She kept driving, on and on, until it seemed as though there was no world beyond the arc of her own headlights. One place smeared into the next. The roads grew steeper, thinner, and the evergreens began to show themselves, then bare trees with their branches arching overhead, forming a tunnel. It was so much darker in the countryside. There was a frost already on the verges. She had more instructions in her head than she could hold – the buyer’s, Mal’s, the Mayhoods’, Mr Kimball’s. One day, she might get to dish the orders out herself. She was supposed to carry out Mal’s plan, exactly as he’d told her, and keep him occupied until the buyer’s men arrived. But what if these two hard knocks in the car behind weren’t sharp enough? What if Mal had second-guessed them? What if he’d prepared for it?

Turning on to Chalkpit Lane, she braked and watched her mirror. Seconds passed without a glimpse of the saloon. She worried that she’d made the left too quickly, but it rolled up at the junction with its indicator flashing and came after her. The tarmac was uneven now and broken at the edges. She was flanked by ghostly trunks of shrubs and saplings. Gorse and briar. Everywhere, a slop of leaves. And suddenly, her wheels were skittering downhill. She took her foot off the accelerator, let the car glide onwards. She was twisting in the dark, towards a pleasant-looking cottage with an empty driveway. Beyond that, a clutch of houses on the slope. She carried on until she caught a roadsign leaning on the bank: OXTED QUARRY. A familiar jagged symbol. Only fifty, sixty yards and she was there.

No floodlights on the outer fence. No wall. The entrance was a gravel track that led up to a gatehouse with a barrier. A dark mist loomed behind it. Two enormous chimneys puffing in the distance. She tapped the brakes twice so the men behind would see her blinking lights. As she veered towards the quarry gate, the black saloon went straight ahead. The idiots had messed it up already. She couldn’t beep the horn or flash her lights at them. What now? She reached across and fetched her handbag, rooted for the hammer. It was slim enough to fit inside her coat sleeve. With her arm raised slightly, it would sit right in her elbow’s bend. Not much of a defence, but it could do some damage.

She approached the gatehouse at a crawl. The lights were on inside and out. There were no other cars that she could see, although a few marked spaces were left vacant near the fence. Mal had told her that she only had to show up where he’d crossed the map and he’d be right there to meet her. So where was he? Maybe she had come to the wrong entrance. All she could do was wait.

She pulled into a parking space and shut the headlamps off. Was she supposed to let the engine run as well? She kept it idling. The hammer rested on her forearm like a splint. She held the wheel, did nothing except stare between the fence’s slats, into a barren patch of land, grassed over. Then came movement in the corner of her eye. A shadow left the gatehouse, stepping out. His footseps crunched the gravel. It was Mal. He wore a uniform – white shirt, smart trousers and a chip-bag hat like fellas in the air force had – but she could spot his bulk a mile away, the slink of him. He walked up to the passenger side and climbed straight in.