‘We’ll wait for the first emergency services,’ said Miranda. ‘But we have to get to Dominic, Casey.’

Casey ignored her.

‘Casey?’ Miranda’s voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away. Now there was a siren, far in the distance.

‘Casey,’ Miranda said, more urgently. At last Casey shook herself.

‘All right,’ Casey stood up straight. ‘All right.’

‘What did she do to you?’ Miranda was staring at her. ‘I saw you talking in her sitting room. I saw you smiling . . . I thought if I knocked out the lights, you’d be able to get away. And then you ran out of the house, and she didn’t follow you, so I thought you were safe, and I went to take out the cars . . .’

‘She had a gun, Miranda.’ Casey almost laughed, on the edge of hysteria. ‘A gun.’

Energy was flowing back through Casey’s veins now. She forced herself to think clearly, staring at the destroyed cockpit. Shrugging, Miranda turned away from her, walking close to the wreckage, peering at it thoughtfully.

Casey blundered towards the rucksack Clio had thrown away at the last minute. Dropping to her knees, she searched it.

Her own phone. A key that unlocked the handcuffs. A gun. Casey stood, rubbing her red raw wrists. She stared down at the rucksack.

A safe distance from the debris, a helicopter landed with a busy clatter, the paramedics running towards the mangled plane. But they stood back after a few seconds, nothing to be done.

‘I’m going to take my friend home,’ Miranda said loudly, as the medics glanced towards them. ‘She had an accident with a horse, and she’s in shock. She needs to lie down.’

Miranda walked Casey down the road, to where they had parked the car. Only a few hours ago, but it felt like a different life. The sky was bright now. Two little girls trotted past on ponies, red jumpers bright against the woods.

They climbed into the car. ‘Right,’ said Miranda. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘Later.’

‘OK. Tilney Cottage.’

Miranda braked to a halt beside the cricket pitch. The pub landlord was watering his gaudy hanging baskets in the weak sunlight. It seemed impossible that the Burton-Smiths had been just a few hundred yards away, imprisoned in their pretty cottage.

Casey moved to open the car door.

‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘You’ve done enough.’

‘But . . .’

‘And he might have been briefed about you,’ said Miranda. ‘He won’t know who I am, not exactly.’

In her black trousers and black top, Miranda could be an undercover police officer, a Jehovah’s Witness, a hostage negotiator. Or a journalist.

‘Plus,’ said Miranda, ‘you look terrible.’

Casey touched the cut above her eye. ‘I know.’

‘Call the police if anything goes wrong,’ Miranda said briefly, and Casey thought of the long list of disasters those few words might mean.

‘I will.’