Running into the snow, he could see nothing but the flakes stinging his eyes. His feet felt narrow paths below. The paths ended in thick reeds or worse, a tidal creek. He kept on, towards where he thought the sea was, away from the shack. The reeds got thicker. Seawater, laced with stinging shards of ice, sloshed over his shoes. The tide must be coming in. He kept on running. No choice now. He could no longer see the lights on the road so he must be going the right way. Think: he would run down to the woods and hide there, circle back through the fields to the ruined lowland where the prefabs had been and into the town. And then?

Tired, with aching legs, he stumbled on a clump of some marsh plant. He splashed and pitched forward into the sharp, silty saltwater. He went under briefly and surfaced, choking and spitting. Grabbing the reeds at the side of the creek, he hauled himself up and lay face down on the boggy ground. His coat was dripping and thick with mud. It was heavy and dragging him down, but without it he would die of hypothermia. His body shuddered. Something fell out of his pocket and dropped into the creek. He struck his hand in his pocket, but his fingers were too numb to feel anything. But he already knew the key was gone. What did it matter anyway? The briefcase had nothing but filthy photographs of nude women. Verity.

Snow whipped around him and stifled the sound apart from the thin whine of the seawind, and the purring call of geese and then an owl. The waves were a faint murmur. He had no idea where he was but surely he must have outrun his pursuers. He felt as if he had been out here for hours.

From behind, a thin light swept over him. It illuminated in a brief flash the silver fingers of tidal creeks. They were surrounded by pitch blackness except for the specks of white falling into the dark. He was badly exposed. He breathed out. Slow down. He had to think. They must be on foot – you couldn’t bring a boat into this maze. But if he stood up and ran again, he had no light, he couldn’t see – he’d be running blind. He could fall again – they would find him. Fear rose sharply in his chest and he remembered the hunting and killing of the fox. He didn’t want to die like that. Ahead of him was the remorseless sea, behind him – he didn’t know who they were. Police? Blowers? The Air Force? Spooks? It made no difference now. He had no proof. And they wouldn’t believe him if he said it had been an accident.