Silva went back downstairs, uneasy. A local criminal wouldn’t have removed the hard drive from the computer; this was something different dressed up to look like a simple burglary. She cleared up the mess on the kitchen floor and closed the window. She watered the plant in the front room and then went outside and stood by the weir. A torrent of water roared down the concrete apron and hissed into the pool below. She’d stood here many times. There was something about the way the water tumbled and churned in a froth of white. The constant motion and noise cleansed the mind of thoughts, and Silva had often found staring into the flow had the effect of putting the world to rights. This time, though, the noise was angry and more of a growl, as if her mother’s death had conjured a malevolent spirit from the river.

The roar from the weir meant she didn’t hear the near-silent footsteps of the man who crept across the grass behind her. But she felt his hands on her back. A hard shove and she was falling onto the slime-covered, sloping face of the weir. She crashed into the concrete sill and was swept into the churning pool below. She managed to splutter a mouthful of water before the undertow took her down into the turbulent fury of the weir. She tried to fight her way to the surface but found herself being dragged back by the force of the water and the weight of her wet clothes.

If you fall in, swim down and out.

The words had been drummed into her by her mother when Silva had been a young child. A life ring hung on a post to one side of the weir but was useless if you fell in when no one was around. It was useless if you were dragged below the surface.

Swim down and out.

Silva ignored her instinct to head up towards the light. That way was to fight the current and was always doomed to fail. Instead she kicked out and dived deep, feeling a surge of water grab her and carry her downstream away from the weir. Her knees grazed the stones on the riverbed and she pushed the bottom with her feet and shot herself towards the surface. She bobbed up twenty metres from the weir, coughed out a mouthful of water and swam towards the bank. As she pulled herself from the river she heard a squeal of tyres and a car revving, the engine sound fading into the distance as she hunched over on the soft grass and gasped for breath.

Chapter Seven

Silva spent a restless night in the cottage. She lay awake listening to every little sound: a creak on the landing, a fox screeching outside, the wind in the trees.