struck his shoulder. He felt the searing agony as he staggered and tried to reach the shaft of the arrow, to drag it out, aware that he was the target for an excellent archer, one who could take his time killing him.
Through his own folly, he was going to die.
He should have listened to Vince, heeded more carefully the clues that had come his way, that pointed undeniably to the killer...
He heard the next arrow's flight and dropped to the ground. Through the pain, he began coughing. He felt the warm blood flowing and as the blackness of merciful unconsciousness enveloped him he fainted away.
The blackness was invaded by light, sound and smell.
He opened his eyes. At least he wasn't dead, pain told him that he was still alive. He lifted his head. It was an animal noise that had stirred him, the pounding of hoofs reverberating on the ground near him.
And then he saw it. Running towards him, the heavy head, the shining horns. For one second only, he thought he dreamed again, that this was yet another return to childhood's nightmare. But this was no shaggy red Highland beast. The animal that bore down on him with its acrid stench was the terrible reality of a white king bull.
He could not rise, in the grip of that same paralysis of nightmare. He was transfixed by fear, fear greater than the searing agony in his shoulder.
If only he could leap up... run... run...
And then clearly across the years he heard the voice of his aunt from that Deeside croft.
'Never run, lad. Never do that. The only way you can save yourself is to lie as still as you can. Play dead. Don't even breathe. He'll sniff at you and, if you don't move, he'll give up and go away.'
Nightmare had blocked that memory, had turned it into a screaming horror. Now in the face of death again, the words had returned razor sharp, undimmed by the passing years. Knowing this was his only hope of survival, he almost lost consciousness again in those heart-stopping moments when the beast's hoofs trampled the ground inches away from his face.
He felt its hot, stinking breath on his neck, drips of saliva on his hair. Its nose touched the arrow shaft, questing, and he bit his lip hard against the scream of agony.
The smell of blood. Was that what it sought before lowering its horns into his back, lifting him bodily from the ground...
Every second seemed like an eternity as he waited for that terrible death.
O God - God help me...
And like a miracle, his prayer was answered. By a single gunshot. A second...
The animal grunted, lifted its nose from its quest over his body. Then he heard the hoofs beating on the ground. Growing distant.
Then no more.
No more.
Chapter 27
When he opened his eyes, it was to pain. He screamed against it but was glad even to feel pain. He was still alive.
Turning his head cautiously, he looked into the face of Imogen Crowe who held the arrow she had dragged out of his shoulder.
'I didn't know you could handle a gun.'
'Oh yes,' she smiled sarcastically. 'I use one all the time. We're never without them where I come from in Ireland. But surely you as a policeman know that.'
She lifted her head. 'Here they are. Hector's brought Dr Brand. He'll soon have you mended.' She pointed towards the fence. 'I don't know about Sergeant Yarrow. He's lying over there. In a bad way, I'm afraid.'
The two men were supported into Hector's cottage and much later, after a lot of blood and bandages, the doctor smiled at Faro.
'You're a brave man and you'll live. That shoulder will be sore for a while, but the arrow just skimmed the muscle, went sideways. You were lucky.' He looked towards the bedroom. 'Luckier than poor Yarrow.'
'Is he -'
Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not yet. But it won't be long. Took a haemorrhage from the lungs. Wouldn't listen to advice. Are you able to stand?'
'Of course.' Faro tried to swing his legs off the sofa, failed and decided against another attempt.
Dr Brand smiled. 'I couldn't help noticing as I was patching you up that you have many scars, you must have lived a very dangerous life for an insurance assessor.'
'It has its problems.'
Dr Brand nodded towards the bedroom. 'Sergeant Yarrow would like to see you.'
Faro nodded. 'Where's Miss Crowe?'
'She's in the garden. With Hector.'
'I owe her my life, you know. She scared that damned bull away.'
'You're wrong on two accounts, lad. It was Hector fired the gun. And it wasn't the king bull or you wouldn't be telling the tale. It was a cow. Maybe a young heifer.'
'A cow?'
'Yes, but her horns are just as sharp, and she can be just as dangerous. Fortunately, like all females, she suffers from curiosity. Her mate might not have wasted so much time sniffing around you.'
Faro shuddered. 'I must thank Hector.'
Dr Brad shook his head. 'Not now. See the Sergeant first. There may not be much time before Dewar gets here.'
Faro went into the bedroom quietly. At first he thought he was too late, that Yarrow was dead.
There was so little life in the face, so little difference from
