When her call went through, Barbara identified herself in a whisper. She knew the emergency operator could be anywhere in Hampshire and this, in combination with her own inability to make perfectly specific her exact location, meant that timely intervention was unlikely. But she reckoned Chief Superintendent Whiting knew where Gordon Jossie lived, so that was the information she passed along: ring the Lyndhurst station, tell Chief Superintendent Whiting to send backup at once to Gordon Jossie’s holding outside of Sway, he knows where it is, I’m on the property, a woman’s life hangs in the balance, for God’s sake hurry, send an armed response team and do it now.

Then she turned off her mobile. She had no weapon, but the odds were even. She was fully capable of bluffing with the best of them and, if she had nothing else on her side, she still had surprise. It was time to use it.

She headed towards the far side of the barn.

MEREDITH COULDN’T CRY out. The pointed thing was inside her flesh for the third time. He’d pierced her neck once, twice, and now again, a different spot each time. The blood was seeping down her bony chest and between her breasts, but she didn’t look to see it for fear she would faint. She was faint enough already.

“Why?” was the only word that escaped her. She knew that please was out of the question. And the why referred to Jemima, not to her. There were any number of whys that dealt with Jemima. She couldn’t work out why they had killed her friend. She saw that they had likely done it in a way that would lead the police to Gordon. She concluded from this that they wanted both Jemima and Gordon out of the way, but she could not come up with a reason for this. And then it didn’t matter, did it, because she was going to die as well. Just like Jemima and for what for what and what would become of Cammie. Without a dad. Without a mum. Growing up without knowing how much she…And who would find her? They would bury and then and then and afterwards and God.

She tried to be calm. She tried to think. She tried to plan. It was possible. It was. She could. She needed. And then. There was pain again. Tears seeped though she didn’t want to cry. They came with the blood. She could no more produce a way to save herself from this than she could…what? She didn’t know.

So bloody stupid. Her whole life was a shining example of just how stupid one person could be. No brains, girl. Completely utterly maddeningly incapable of reading a person for what he was. For what she was. For what anyone was. And now here…So what are you waiting for? she asked herself. Are you waiting for what you’ve always been waiting for…rescue from where you’ve placed yourself for being so bloody-minded since the day you were born that-

“This is where it stops.”

Everything halted. The world spun but then it was not the world at all but the man who held her who was spinning round and she went with him and there was Gordon.

He’d come into the paddock. He was coming forward. He held a pistol…of all things a pistol and where in God’s name had Gordon got himself a pistol…and had he always had a pistol and why and-

She felt weak with relief. She wet herself. Hot urine splashed down her leg. It was over, over, over. But the bloke didn’t release her. Nor did he ease his grip.

He said to Gina, “Ah. I see we’ll need to make it deeper, George,” every bit as if he wasn’t the least bit fazed by what Gordon Jossie was holding.

Gordon said, unaccountably, “And it’s not there, Gina,” with a nod to where she’d been clearing the paddock. “That’s why you killed her, though, isn’t it?” And to the stranger, “You heard me. This stops here. Let her go.”

“Or what?” the man said. “You’ll shoot me? Be the hero? Have your picture on the front of all the papers? On the evening news? On the morning chat shows? Tsk, tsk, Ian. You can’t want that. Keep digging, George.”

“She told you, then,” Gordon said in reply.

“Well, of course she did. One asks, you know. After all, she didn’t want you to find her. She was…well, I don’t mean to offend, but she was rather repelled once she knew who you are. Then when she saw those postcards…She came home in a panic and…One asks when one’s lover-sorry, George, but I think we’re even on that score aren’t we, darling-one does ask. She loathed you just enough to tell me. You should have left well alone, you know, once she’d taken herself off to London. Why didn’t you, Ian?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s who you are, isn’t it? George, darling, it is Ian Barker, isn’t it? Not one of the other two. Not Michael or Reggie. But he talks about them when he’s dreaming, right?”

“Nightmares,” Gina said. “Such nightmares. You can’t imagine.”

“Let her go.” Gordon gestured with the pistol.

The man tightened his grip. “Can’t, won’t,” he said. “Not so close to the finish. Sorry, lad.”

“I’m going to shoot you, whoever you are.”

“Frazer Chaplin, at your service,” he said. He sounded quite cheery. He gave a little twist to what he held at Meredith’s neck. She cried out. He said, “So yes indeed, she saw those postcards, Ian, my friend. She panicked. She ran hither and yon talking nonsense about how this bloke in Hampshire mustn’t ever find her. So one asked why. Well one would do. And out it all tumbled. Nasty little boy, weren’t you? There’s lots out there who’d like to find you. People don’t forget. Not that kind of crime. Which is why, of course, you’re not going to shoot me. Aside from the fact that you’d likely miss and hit poor little Meredith right in the head.”

“Not a problem, as I see it,” Gordon said. He swung the gun towards Gina. “She’s the one to be shot. Throw the shovel down, Gina. This business is finished. The hoard’s not there, Meredith’s not dying, and I don’t bloody care who knows my name.”

Meredith whimpered. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she tried to extend a hand of thanks to Gordon. He’d sacrificed something. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know why. But what it meant was-

Pain ripped into her. Fire and ice. It shot upward into her head and through her eyes. She felt something bursting and something else releasing. She toppled, unstrung, to the ground.

BARBARA HAD GAINED the southeast corner of the barn when she heard the gunshot. She’d been moving stealthily but she froze in place. Only for an instant, however. A second shot went off and she charged round to the front. She gained the paddock and threw herself inside. She heard noise behind her, heavy footsteps running in her direction and a man’s harsh yelling of Drop that fucking gun!

She took it all in like a frozen tableau. Meredith Powell on the ground with a rusty crook sticking out of her neck. Frazer Chaplin sprawled not five feet from Gordon Jossie. Gina Dickens backed into the wire fence with her hand clasped over her mouth. Jossie himself with the pistol held stiffly, still in position from the second shot he’d fired straight into the air.

“Barker!” It was a roar, not a voice from Chief Superintendent Whiting. He was storming up the driveway. “Lay that God damn gun on the ground. Do it now. Now! You heard me. Now!”

And then, passing Whiting, the dog, of all things. Bounding forward. Howling. Running in circles.

“Drop it, Barker!”

“You’ve shot him! You’ve killed him!” Gina Dickens at last. Screaming, running to Frazer Chaplin, throwing herself on him.

“Backup’s coming, Mr. Jossie,” Barbara said. “Put the gun-”

“Stop him! He’ll kill me next!”

The dog barked and barked.

“See to Meredith,” Jossie said. “Someone God damn see to Meredith.”

“Drop the bloody gun first.”

“I told you-”

“Want her to die as well? Just like the boy? You get off on death, Ian?”

Jossie turned the gun then. He pointed it at Whiting. “Some deaths,” he said. “Some God damn deaths.”