When they stopped, he braked too, and watched from a distance as they removed Wilde from their car and marched him to a small house a short way down an unmade track. When they were safely inside, Cashbone turned his car and drove into the village in search of a phone kiosk.

Now, an hour later, here he was again, with backup. Four armed Special Branch and MI5 men from Harkham.

*

Wilde’s fall started it. His loud grunt of pain . . . the sudden movement. Torchlights instantly illuminated the wintry back garden, three powerful beams directed at the back door. Jung was raising the Sten gun towards the lights but Wilde, whose wrists had been hastily bound in front, pushed himself to his feet and swung a double-fisted blow into Jung’s belly before he could pull the trigger.

Winded, Jung staggered backwards, gasping for breath. A bullet from the far end of the lawn smacked into the door frame six inches from his head.

Jung turned the Sten on his assailant, but Wilde was already throwing himself at him like a rugby player making a last-ditch tackle, driving into him with his shoulder. Jung almost fell, then righted himself enough to raise the Sten and bring it down hard on the crown of Wilde’s head. Stunned, Wilde buckled and reeled sideways, dimly aware of more shots coming from behind him.

Behind them, the old woman was firing wildly into the garden with Jung’s little jewel-handled pistol. She crumpled, then slumped to the ground. Regaining his senses, Wilde could tell that she had been hit. He heard the rattle of the Sten and flinched away.

He saw two of the lights spin away into the darkness, their owners clearly hit. Jung fired until the magazine expired, then flung the Sten down, clattering on to the paving, and hurtled into the darkness.

The hastily-tied bindings on Wilde’s wrists had loosened in the struggle. He managed to undo them, then bent down and picked up the Sten before racing after Jung, holding the weapon like a club.

*

Bodie Cashbone was at the front of the house when the shooting started. He edged around the side of the property to the sound of dozens of rounds, and found the rear garden eerily lit by swaying torches and the flash of gunfire. As the torches fell away in a cascade of bullets, he knew he had lost men.

He saw an old woman falling and guessed she was the one who had lured Wilde to the car. Then Cashbone saw Wilde stumbling after a fleeing figure and shouted to his men to stop firing.

*

Wilde didn’t feel the cold. All he felt was the searing pain of the deep wounds burnt into his back and a desperate need to bring down his tormentor. He could hear more than he could see. They were in a small open meadow between woods, then suddenly at the lip of a quarry.