His eyes were closed. She stared round in the darkness, feeling suddenly terribly alone. But she knew what she must do: get the hook out, now, while he was unconscious. Biting her lip in concentration, she wedged the torch so the beam shone on his foot and groped in her pocket for the knife. The trainer laces were easy after the fishing line; and the fabric of the shoe itself was not much tougher. Cutting carefully round the hook she managed to remove the shoe and straighten the twisted foot which was blackening and swollen. She wondered if it was broken. Swallowing the wave of nausea which threatened to overwhelm her, she gently lifted the remaining flap of the shoe and stared down at the hook. It had gone completely through his foot. There was no question of trying to pull it out the way it had gone in. The cruel barb on the end of the hook was half out of the top of his foot, wedged between two tendons. ‘Dear God.’ For a moment she wondered what to do. There was no choice. Taking as much care as she could not to jolt his foot further, she sliced the remaining length of line where it was knotted around the hook and began to ease the hook into the cold white flesh, pushing it right through his foot.

What kind of bastards left this stuff lying around on the beach to ensnare anyone or anything who walked there after them? She thought of the gull, drowned and cold, its feet laced together with nylon mesh. And this – a line of hooks abandoned by someone who had no doubt decided to go off to the chip shop somewhere down the coast and couldn’t be bothered to take his line with him. The heat of anger which washed through her as she worked took her mind off the task she was performing. She wanted to push her hair out of her eyes – long strands of it had pulled free of her scarf – but she ignored them grimly. She had to do this and somehow bandage his foot before he came round, and before, she glanced at the torch, the battery failed. The hook slipped free surprisingly easily. Behind it the wound began to ooze with fresh, dark blood. She tore off her scarf then she fumbled in her pockets, searching for the small pack of tissues she had wedged there days earlier. They were still there. She tore several out of the cellophane and folded them carefully into two pads, one for the entry wound and one for the exit, then she bound them in place with the scarf. She wound the ends round and round his ankle, trying to tie it tightly, then she knotted it again and again. As she wrenched the last knot tight the torchbeam gave up and went out. She flopped back on the beach, wrapping her arms around her legs, her head on her knees, and sat quite still for a moment. She was shaking so much she could not move but Greg’s groan brought her to her feet. She crouched next to him and reached for his hand. ‘All over. The hook’s out and I’ve straightened your foot.’

‘Feels like hell.’ He tried to sit up and failed. Closing his eyes he concentrated hard on staying conscious. ‘What do we do now?’

Kate shook her head wearily. ‘I suppose I ought to try and go for help. We can’t move you.’ She glanced up without enthusiasm at the stormy blackness of the shore behind them.

His hand tightened on hers. ‘I don’t like the idea of you wandering around out there on your own. Listen, let me get my strength back a bit, then maybe I can walk.’

Kate smiled wistfully. ‘No chance. You’ve damaged your foot horrendously.’

Greg was silent for a moment. ‘If you could find me something to lean on. Some driftwood perhaps. There’s masses of stuff chucked up on the beach. If we take it slowly, I’ll manage to get back to the cottage.’

The word cottage triggered something in both their minds. Kate collapsed on her knees on the sand beside him and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears again. ‘Bill’s at the cottage.’

‘I know.’ He reached over and touched her face. ‘But so is the Land Rover.’ Somehow he kept his voice firm. ‘You have to drive us back to the farm.’ He did not mention Alison. ‘Have you ever driven a four wheel drive?’

She shook her head wordlessly.

‘Well, that doesn’t matter. It’s easy enough. I was just wondering how far you could get it on the sand.’ He thought silently for a moment, then he gave a deep sigh. ‘No. It’s not worth trying. There’s so much mud and soft stuff around. If you got bogged down, that would be our last chance gone. Our only hope is walking sticks.’ Somehow he forced a bracing note into his words.

‘I’ll go and look along the tideline.’ Kate wiped her nose on her sleeve – just like a small child, he thought affectionately – and she climbed wearily to her feet. ‘I’m not going far. I’m not going out of sight.’ She was reassuring herself as much as him.

‘There’s no need. It’s surprisingly easy to see when one’s got one’s night vision. I can see lots of junk down there now.’ He reached out and touched her hand. ‘Only for God’s sake be careful where you walk, Kate. I don’t want you treading on some more of those bloody hooks.’

