As they made their way down winding lanes, Casey was staring at satellite images of Tawton Court. It was huge. From her bird’s-eye view, she could see a swimming pool and a lake, a tennis court and green swathes of lawn. In the middle of formal gardens, a maze had been etched out of yew. Casey traced it with her finger. To the south of the Court lay the home farm, and what looked like stables. Beyond the farm, a long strip of grass had been carved out of the woodland.

‘Hestia Limited bought this house five years ago,’ Casey said. ‘Clio’s fortunes must go back further than the recent projects.’

They parked the car in a layby, a quarter of a mile from Tawton’s pillared gates. A pretty little gatehouse sat in darkness, the gates lying open.

‘Come on,’ whispered Casey.

A long drive wound its way towards the house, meandering through parkland. The grass was studded by ancient oaks, ghost sentries. To the east, the dawn was a grey splinter in the night, the house an inky bulk in the distance.

Quietly, they crept along the grass verge. Two hundred yards from the house, Casey stopped and peered upwards. The rows of stone-mullioned windows were dark. In front of the house, the drive opened up into a sweep of gravel punctuated by a tall marble sundial. Banks of rhododendrons circled the house, with a haha beyond. Casey and Miranda huddled among the plants.

‘Do you think we just knock at the front door?’ There was almost a laugh in Miranda’s whisper.

‘We don’t have time to wait,’ Casey muttered.

The sky was lightening now, the birds beginning to sing.

‘There could be any number of guards,’ whispered Miranda. ‘There could be . . .’

‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘But we have to. Stay here.’

‘No, Casey.’ Miranda’s whisper was urgent. ‘It’s deliberately putting yourself in danger.’

‘How else are we going to find out? How else do we get Dominic out?’

Casey stepped onto the gravel, the scrunch deafening in her ears. A step, a step, and another. She felt the fear ripple up her spine, and clutch around her skull. Now she was almost at the sundial, idle in the night. Daring the trap to spring. Wanting it, almost.

Come on. Come on.

Another step.

All at once, the floodlights blazed on, ripping the night into day. Casey was caught in the brilliance, a lamped rabbit.

The huge oak door swung open, and a figure stood there, the hall lit up behind her, a rifle in her hands.

‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Hello, Casey Benedict.’

72

72

‘Run,’ someone had told her once. ‘Move faster than they expect. At twenty feet, you’re an easy target. At forty – dodging about, sprinting – you’re harder. Most people won’t land that shot.’

But this woman was holding the gun with an easy confidence, the barrel aiming straight at Casey.