Brakes and the slam of a car door heralded that the attack was not over. Gillard scrambled to his feet, now woozily aware of blood pouring down his left cheek. He was standing in a small ditch which ran alongside the edge of the lane. Behind him was a steep upward slope, thickly wooded and carpeted with freshly green bracken. His assailant was now revealed. A big, broad man in a dark car coat with a ski mask. He had a two-foot-long adjustable spanner in his hand, and was scanning the roadside vegetation for someone to hit.

The detective knew he would be found quickly, so began to scramble up the bank behind, his cycling shoes too smoothly soled to get much purchase, so it was hand over hand grasping and pulling his way through saplings of hawthorn, rowan and spiky blackthorn. The pursuer roared at him, in almost choking anger: ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’ Gillard had no doubt that was his intention, and hauled himself up the steep slope. A quick look behind showed the pursuer, shod in yellow Caterpillar boots, had set off after him, but had to stow his weapon to get a grip on the foliage, and was cursing to himself on every clumsy, scrambling footstep up the disintegrating bank. Over fifty years old he might be, and panting with the exertion, but with years of climbing experience, Gillard was clearly more nimble than his heftily built and seemingly younger attacker. Now, twenty feet above the road, and hearing the heavy breathing well below, the detective risked a look behind.

The man had a fist-sized stone, and was weighing up his aim. The shot when it came was all power and no accuracy, embedding itself with a thunk! into the ground to his right. With a few seconds of respite while the assailant looked for more projectiles, Gillard reached behind him for the phone that he kept in a small pocket on the back of his cycling tunic. A photograph or two, and some video, might be invaluable.

It was gone.

All he felt was his bare back through the torn textile, and a weeping fag-packet-sized graze that was, from nothing, now agony to the touch. The pursuer was now following a shallower lateral route through the bushes that in a minute or so would bring him across from the left-hand side. Gillard, now with shallower woodland above him, would need to move to keep ahead of his assailant. But had an idea. He unbuckled his new digital watch from his left wrist, wrapped it in his torn cycling glove, and tossed it underhand down the slope into the bed of the vehicle. The dull clang of its impact drew the attention of his pursuer, who scanned the slope and road looking for the source of the noise.

The detective, now feeling a little more confident, settled for a little diversion. He held his right hand to his ear, as if it contained a phone, and loudly said, ‘Yes, police please, and an ambulance.’ He read out his mobile phone number, as would be required for a real emergency call, and then continued. ‘Yes, hit-and-run, Mitsubishi Warrior, olive green…’