'You are talking. And what you're saying is ludicrous.'

'Is it? Is it, Caroline?'

She knew now that she mustn't plead. She wanted to throw herself at Caroline's feet and scream: 'Look at me. I'm human. I'm a woman. I want to live. My child needs me. I'm not much of a mother but I'm the only one he has. Help me.' But she knew with an instinctive wisdom born of desperation that abject pleading, clutching hands, sobs, whining entreaties, would only repel. She was speaking for her life. She had to stay calm, to rely on reason. She had somehow to find the right words. She said: 'It isn't only me, it's you too. This could be a choice of life or death for both of us. They won't want you either. You were only useful to them while you worked at Larksoken, while you could pass on to them details of how the place was run, who was on duty and when. Now you're a liability, the same as me. There's no difference. What kind of work can you do for them that will make it worthwhile supporting you, setting you up with a new identity? They can't find you a job in another power station. And if MI5 are really on to you they'll still be looking. They might not believe so easily in the accident, not if our bodies aren't washed up. And our bodies won't be washed up, will they? Not unless they kill us and that's what they're planning to do. What are two more bodies to them? Why meet us here? Why so far? They could have picked us up much closer to land. They could have got us out by air if they'd really needed us. Caroline, go back. It isn't too late. You could tell the people you work for that it wasn't safe to come, the mist was too thick. They'll find another way to get you out if you want to go. I won't talk, I wouldn't dare. I promise you with my life. We can go back now and it will just have been two friends who took a boat trip and came back safely. It's my life, Caroline, and it could be yours. You gave me your jacket. I'm asking for my life.'

She didn't touch Caroline. She knew that the wrong gesture, perhaps any gesture, could be fatal. But she knew, too, that the silent figure staring rigidly ahead was at the moment of decision. And, gazing at that carved intent face, Amy realized for the first time in her life that she was utterly alone. Even her lovers, seen now as a passing procession of strained beseeching faces and grasping exploring hands, had been only casual strangers giving her the fleeting illusion that a life could be shared. And she had never known Caroline, could never know her, never begin to understand what in her past, perhaps in her childhood, had led to this dangerous conspiracy, this moment of decision. They were physically so close that each could hear, could almost smell, the other's breath. But each was alone, as much alone as if this wide sea held no other craft, no other living soul. They might be fated to die together, but each could suffer only her own death as each had lived only her own life. And there was nothing left to say. She had pleaded her cause and the words were all spent. Now she waited in the darkness and the silence to know whether she would live or die.

It seemed to her that even time had stopped. Caroline put out her hand and switched off the engine. In the eerie silence Amy could hear, like a low insistent pounding, the beating of her heart. And then Caroline spoke. Her voice was calm, reflective, as if Amy had posed her a difficult problem which needed thought to solve.

'We have to get away from the meeting place. We haven't enough power to outrun them if they find us and give chase. Our only hope is to put out all the lights, get away from this place and lie silent hoping they won't find us in the mist.'

'Can't we get back to the harbour?'

'There isn't time. It's over ten miles and they'll have a powerful engine. If they find us they'll be on to us in seconds. The mist is our only chance.'

And then they heard, blunted by the fog but clearly, the sound of an approaching boat. Instinctively they moved closer together in the cockpit and waited, not daring even to whisper. Each knew that their only chance now lay in silence, the mist, the hope that their small craft would be undetected. But the engine noise increased and became a regular, directionless, vibrating throb. And then, when they had thought that the boat would loom out of the darkness and be on them, the noise grew no louder and Amy guessed that they were being slowly circled. Then suddenly she screamed. The searchlight cut through the mist and shone full on their faces. The light dazzled so that she could see nothing but its own giant cone in which the particles of mist swam like motes of silver light. A rough, foreign voice called: 'Is that the Lark out of Wells harbour?'

There was a moment's silence and then Amy heard Caroline's voice. It was clear and loud but to Amy's ears it signalled a high note of fear. 'No. We're a party of four friends from Yarmouth, but we'll probably put in at Wells. We're all right. No help needed, thank you.'

But the searchlight didn't move. The boat was held as if suspended between sea and sky in a blaze of light. The seconds passed. Nothing more was said. Then the light was switched off and they heard again the sound of the retreating engines. For a minute, still waiting, still frightened to speak, they shared a common desperate hope that the ruse had worked. And then they knew. The light held them again. And now the engines were roaring and the boat came straight at them out of the mist with only time for Caroline to place an icy cheek against Amy's. She said: 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

And then the great hull towered above them. Amy heard the crack as the wood splintered and the boat leapt out of the water. She felt herself hurled through an eternity of wet darkness and then falling endlessly falling, spread-eagled in space and time. Then there was the smack of the sea and a coldness so icy that for a few seconds she felt nothing. She came back to consciousness as she surfaced, gasping and fighting for breath, no more aware of the cold, feeling only the agony of a metal band crushing her chest, terror, and the desperate fight to keep her head above water, to survive. Something hard scraped against her face, then floated free. She thrashed out with flailing arms and fastened on a plank of wood from the boat. It offered at least a chance. She rested her arms on it and felt the blessed release of strain. And now she was capable of

rational thought. The plank might support her until morning light and the fog lifted. But she would be dead of cold and exhaustion long before then. Somehow to swim ashore was her only hope, but which way lay the shore? If the mist lifted she would be able to see the lights, perhaps even the light of the caravan. Neil would be there waving to her. But that was silly. The caravan was miles away. Neil would be desperately worried by now. And she had never finished those envelopes. Timmy might be crying for her. She had to get back to Timmy.

But in the end the sea was merciful. The cold that numbed her arms so that she could no longer hold on to the plank numbed also her mind. She was slipping into unconsciousness when the searchlight again found her. She was beyond thought, beyond fear when the boat turned and came driving at full power into her body. And then there was silence and darkness and a single plank of wood gently bobbing where the sea was stained red.

It was after eight before Rickards got home on Saturday night but this was still earlier than usual and, for the first time in weeks, he was able to feel that an evening stretched ahead with its choices; a leisurely meal, television, radio, a gentle undemanding catching-up with household chores, telephoning Susie, an early bed. But he was restless. Faced with a few hours of leisure he was uncertain what to do with them. For a moment he wondered whether to go out for a solitary restaurant meal, but the effort of choosing, the expense, even the bother of booking seemed disproportionate to any possible pleasure. He showered and changed as if the steaming water were a ritual cleansing away of his job, of murder and failure, which might give the evening before him some meaning, some pleasure. Then he opened a tin of baked beans, grilled four sausages and a couple of tomatoes and carried his tray into the sitting room to eat while watching television.