The wind suddenly became stronger, whipping the branches to and fro, and I stopped one with my arm before it took out one of my eyes. The gust had also hit the bag, spilling its contents over the ground. There was the unmistakable clank of glass, and the dog swivelled its head to locate the source of the disturbance.

Keep still.

Keep very, very still.

The dog started barking.

Pritchard chucked it under the neck. ‘What’s the matter, Fizz?’

Barking in my direction. There, master, the traitor and the corpse. In the undergrowth.

‘What is it?’

Barking ferociously, pointing its head, trying to get its message across. Pritchard peered out at the drive.

‘Find!’ he shouted suddenly, and let go of the leash. The dog bounded down the steps and headed straight for me at a terrifying pace. Pritchard set off after it.

Keep still, and stay calm, I told myself. Foxhounds are trained to hunt foxes, not men, so it would not be looking for my scent, nor Chief’s.

It was just a few feet away now. I could hear its rapid panting and see the wet glint of its snout foraging through the leaves. Pritchard came stamping up behind, talking all the while in a tender, singsong voice: ‘What’s eating you, you silly fool; what’s wrong, eh?’

Foxes, not men, I repeated in my head, foxes, not men, trying to blank out the cramp, the fear, the ache in my jaw from the rain.

‘There are no foxes here, you daft old thing.’

And then I could almost hear him thinking it: no, but there might be something else. And now he started to sniff the air, too, and my mantra no longer helped me.

Because Pritchard was trained to hunt men.

I breathed through my nostrils, as slowly and evenly as possible, and prayed that the rain and the mud and the foliage would mask any scents emanating from me, the bag, or Chief. I closed my eyes. He might pick out my whites from even the tiniest of movements, or see the reflection of the moon in my pupils. I shut down my brain and retreated inside myself, urging every fibre of my being to blend into the tree, the wind, the night, so that Pritchard would not register my presence.

I don’t know how long I stood like that. Perhaps several minutes, perhaps only seconds. Then I heard a footfall and I broke back into full consciousness. He had moved into the hedge, a step closer to me. Could he sense me? If he came any nearer, he would see me. I wondered how quickly I would be able to draw the Luger. It shouldn’t be a problem: I was younger, fitter and stronger than Pritchard, and he wouldn’t be expecting it. Fizz wouldn’t like it, but I could handle a few bites, if necessary.