Miller nodded, his face white with shock. ‘I think so.’

‘Then let’s get out of here.’

They stumbled across the rough ground into the mist, two more bullets chasing them on their way, and suddenly the water was knee-deep and the reeds lifted to meet them.

Another bullet echoed wildly through the mist and Miller crouched instinctively, stumbling to one knee. Craig pulled him to his feet and they moved on through a thick glutinous slime covered by water, which in places was thigh deep.

Miller was conscious of the pain in his arm as the first shock wore off, of the coldness of the water as it ate into his flesh like acid, and struggled for breath.

Suddenly Craig disappeared with a startled cry, the water closing over his head. Miller lurched forward, reaching out, and followed him in. It was a terrible sensation as the filthy, stinking water forced its way into his mouth and nostrils. His feet could find no bottom as he struggled frantically and then an iron hand had him by the collar. A moment later, he was on his hands and knees amongst the reeds and breathing again.

Craig crouched beside him. He had lost his red beret and his face was streaked with black mud and slime. ‘All right?’

Miller coughed and brought up a little marsh water.

‘What about you?’

‘Lost the shotgun, I’m afraid. If you think you can keep on the move, we’ve a chance of circling round to the houseboat. There are a couple of sporting rifles and an extra shotgun there.’

Miller nodded, getting to his feet, and they moved forward again. A couple of minutes later the reeds started to thin and a dyke lifted out of the mist. They scrambled up out of the water and Craig started to run at a jogtrot, Miller stumbling after him.

The pain in his arm was much worse now and there was a stitch in his side. He stumbled into a thorn tree at the top of a grassy knoll above a small, scum-covered pool and managed to cry out.

‘No use, Duncan. I can’t go on.’

Craig didn’t even attempt to argue. ‘Get out of sight and wait,’ he said crisply. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

There was a clump of bushes just below the path and Miller rolled underneath. He pillowed his cheek against the wet earth, struggling for breath, and was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching from the direction in which they had come. A moment later, Ben Carver came into view.

He paused, his feet no more than a yard away from Miller’s head, the Smith & Wesson held in his left hand, and Miller didn’t hesitate. He grabbed for the ankles with all his force. Carver fell on top of him, the Smith & Wesson flying out of his hand into the pool below.