LITMIR.BIZ

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that was it. But as soon as he thought of her name the dark began to roll in again. Why? What had he done?

      Water. He’d swum across the estuary. Dark. Cold. He’d climbed into a car – hadn’t he? Yes, yes. He’d been on his own, though he’d wanted to take Lindy. But she didn’t make it. Why not? What happened? Was she here?

      And who was Lindy?

      The blonde woman? No. She was definitely Helen. Don’t think about Helen.

      And he’d left something behind, something important.

      He shivered. And realized his body was a mass of aches and pains. He ran his tongue around his mouth and felt a couple of loose teeth. Tried to lift his head.

      Fuck that hurt.

      He gritted his teeth. Lifted his head again. Let it fall back. Too much pain.

      Where was he? It wasn’t hot enough to be the desert, not cold enough to be Norway or Russia, so where the hell was he?

      He could do this, he’d been trained to withstand all sorts. He’d been trained by the—

      What was he thinking? That he’d been trained by the army. Fuck, yes. Heat. Desert. The girl with the almond eyes. Push them away.

      Army. That’s who he was.

      He opened his eyes. Saw brown spikes and brambles. His face throbbed. The dripping tap was rain falling off tree branches onto the ground beside him. Cold seeped through him from the earth. He was under a hedge? What?

      He flexed his fingers, tried to move his legs, his arms. Instinct told him to keep his movements small and quiet. There had to be a reason he was under a hedge.

      Hiding?

      That had been such a bad idea. Could have been fatal.

      He had no idea how long he’d been under the fucking hedge, but he had to gather himself and move. Even more, he needed to feel his body – at the moment he was numb and that was not a good thing.

      Trying not to cry aloud with the pain of it, he rolled out from under the hedge and onto the road.

      The full force of the rain hit him hard, opening the cuts on his face, and within moments he was soaked through. At least, he thought grimly, it would wash away some of the blood and the dirt and the grime.

      He lay still for a moment, then gritted his teeth and tried to stand.

      His blood roared around his body and the mild pounding in his head became ever more fierce. His head swam and he thought he might black out or throw up or both. More deep breathing. Tried to throw his mind elsewhere. Back to sunshine, to laughter, to the hazy feeling of happiness he couldn’t quite grasp.

      Then, at least, he was standing straight. Only had one trainer on. Not good.

      He shook his head, felt the loose teeth rattle. Spat out blood, but no teeth.

      His body was stiff and weak. And it was fucking painful, especially his shoulder. He couldn’t move his arm properly. Had he broken it? Dislocated it? He tried to waggle his fingers and winced. Yep, that worked. Not broken then. Blood was running down his arm onto his fingers. He craned his neck to look. A nasty gash running from shoulder to elbow. Not only dislocated but sliced open. And it didn’t look great. Pieces of grit and mud and grass in the wound. He’d have to find somewhere to wash it.

      Christ he felt sick. He started shaking again. Hot. Feverish. The shaking filled his body, stretched from the top of his head to his toes. Falling to his knees, he let the vomit spew out of him, retching until his ribs hurt and there was nothing more to come.

      He closed his eyes.

      He wanted, no needed – what? He had a memory of being given something, something that made him feel good. It made him feel good but also like a – zombie, that was it. Someone useless, without sense or a mind of their own. He’d been given it quite recently. Who by? Those men? He didn’t want to feel like that again, like his body and mind were jelly and nothing could make an impression on them. No, he wanted to feel like himself again, but somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew he didn’t like that self. That self hurt people.

      He stood up again. Slowly. Looked around. It was still dark, though the rain had abated. Right. He needed to get dry, to try and clean his wounds and to get some rest. Then maybe he could think about what he would do.

      And at all costs he must avoid those men.

CHAPTER SEVEN

       DAY TWO: MORNING

      Alex stepped out of the Forum – a modern building constructed of glass that housed the city’s library, a café, a shop and television and radio studios – and into the grey and drizzly daylight. Norwich was getting ready for work, and people splashed to and fro huddled under umbrellas. The market stallholders were busy pulling back the awnings over their stalls and putting goods out on display – all manner of things from spare vacuum cleaner parts to high-end leather goods. The smells of bacon and coffee from the fast-food outlets wafted over to Alex, making her stomach rumble.

      The interview down the line to BBC Scotland had gone well, even though she’d been stuck in a small cubbyhole behind the Norfolk radio station’s reception and had to imagine the jolly-voiced person at the other end of the microphone. Still, at least the presenter had read her book and had formed some interesting questions about it. He had even gone on to ask her about her other work, though obviously didn’t want it to get too serious, as he cut her off when she began to go down the mental health route. It seemed she was destined for evermore to be known for her love of coupons.

      It made her back itchy. Ever since she had begun her career – one that was blown off course almost straightaway when she became pregnant after an unfortunate one-night stand in Ibiza – she had lurched from one freelance job to another. Heath was right, she had to get off her backside and find herself a project, a decent story. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she had to do something serious. Sure, she had won a lot of professional acclaim for that series on Internet suicide forums, but she knew she was only as good as her last article. Or book. And if she didn’t want to be remembered for all eternity for a book about finding and using money-off vouchers, then she had to get on with it and stop feeling sorry for herself. Give herself a new sense of purpose.

      Alex yawned. Sleep had been elusive overnight, images of the crashed car and the broken man flashing through her mind. The blood. The look on his face. Frightened, not relieved when those people turned up to take him to the hospital. She had a nagging feeling that the whole set-up was wrong. Why hadn’t she been more insistent that they told her exactly where they were taking him? Too much drink. Befuddled brain, maybe.

      And there had been no call from the police. There had been a crash, a man had been injured, she was a witness. The man in the coat said he would call the police. They would want to talk to her.

      Then she remembered she had given one of the men her card. There was no excuse for them not to call. Right. She wasn’t going to wait, she was going to call round the hospitals – there weren’t that many in the area – and find out the state of the injured man. It had been, what? About eleven o’clock when she left Riders’ Farm. Allow about fifteen minutes for the walk down the road and then another three quarters of an hour for them to get to a hospital, so, it would be somewhere around midnight when he arrived, a bit longer if they went to the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. She turned and went back into the Forum.

      Five minutes later and she was in the radio cubbyhole again. The man on reception had assured her that it wasn’t going to be used until lunchtime and said she was welcome to make her calls from there and could he have her autograph. For his mother. Of course.

      She took her damp coat off again and settled down and spent fifteen frustrating minutes on the phone. No injured

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