Wada adjusted the rear-view mirror and watched George stump along the track to the other car. He tapped on the driver’s window. Some kind of conversation ensued. George flung up his arms in a gesture of bemusement. The conversation didn’t seem to be going as he’d hoped. Wada craned over her shoulder for a clearer view of what was happening.

Something appeared through the open driver’s window of the other car. At first, Wada couldn’t work out what it was. But suddenly, to her horror, she realized it was a gun.

She didn’t hear the shot. But she saw George’s head jerk back. He went straight down, like a tree falling, and lay motionless in the snow at the edge of the track.

The driver’s door opened. The driver got out. And started walking towards her.

Something in the man’s stature and the way he held himself told Wada who he was, even though his face was buried in the hood of a parka.

He was the tall Japanese man who’d attacked her in Caldwell’s flat in Exeter. She was certain it was him.

And she was certain in that moment that he meant to kill her.

SIXTEEN

WADA COULDN’T DRIVE. that is, she wasn’t qualified to drive. But she was nothing if not observant. She’d driven around with Haruto often enough in his tiny old Nissan to have some grasp of the basics. And George’s hire car was an automatic, which made things easier. Besides, it wasn’t a matter of choice. It was a matter of survival.

She released the seatbelt and half slid, half jumped over into the driver’s seat, praying to all the gods she didn’t believe in – there being none she did believe in – that she wouldn’t stall the engine. She released the handbrake, then shoved the stick into drive.

She was about to press her foot down hard on the accelerator when a movement reflected in the wing mirror caught her eye. George’s killer was closing on her fast. There he was, only a few metres from the rear of the car.

The decision was made in an instant. She moved the stick to reverse and stamped on the accelerator pedal, pulling the steering wheel down with her left hand as the car skidded back, slewing towards the side of the track.

There was a thump and the sound of a shot and then another thump as she hit one of the trackside posts. She pressed down on the footbrake and peered round. She saw the man lying in the snow beside the post. He wasn’t moving.

She knew what she should do. Drive forwards, then reverse over him – make sure she finished him. But she wasn’t confident she could control the car well enough to do that. And she wasn’t certain the tyres would grip if she left the track.