She realised with a start that the eighteenth of August was tomorrow. She reached for her phone and pulled up a map of Chichester Harbour. A satellite image showed a series of deep-water channels penetrating inland, vast mudflats exposed at low tide. She zoomed in. There was an odd spit of sand which curled back from the open sea. Scattered white dots of small boats moored behind the spit. On the main sea-facing beach, a regular line of something Silva reckoned were beach huts.

Nothing on the screen sprung out at her so she put the phone down and returned to bed where the problem continued to nag her until eventually she drifted off to sleep.

When she woke it was still dark. She climbed out of bed and went over to the window. In the garden a crescent moon rippled in the waters of the lake. Closer, a shadow moved across the lawn, while to the right another approached the house.

Silva eased back from the window. In thirty seconds she’d dressed and was inching down the corridor to Itchy’s room. She tapped the door gently and entered.

‘Itchy!’ she whispered.

‘Huh?’ Itchy stirred beneath the duvet. ‘Wassup?’

‘Don’t put the light on. We’ve got company. Two. Outside.’

‘Shit.’ Itchy slipped from the bed. There was a rustle as he dressed. ‘They armed?’

‘No idea, but wouldn’t you be?’

‘Yes, but we’re not.’

‘No.’ Silva considered the situation. There were two men about to break into the house. If they’d been sent by Haddad then likely they were highly trained, had weapons and were prepared to kill. ‘Go and wake Mrs Collins and tell her to stay in her room. We don’t want her wandering around.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll see to my father. Try and get him up here. Perhaps we can barricade the stairs.’

As she spoke a tinkling of glass came from the hallway, the creak of a door.

‘They’re in,’ Silva said. ‘Go!’

She ran out into the corridor and moved towards the stairwell. A grand staircase spiralled round to the first floor and then on down to the ground floor. Moonlight shone through the front door and reflected on the polished flooring. The sheen was disturbed as two figures passed along the hallway. They disappeared out of sight, heading, Silva suspected, for the stairs.

She was about to go back and find Itchy when there was an explosion of noise. A loud bang followed by the phut phut phut of a silenced pistol. Then another bang.

‘Dad!’ Silva screamed. She reached the lower floor and ran along the corridor to her father’s room. There was a smell of cordite, and as she entered the room she tripped on someone lying prone in the doorway. She stumbled, turned and knelt. ‘Oh my God! Are you hurt?’