I tiptoe off the porch and across the undergrowth towards the car. It’s a boxy Buick, a few years old. I can’t tell in the dark if it’s grey or blue or black. I conceal myself in a cave of branches not far from the cabin and finally let the air out of my lungs. That was too close.

I check the time on my phone. I still have a while before Francis is due to drop off the next body. Whoever owned those oversized hunting clothes isn’t here—I might wait a while, just in case he shows up to join the other two. This looked and sounded like a tryst, but it could be a party. Or something else entirely.

No one turns up. Minutes pass. The adrenaline fades. My legs start to cramp up.

Midnight comes. Silently, the eighth of December becomes the ninth. It’s the day Biggs marked on the wall planner, and I still don’t understand why.

About half an hour later, the front door of the cabin opens. The woman walks out, followed by the man. He looks dishevelled. She doesn’t.

I’m getting a weird vibe here. If they were married, they would have stayed the night. If they were having an affair, they would have been holding hands or pinching one another’s asses on the way in. There’s nothing like that, although the man does look guilty. Actually, it’s worse than that. He looks disgusted with himself, as though he knows he’s just done something it will be hard to live with. A feeling I know too well.

The woman wears an expression of intense serenity. Like a Buddhist sniper. For an instant she looks familiar, but then she turns her head as she climbs into the Buick, and her jet-black hair curtains her face. She’s gone before I can place her, like a whisper of perfume on a crowded street.

The man gets into the passenger side of the car. The engine turns over and the brakelights turn the woods bloody red. I keep my head down as the car rumbles away.

Once they’re gone, I climb back up onto the roof and replace the roof tiles, not wanting to be given away by a leaking roof. Then I jump down and sprint along the drive towards the highway.

I get to my car just in time. Francis’s van pulls up less than a minute later. I pop the trunk of my car, trying to look casual.

Sariklis gets out of the driver’s seat.

‘Where’s Francis?’ I ask.

He avoids my gaze. ‘Shit, Blake. Did you have to park so far off the road?’

‘You think it’s unnecessarily cautious? I’ve seen where lazy criminals end up.’

He shoots me a glare.

‘What?’ I say.

‘Come on,’ he says, turning back to the van. ‘Give me a hand with this.’