slamming his body upright against it. The whistling came from somewhere to his left; it sounded distant and higher up than he was. Could the lunatic still be perched on the platform, whistling his deranged tune to no one in particular? Or had he seen that Heck was alive down here and was he seeking to torment him again? Heck held his position for several minutes, fresh sweat forming in globules on his brow, stinging his wounded temple. Slowly, the whistling dwindled, as though the whistler was moving off into the distance. That didn’t prove anything of course – it certainly hadn’t done the last time.
It still seemed likely the guy had some kind of thermal-imaging device. It was too much of a risk to assume anything else. Holding his breath, Heck dashed away from the tree, determinedly following the course of the beck. His body was briefly re-flushed with adrenaline, which helped him overcome his bumps and sprains, but the stony ground along the water’s edge proved difficult. He slipped and tripped, turning his ankles repeatedly. The beck snaked constantly from side to side, at some points narrowing, at others broadening until he couldn’t see the far bank. The fog was burdensome beyond description, hanging in dingy drapes. Again, it dulled Heck’s senses, reducing his ability to read position or distance. He’d been lumbering along the waterside for what seemed like minutes now, but with no idea how far he might have travelled, or how far he might still have to go. Again thirsty, he moved back to the water’s edge and knelt down to drink, at which point what he first thought was a twisted rock form on the far side appeared to resolve itself into a human outline.
Heck went rigid, his hair prickling.
Then he relaxed a little. He’d been caught out like this before, of course. Such conditions as these were ideal for optical illusions. He swigged another handful of water, then blinked twice, focusing on the shape again, trying to discern exactly what it was. And slowly turned numb as he realised he’d been right the first time.
Someone was standing on the other side of the beck. A strong, stocky figure, clad head to foot in black. Even as he gazed at the figure, it raised its right hand as though to point at him – but it wasn’t pointing a finger.
The muzzle-flash was blinding; the sound of the shot thundered between the valley walls, the impact on the tree beside Heck cacophonous as a slug kicked out a wad of splinters. He ducked away, running blindly, zigzagging through the trees. A second shot followed, equally loud. The missile whipped past, ricocheting from a boulder.
There was a loud splashing as someone waded across the beck.
Heck glanced over his shoulder. Briefly the fog screened them from each other. He changed direction, haring back towards the water, plunging in to his knees and wading in the opposite direction, barely breaking speed as he stumbled up onto dry ground again. On this side, the hillside was near enough sheer, so he had no option but to keep following the beck. At least the going here was softer, pillows of pine needles silencing his footfalls. A third shot roared behind him, but Heck couldn’t tell where this bullet went. The bastard might have thermal vision, but he clearly wasn’t the best marksman.
Not that it would matter if he managed to get close.
There was a renewed splashing. The guy was also coming back across, by the sounds of it at speed.
Heck lengthened his own stride. Now the strip of land he was following broadened out, the upward slope on his left furling away. The cover of the trees fell behind, and suddenly he was heading downhill onto open moorland. But even here there was no easy escape. The ground undulated, and was covered in tussocky grass that was slick with icy dew. He slid to a halt, desperately trying to get his bearings. His heart thudded in his chest, drowning out all other noise. He spun first to the left, then to the right, scanning the grey emptiness and seeing nothing. But this killer was adept at stealing up on people. It was impossible to imagine he wasn’t somewhere close by.
Heck dropped to a crouch.
And heard the whistling again.
That haunting, old-time melody drifted through the dead air, emanating from somewhere to his rear, perhaps thirty or forty yards away. Instead of running on in a straight line, Heck went left, keeping low. Some sixty yards further on, he stopped and sank down again.
The whistling had ceased, which somehow was even more eerie.
Heck scampered on, and half a second later the squat, angular outline of a single-storeyed building loomed into his path. He skidded to a halt.
It was actually less than single storey, and built in the familiar dry-stone style, indicating it was a farm outbuilding of some sort. He groped his way around its exterior. On the far side there was a small enclosure, a corral about twenty yards by thirty, fenced with old planking. A sheep fold, Heck realised. From this side, the building, which was nothing more than a shelter, stood wide open. He vaulted the fence and entered, digging out his phone to try and make use of its fascia light, wondering if he might be able to put his hand on a weapon: a pitchfork or scythe, though neither seemed likely, given that up here it was mainly sheep-farming.
What he did find, however, was even better.
In the dim green glow, there were two large, bulky objects shrouded by musty canvas. He lugged the first sheet away, exposing the tarnished metal frame of an ATV, or quad-bike. It was battered and dinted all over, caked with mud and grass-pulp, suggesting it was used for working rather than posing. But even at first glance he could identify a powerful model, most likely with a four-stroke engine. When he tore the second sheet away, there was a similar machine.
Even more useful, keys hung from both their ignition ports.
The road trailed interminably on as Hazel and Gemma slogged heavy-footed along it. They’d barely exchanged a word since the argument about Heck, but were now so drained that even feeling hostile towards each other felt like too much of an effort.
‘You hungry, by any chance?’ Hazel delved into one of her jacket pockets.
Gemma shrugged. ‘Nothing a chicken dinner with all the trimmings wouldn’t fix.’
‘All I’ve got is this.’ Hazel handed over a thick white slab wrapped in blue and silver foil.
Gemma took it from her. ‘Kendal Mint Cake … haven’t had this since I was a kid.’
‘It’s icky-sweet, but it’s good energy food.’
Gemma nibbled at it. It was ultra-sugary and strongly flavoured with peppermint, but it went down well. Remarkably quickly, she felt stronger, even sturdier on her feet. She took another two large bites. ‘You always carry this around?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, living up here,’ Hazel said.
Gemma wrapped what remained of the confection in its foil, and handed it back.
There was an awkward silence, and then she said: ‘Despite everything that’s happened tonight, you seem like a nice lady, Hazel. If things work out between you and Heck, I’ll be very happy for you.’
Hazel didn’t initially reply. She wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t ultimately hope for that. Like Mark, she’d entered this arrangement in adult, open-minded fashion. They’d been attracted to each other, they’d enjoyed the mutual company, the no-strings sex. They’d neither been looking for much more than that. But the better you got to know someone, the more your emotional relationship to them changed.
‘You honestly don’t have feelings for him yourself?’ Hazel asked.
‘Heck makes that difficult,’ Gemma replied.
‘That isn’t answering the question.’
‘Look …’ Gemma shrugged. ‘I know it sounds terrible, but … Heck would like to come home each night after a long, tough day at work, to find his beautiful wife wearing heels and a miniskirt while she cooks him an excellent supper. Not because he’s sexist or a chauvinist. He isn’t. But because that’s the only thing that’s