He watched as she made her way cautiously back down to the tideline. What had happened was a blur; a nightmare which was coming back to him in sudden flashes. He could remember putting his foot down on something slippery; he could remember it sliding away from under him and he could remember going down on one knee in the icy water. That much was clear. He had been running away from something. Or someone. He frowned, cudgelling his memory.

Kate was walking slowly away from him, bending low, groping in the mess of tidewrack. She found an old tree branch and lifted it triumphantly, but it snapped as soon as she put any weight on it and she hurled it away.

She was right at the edge of his vision now. Greg frowned, sitting up straighter, trying to keep her in sight. She was a darker patch in the darkness. Every now and then as she straightened and looked around he could see her face, a pale blur beneath the flying hair. He lost her. Then he saw her again, several yards from where she had been. She was standing upright now, staring out to sea. It was strange. She seemed taller now. Taller and broader, and something had happened to her hair. He glanced back at where he had seen her before and his heart stopped still. She was still there. She had been squatting at the tide’s edge, and now she jumped back as a wave hurled itself up the beach. He could see something in her left hand. He glanced back. The other figure was there. Near her. Watching her. The man with the knife.

Christ Almighty!

‘Kate! Look out!’ Greg’s voice bellowed out into the wind. ‘Kate, for God’s sake look out. Behind you.’ She couldn’t hear him. Her back was turned and the roar of the wind and water would have deadened all but a foghorn at that distance. ‘Oh Christ!’ Desperately, Greg leaned forward, trying to drag himself onto his knees. ‘Kate!’ The bastard was nearer her now. He was moving effortlessly towards her. In a minute he would be right behind her.

‘Kate!’ His voice had risen to a scream. ‘Kate, for God’s sake, run!’

He half rose to his feet, lurching forward, and had put his weight on his injured foot before he realised what he had done. With a cry of despair he pitched forward onto his face. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

XLI

Diana was stirring a pot of stew listlessly over the hotplate of the Aga. Made from leftovers from lunch to which she had added fried onions and dried herbs from the jars on the dresser, potatoes and mushrooms and carrots, it smelt delicious. The two cats were sitting side by side behind her, respectfully watching her every move, their admiration of her cooking technique obvious in every alert glance.

Patrick was sitting at the table behind her. His fingers drummed on the table top rhythmically and slowly, a drum roll for the march to the scaffold.

‘Stop that, Paddy!’ Diana’s voice was sharp.

He stared at her and then looked down at his hand as though he did not know he owned it. ‘Sorry.’

‘They should have been back by now.’ She clattered her pans together. ‘They should have found her.’

‘It’s pretty stormy out there, Ma. They might have got the Land Rover stuck. Or they might have decided to stay at the cottage.’

‘Or they might not have found her.’ Diana turned to face her husband as he walked through towards the kitchen. ‘Is the phone working?’

He shook his head. His face was lined with weariness and, as she watched, she saw his hand go surreptitiously to his chest under the flap of his jacket.

‘Roger, darling. Go and sit down.’ The displacement activity at the Aga forgotten she flew to him and threw her arms around him. ‘Come on. Rest. You’re wearing yourself out.’

‘I should be out there with them, looking.’ He shook his head crossly, but he allowed her to steer him towards the fire.

‘I’ll go.’ Patrick followed them. ‘I’ll take the bike and see where they are.’

‘No.’ Diana shook her head forbiddingly. ‘No, Paddy. You stay here with us.’

‘Let him go, Di.’ Roger threw himself down in a chair and leaned back, his eyes closed. ‘He can get to the cottage and check if they’re there.’

‘No.’ It was a wail of misery. ‘No. I want him to stay here. I don’t want all my children lost.’ Diana sat down abruptly, blinking hard, the strain only just contained.

‘I won’t get lost, Ma. I know the track like the back of my hand.’ Patrick put his hand on her shoulder.

Her fingers sought his and tightened over them. ‘But the storm…’

‘If something has happened – I mean if the Land Rover has broken down, or the track is blocked or something, they have no way of telling us with the phones down. If I go, I can be back in half an hour and I can put your mind at rest.’

‘He’s right, Di.’ Roger didn’t open his eyes. ‘Let him go.’

Her hand slid helplessly from her son’s. He gave her shoulder a squeeze and stepped towards the door.