By the time he reached the water’s edge a mist was rolling in, drifting like battlefield smoke over the surface and blotting out the stars. It was still and peaceful down here, the only sounds the gentle wind rustling the pines and the soft lapping of the water against the shore. Ben stalked eastwards along the south side, just a slow-moving patch of shadow that paused here and there for long moments to drink in the stillness and observe every inch of his surroundings. When after two miles he’d seen nothing, he backtracked the way he’d come. At its widest point the loch was several hundred yards across, but at its extreme western end the stretch of water narrowed to a taper, little wider than a stream all choked with branches and floating debris. He skirted around and began to make his way up along the north side. The mist was slowly intensifying, the shadows deepening around him until the inky blackness all but swallowed the trees and the water.

Ben had been following the north shore for a half-hour or so when he saw the lights. A pair of bright white torchbeams, forty or fifty yards up ahead, close to the lochside, sweeping left and right like searchlights. He sank into a crouch and watched them. Behind the lights he could make out the dark silhouetted figures of three men, picking their way through the bushes that skirted the shore. They were heading in his direction, but the range of their torches was too short to reach him yet. They could be a gang of poachers, he thought. If they were, his man could be among them – though Ben’s mental profile of the guy suggested he wouldn’t be. Or they could be Fisheries bailiffs. Or someone else. Ben was interested in finding out who.

He moved towards the lights, keeping his body low to the ground the way he’d long ago been trained to sneak up on the enemy. Getting closer, he could see that the three men weren’t carrying fishing gear. That ruled them out as salmon poachers. But they were carrying something. The lights glinted off the twin barrels of a shotgun. That was when he realised he’d stalked a little too close. One of the torchbeams swept over him, hesitated and came back. A white dazzle seared his retinas. He ducked, but too late. There was a hoarse, excited yell of ‘Over there! I think I seen him!’