Ben snaked away into the thick bushes. But the strong white light followed him. A second later the heavy percussive detonation of a shotgun blast split the night and echoed over the loch. It was followed by another. The first shot went a long way wide of Ben but the second clipped twigs off the tree directly above him and showered him with pine needles and powder snow. If they weren’t poachers, they damn well weren’t official bailiffs either. Not unless their department had adopted a new shoot-to-kill policy without informing anyone.

Ben moved a little further from the shoreline and then stopped and remained as still as a rock, listening. He heard voices. Local accents.

‘I think I got him.’

‘Which way’d he go?’

The three figures were moving faster now, making a lot of noise as they hunted for him. One of them shouted, ‘We know ye’re there, ye fat scar-faced basturt! Come on oot!’

Which was enough to persuade Ben beyond a doubt that the men had been hunting someone else. Scars he might have, but none on his face. And nobody could have described him as fat.

Then another voice said, ‘Split up, boys. He cannae be far away.’ With only a pair of torches between them, two of the men broke off one way and ventured deeper into the trees, away from Ben, their beam scouring the undergrowth in front of them. The third man kept moving towards him, snow and twigs crunching under his feet as he came closer.

The man was just three or four steps away from Ben when he halted. Ben heard the clunk of the guy’s shotgun action being broken open. The sound of spent cartridge hulls being ejected and landing softly in the bushes. A pause as he loaded two fresh shells into his chambers, then snapped the gun shut. His voice sounded very close by as he repeated, ‘I know ye’re there somewhere, ye big eedjit. Show yerself, or I’ll start fuckin’ blastin’!’

Which Ben preferred not to happen. If this moron started firing blind at the surrounding trees and bushes, he’d have a pretty good chance of shooting Ben by accident.

Silent as a panther, Ben emerged from his hiding place, came up behind the man and took him down with one hand over his mouth, craning back his head, and the other twisting the shotgun out of his grip. The man could put up no resistance nor make a sound as Ben dragged him into the bushes at the foot of a tree and wrapped an arm around his throat, locking him in a chokehold that starved his brain of oxygen and within a few seconds put him to sleep. Ben pinned him down hard and tight until he felt his body go limp.