Ben strode over to him and took the pistol from his curled, dead fingers. The weapon was a Glock 21, a full-size combat auto in forty-five calibre. Totally illegal to possess as a civilian in the UK. Which in itself said interesting things about the identity of the shooter. The gun’s grips were sticky with blood from the guy’s gloves, which were smeared and glistening with it. Ben dropped the magazine from the mag well and racked the slide to pop out the remaining cartridge from the chamber. The guy had managed to fire off seven rounds to Ben’s one. He still had seven left. A lot of bad things could have happened in those seven rounds.

Once Ben had the dead guy’s weapon secure, he went over to Grace. She was slowly picking herself up from the ground, clumps of snow falling from her clothing, and took the helping hand that he offered her. Her fingers felt very cold. Her mouth was hanging open in shocked disbelief and her eyes were darting back and forth between the dead guy and Ben.

‘Jesus Christ,’ was all she could say. ‘Holy shit. What did you just do?’

He said, ‘What I teach.’

‘Killing people?’

‘Saving them.’ He checked her briskly over. ‘You’re not hurt.’ Then he glanced over the field and his eyes followed the tracks in the snow left by the escaping attacker, who was now well out of sight. The tracks headed straight for the trees on the eastern edge of the field, where Ben had guessed the men’s vehicle was hidden. He was momentarily torn between going after him and going into the trailer. As he was making up his mind, he heard an engine firing up somewhere behind the trees and revving hard away. He thought, Fuck it, and let it drop. He hurried over to the trailer. Bounded up the slippery metal steps to the door and pushed inside.

The victim was in a mess. Still alive for the moment, though most of his blood was no longer inside him. His throat had been slashed wide open and more than a dozen deep stab wounds perforated his portly torso. The poor guy had been virtually eviscerated. His eyes were all out of focus and rolling wildly. As Ben crouched over him, the dying man seemed to register the presence of a helper and tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle and a blood bubble that swelled from his lips and then popped. Then his eyes rolled over white, his last breath rasped from his scarred mouth and his muscles slackened as death settled over him like a blanket.

There was nothing Ben could do here. The victim had done all the talking he was ever going to do.

Should have gone after the bolter, Ben thought. Bad decision.