His wife’s anger had never given way to anything.

He had left a message, said what he needed to.

Up ahead, the man with the torch was waiting for him again, but this time Batchelor knew it was not because he was lagging behind. The man had not stopped to let him catch up. It was simply because there was no further he could go.

With the man training the torch to help him, Batchelor closed the distance between them as quickly as he could. He pushed through tangles of sodden heather and clambered over a series of rocks. Huge, flat stones lying one across the other, the way he used to leave plates draining beside the sink, too lazy to dry them up.

You wash, Dad, I’ll dry …

Once upon a time, before it had all fallen apart, Jodi and he had done the washing-up together. Singing along with the radio and dancing like idiots, Rachel scowling at the pair of them from the other side of the kitchen.

Do you really have to sing that loud?

‘Right,’ the man with the torch said.

‘Right.’

‘I suppose I should leave you to it.’

Batchelor said, ‘Thanks.’ Without knowing what the etiquette for such situations was, he held out a hand.

The man leaned in to shake it, then stepped away again. ‘OK, then. Good luck…’

Batchelor nodded, but luck was the one thing he did not need. Gravity would certainly get the job done. He just needed to summon one final surge of courage. He turned and watched his guide – the man with the torch, the man with the knife – walk away along the cliff edge, then turned back to face the sea and the vast emptiness above it.

It’s what I want, Jode, you know that. But now I’m actually here … you know?

The wind had gathered strength suddenly as they’d got closer to the top. It was still no worse than heavy drizzle, but the wind was whipping the rain into his face, needle-sharp. He grimaced and tried to turn away from it, but it was impossible to avoid if he wanted to face the drop head-on.

Obviously, I hate doing this to your mum and especially to Rachel, but it feels right, and besides, I’m fairly sure their lives will be a lot better without me dragging them down. I know you’re not alone, I know Nathan is with you, but I need to be with you too and the truth is I can’t stand feeling this any more. I don’t want to wake up every morning and have to face what I did. This feels like drawing a line under everything… if that makes any sense.

He laughed out loud.

Well, I’m guessing it does, because if anyone knows what that feels like it’s you. Right, love?

He could hear gulls screeching nearby. He could see nothing looking up, so he wondered if they were nesting. Perhaps they felt threatened and were simply letting him know that they would fight to protect their young.

I was too late for that, wasn’t I, Jode? And when I did fight, I picked the wrong target. Silly old sod …

He bent to pick up a stone and lobbed it into the darkness, losing sight of it well before it hit the rocks a hundred feet below. He closed his eyes and asked himself which was better. Should he lean and topple or simply step out into nothingness?

He was amazed he hadn’t thought of this until now.

He suddenly found himself thinking about Wile E. Coyote chasing The Road Runner and running out of land. Those legs wheeling in fresh air for a few seconds before he drops, that lugubrious expression on his face when he realises what’s about to happen. Always the same, comical sound effect.

Coming, best girl.

Batchelor stepped out, smiling.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Thorne was sitting on his bed, watching Nicklin on the bed opposite, rubbing his wrists and polishing off his second bar of chocolate, when Holland came through on the radio.

‘It’s no good,’ Holland said. He sounded frantic, exhausted. ‘I don’t want to use the torch too much because they’ll see me coming, but it’s pitch black up here, so I’ve no bloody idea where I am. Unless I’m following exactly the same route they are, I’ve got no bloody chance. Hello…?’

Thorne looked at Nicklin, who nodded to give his permission. ‘Just keep trying, Dave.’

‘I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.’

‘Stick at it, OK?’

‘Where’s Karim? Did you send him?’

‘He’s not far behind you.’

‘I’ll call him.’

Thorne saw Nicklin shake his head. ‘Don’t do that, Dave. I need to keep the channels clear.’ The lies came easily. ‘I sent him to the Warden’s to call for a helicopter. Look, as soon as I’ve heard something back from Sam, I’ll get up there myself. We clear?’

‘Nicely done,’ Nicklin said, when Thorne laid the radio down. He picked up a third chocolate bar then dropped it back on to the bed. ‘Best save a couple of those for later.’

Thorne looked at the patch of skin that was now lying on the small table between the two beds. ‘Is he alive?’ The last word caught in his throat, so he swallowed and asked again.

‘I tell you something,’ Nicklin said. ‘It was hysterical, you barging into that cell the other night. You were so bloody cocky about my mother’s letters, thinking you knew something you didn’t.’ He lowered his voice a little, a bad imitation of Thorne’s. ‘“I’m in your head”. Not if I don’t want you to be, you’re not.’

‘Answer me.’

‘I’d love to say there were clues in there, in the letters, but that might be stretching it a bit. I mean, not even I’m that good and I hadn’t planned this back then, not all of it, anyway. It’s weird though, isn’t it, some of the things that were in there, the things that you didn’t pick up on? Like I knew, but I didn’t know, like maybe there was something subconscious going on when I wrote them. You see what I’m getting at? All that stuff about you and your friends, how loyal you are.’ He smiled. ‘That line about friendship being “more than skin deep?” Classic. Something told me even then that you’d end up reading them. I knew bloody well my mother wasn’t reading them.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘Well, those who are helping me have certainly been told to keep him alive and well.’ Nicklin nodded towards the square of skin that had been cut from Phil Hendricks’ back. ‘Well, alive at any rate.’

‘Because, if he isn’t, or if anything else happens to him —’

Nicklin held up a hand. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Taken as read. I won’t get away with it, blah blah blah, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. But it’s really up to you, isn’t it? How willing you are to go along with a few simple instructions.’

Thorne waited. He suddenly remembered what Helen had told him about speaking to a man she had assumed to be Phil’s latest conquest. That had clearly been one of those helping Nicklin; someone who must also have been responsible for the text Thorne had received from Hendricks a few days earlier. It was becoming apparent that there were several of them: the man who had killed Fletcher and taken Batchelor; those who were holding Hendricks.

Accomplices, disciples…

Twisted and needy, fame-hungry. A certain type of killer attracted a certain breed of acolyte and there could be nobody better than Stuart Nicklin at cultivating a willing network of them.

Something else suddenly became terribly obvious. ‘It wasn’t Huw Morgan who called and spoke to Burnham, was it?’

‘He’s obviously a damn good mimic though, you have to admit that.’

‘Are they both dead?’

‘You’ll need to be more specific.’

‘Huw Morgan and his father.’

‘Well, I can’t be a hundred per cent certain,’ Nicklin said. ‘I gave no specific instructions either way, but one or two of my little helpers are rather eager to please, so there’s a fair chance, yes.’ He nodded to acknowledge Thorne’s look of disgust, then raised his hands as though keen to stress the mitigating circumstances. ‘Come on, I couldn’t rely on the weather turning, could I? So, we had to make sure there was no way the boat could get back here. Actually, I’ve got no idea what the weather’s really doing over there, but obviously I’m hoping it’s not going to be too tricky to get a boat over. I mean, getting off the island is rather the point.’