All those years ago, at St Olaf’s, he said he would get his own back. No one could say he hasn’t been patient. He has planned this. The blue dot is a breadcrumb trail. I’m coming for you, Mulholland.

Jumping from the van she strides around to the back and flings open the doors, using the torch on her phone to check the small store of work tools she keeps stashed there. A torch, a length of rope, a roll of strong tape, a toolbelt and a Stanley knife with a new blade. She straps the toolbelt around her waist and drops the tools into their various compartments then makes her way to the car park where a blue Volvo sits alone. She approaches, cautiously, and moving close, takes out her phone. She dials 999, and when a voice answers, gives Mulholland’s name and location and hangs up. There’s no time to explain. The police will put two and two together. Mulholland will know they won’t be far behind him. Listening for movement or, better still, voices, she scans the trees searching for specks of light. They are somewhere in the darkness a few minutes ahead of her, but where? He will kill Nevis if he can, but he won’t make his move until she has found them. He will want to see the whites of her eyes. He will want to think he has finally destroyed her. She begins to creep along the forest fringe, using the railway line which skirts the edge of the gorge as a guide. The wind is up now and the moon appears blue behind scudding clouds.

Believed to be armed.