While the Height’s position made it the best place to go when a signal was hard to come by, it also meant it caught the full blast of any passing storms, and tonight was no exception. Ellie flinched from the stinging flakes and the immediate icy chill, and went towards the Land Rover.

Snow was piling up against it, inches deep, and drifting into the interior. Ellie tried to guess how long the vehicle would have been in that position. Not too long – ten minutes? Twenty? But that could be a long time, too – if you were injured, and out in the cold.

She crouched by the rear of the upturned car and played the torchlight over it. Not only the rear window, but the tail lights had been shattered too. She crab-walked round to the passenger side, shining the torch inside, but her first impression had been right; the car was empty. All the windows were gone – not just broken, but smashed out with a thoroughness that had left only a thin rime of glass at the very edge of the frame.

“Tom?” she shouted, although with a growing sense of futility. “Tom!”

No answer. He could be lying only yards away, already half-buried in the snow. She shone the torch around, in search of any irregularity in the carpet of white. The picnic tables and litter bins were caked with snow, but there was no mistaking any of them for what they were; what she was looking for would be lower, not much more than a bump on the ground.

She found nothing. But the torch’s range was limited, especially in this snow. She’d need to explore further. She’d have to be thorough, check the entire area. And quickly. Whatever had happened to Tom, hypothermia would be well on its way. If he was alive.

He’s not. You already know that. He’s dead as they come. Look at the state of the car, for Christ’s sake. No-one’s gonna do that, ‘specially not to a police car, and let whoever’s inside walk away.

He might have been kidnapped, like Charlotte and Dave. The Harpers, getting in some kind of revenge for earlier, maybe thinking Ellie was inside. He might be at Barrowman Farm – battered, bruised, but alive.

You don’t believe that. Any more than you believe the Harpers trashed the Bell or Wakeman Farm. This is whoever Liz Harper was shitting bricks about. They’ll come for you tonight, remember? Fucking look around you, Ellie. It’s tonight now.

The torch-beam swept through the flurrying snow, and across something pale and huddled – like someone crouching? But when Ellie brought the beam back to bear, there was nothing. Trick of the light. Couldn’t have been Tom anyway. It had looked too thin.

All right. Think. Keep it together. Work quickly. If Tom was still alive –

You know he’s not, Ellie. Admit it and get out of here.