It was lucky that the vehicles were parked on a slight downward incline, so that Ben only had to release the handbrake for the truck to start freewheeling in neutral. The wheels began to turn slowly at first, then faster as they gained momentum on the slope. Ben could see almost nothing through the windscreen with the thick rain flooding down the glass, and just as little in his rear-view mirror, but he knew that Wolf would be right behind him.

Faster, faster. There was no turning back now, even if they’d wanted to. Driving almost blind, Ben felt the nose of the truck tip suddenly downward as the angle of the slope sharpened dramatically, like going over the edge of a waterfall. He yelled, ‘Hang on tight, everyone. Here we go.’

And then they were in freefall, rolling wildly down the slope, hammering violently over ruts and boulders, the steering wheel like a living thing desperate to tear itself out of Ben’s hands as he struggled to keep the truck straight. With all the truck’s three-ton weight on its front wheels the slightest skid would almost certainly cause them to veer sideways and go into a fatal roll, killing them all just as surely as if they’d stayed behind to fight. He heard a shrill cry from the rear. Poor Ramin was definitely not cut out for this kind of thing.

Down and down they went, a racing heartbeat away from losing control. Ben was almost completely out of his seat, just the seatbelt preventing him from sprawling over the steering wheel or diving headlong towards the windscreen. In the mayhem he barely heard Madison shouting at Ramin to help her hold onto the casket, or Father Bugnolio yelling, ‘God help us!’ Holt was grimly holding on, one hand on the door handle and the other bracing himself against the dash, barely able to keep from plunging forward. All Ben could see out of the rain-flooded screen were craggy rocks, rocks and more rocks flashing up towards them as the truck went on bucking like a mad bronco down the impossible slope. There was no time to think. His heart was in his mouth and several times he was certain he could feel the rear end of the truck about to flip right over and start tumbling. All he could do was fight the steering and hope that Father Bugnolio’s prayers might have some influence with whoever was listening up there.

The descent lasted only a few seconds, but sheer terror has a cruel way of making those kinds of moments, however transient, drag out for ever. Minutes, hours, seemed to have passed by the time the truck hit the last rut on the slope with a shuddering, teeth-jarring crash and their insane downwards angle levelled out at last.