The woman carried on to the end of the road and turned left on to the rough, unmetalled track that led across the few hundred yards of greenish-brown scrub that lay between the houses and the dunes that edged the beach. As she drew nearer, she could see what had looked like a gentle swell breaking on the sand in a white frothing surf. Where the track ended there was a clear area, and, as instructed, she parked her hire car there, a short distance from the two other vehicles already facing the pounding waves.

She got out of the car and ignored the hard-packed path that led from the car park to the beach. Instead, the woman walked about half a mile north across the scrub before she chose another route down to the beach. She didn’t go all the way down, halting at a point where, if she hunkered down, she would be invisible both from the beach and the flat scrubland above. She settled behind an outcropping of gritty sandstone and surveyed the long sweep of the strand. She’d never seen so spectacular a beach that wasn’t scarred with serried ranks of sun loungers, parasols, cars and bars. The beach was wide and flat, sweeping round in a long white arc. From the air, it would look more like a crescent than a half moon, scything a thick line between the dark blue sea and the brown land.

She took a small pair of green rubber binoculars from her satchel and scanned the beach from north to south. Luckily for her purpose, there were surprisingly few people, and those there were clearly didn’t belong to the bucket and spade brigade. Every time the woman’s binoculars picked out a dog, she paused and took a careful look at the animal and its owner. There was no sign of her target.

The woman lowered her binoculars and waited five minutes before repeating the exercise. On the third sweep, she picked out the black Labrador frolicking in the waves. In spite of his playfulness, he was clearly no puppy. She felt a frisson of excitement. Forcing herself to be patient, she continued her slow scan. A couple of hundred yards behind the dog, a figure jogged slowly. A finger nudged the focus wheel and the face came into sharp focus. There was no doubt about it. It matched the pictures supplied by her client. The dog was a six-year-old Labrador cross called Mutton. The woman was a thirty-seven-year-old journalist with a reputation for stirring up trouble. Her name was Lindsay Gordon. If the observer was successful in her mission, tomorrow someone else would have to walk the dog.

With infinite care, the watcher returned the binoculars to the satchel. It was time to do the business.

Chapter 1

Lindsay Gordon jogged gently along the hard sand at the edge of the Pacific surf on Half Moon Bay. Against the rhythmic beat of Air Nikes on wet sand and the thud of blood pulsing in her ears, the waves crashed less regularly. Ahead of her, Mutton chased the foaming surf as it retreated across the sand to be sucked back into the vast body of water, occasionally pausing to bark a deep protest as some bubbles he’d been particularly attached to disappeared. Other joggers might have Walkmen clamped to their heads, shutting out everything except their chosen sounds. Lindsay preferred a more natural music, particularly on a day like today when she had death on her mind.