While the enemy were making their plans, Ben and Grace were speeding southwards through the night. The Mercedes’ powerful headlamps probed into the darkness and the wipers were working full pelt to swipe away the driving snowflakes. Once they had left behind the treacherous rural byways their route was all A-roads, where they joined the thickening stream of traffic trickling its way towards Glasgow and the Borders. The wintry weather lashing southern Scotland showed no sign of letting up but the gritter trucks had done their work and the roads were clear, with dirty brown snow and slush piled up all along the verges. On the approach to the city Ben joined the motorway network and let the car settle into a cruising speed of 85, just fast enough to munch the miles without too much risk of the bullet-holed car getting pulled over by the law. At the Scottish border the M74 became the major artery of the M6 that would take them all the way south through northern England to Manchester.

Conversation was sporadic between them, and Grace eventually fell asleep. Ben rolled his window down a crack and smoked, alone with his thoughts and the metronomic swish of the wipers. He had no idea what awaited them at their destination. All he could do was keep ploughing ahead, and let the dice roll.

Time inched by. Ben was tired, and could have done with someone to talk to. But he didn’t want to disturb Grace, who was still fast asleep in the big, enveloping armchair of the passenger seat with her head resting on her shoulder, her face partially covered by her long black hair. Now and then he glanced at her and thought how peaceful she looked, and how comfortable he felt in her presence. That strange feeling of cosy domesticity came over him again. But then he thought about the predicament the two of them were in, and the certain dangers that lay ahead. And he wished that she hadn’t become mixed up with him in this. If he could find a way to sideline her safely out of it and finish the job alone, he would.