He pulled out his shirt tails and ripped off a large piece of cotton, then bunched it in his fist and pressed it against the wound to try to stem the bleeding.

‘Is your car out there, Cashbone?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll carry her. Then you take her to hospital – I’ve got to get into that house.’

‘Which hospital?’ Cashbone growled. ‘I don’t know any hospital. I sure don’t know where I am in this town.’

‘God damn it, stay here with Sunny.’

Wilde ran to the house. The front door was open. He ran from room to room, calling out.

‘Lydia . . . Edie . . .’

No response. All the doors to wardrobes and cabinets had been flung open by the intruder. It was a large house. He checked everything at great speed. There was no sign of a struggle. No one was there. Where had Lydia, Edie and the children got to?

He tried the garden, the garage, the outhouses. Finally, he was back on the forecourt. He was relieved that he hadn’t found them – and yet he was desperately worried, too, for Lydia had said they were coming here.

Cashbone was carrying Sunny up towards the road. Wilde followed them and pulled open the rear door of the car. Together, the two men eased her into the back seat, then Cashbone slid into the front and took the wheel.

Sunny was limp, but there were signs of life. What had she been doing, flinging herself in his direction when the firing started? It was a crazy thing to do. And then it struck him – she had seen the man in the porch lining his weapon up at Wilde and, without thinking, had tried to shield him. Why would she do that? Why would she risk her life to save him? He was suddenly filled with shame for having doubted her. And yet . . .

‘Sunny, hold on – we’ll have you at the hospital before you know it. Please, Sunny – we need you. Klara needs you.’

Cashbone drove hard, with Wilde calling out instructions from the back. He held Sunny in his arms. Blood continued to trickle from the side of her mouth. The cotton wad he had ripped from his shirt was soaked with gore.

Dawn was breaking properly now, but the sky remained grey and cold. Flecks of snow danced in the air.

‘Sunny, stay awake. Talk to me.’

Her breathing was so faint. Her pulse was vanishing.

‘Sunny. Do this for me. Do this for Klara. Stay with us.’

His hand caressed her forehead.

‘Sunny, please . . .’

‘You were right,’ she said, her voice barely audible, blood bubbling at her mouth. ‘Look after her, Tom.’

‘That’s it, Sunny. Keep talking.’

‘I’m dying, Tom.’

‘No – you’re staying with us.’