I played the scene over in my mind: Anya running from the man who had been haunting her for all those years, sobs tearing from her, in terror for her life. This thought made me squeeze my hands into fists and, just then, I was glad Michael Copeland was dead. He deserved it. I would have liked to have been there. The violent thought was like a pleasurable shiver in the dark places of my mind. Maybe I really was my father’s son.

When I got to the top, I made myself stop and look out at the wild sea, a writhing, angry mass of silver-grey and white. I could feel the raw, salty air scouring my lungs. It was savage and beautiful, but I couldn’t enjoy the sheer majesty of it because it was too treacherous there. I stepped further from the edge of the cliff and turned around, back to the wind now.

There was a World War Two lookout at the top, a red-brick building with two open windows that seemed to stare back at me in judgement. I had forgotten that it was there, even though it had significance for us. Anya and I had once had a passionate kiss inside it. It might have turned into something a bit more serious had it not been for a party of children arriving just as clothes were being unzipped and pushed to one side. The memory forced a smile to my frozen cheeks, but just as quickly, I felt it fade.

Thoughts were beginning to clot and take shape in my mind and I couldn’t seem to stop them from connecting in a way I didn’t want to recognize.

Something wasn’t right, as I pictured again the scene that Anya had described.

I couldn’t help wondering why Anya hadn’t suggested meeting Copeland in a café, somewhere safe and surrounded by other people, rather than here. And that wasn’t all.

I kept picturing the obese man who looked so out of condition in that photo.

I was thinking about Irene saying, that day, that he didn’t like heights, and that he was in poor health.

And I was picturing my fit, strong wife who went to the gym every day near work. Who could have run up this hill with ease, pre-pregnancy.

Something didn’t fit.

Something wasn’t true.

I let out a moan and pressed a hand against my forehead, hearing the whip and thwack of my hood as it was almost torn from my head by the wind.

Then it felt like I couldn’t stand to be here a moment longer and I began to run, back down the hill, slowly because the wind was against me, then pounding my feet into the compact frozen surface and sprinting until my lungs were on fire.