PROLOGUE
He was going to die tonight.
But that didn’t slow him down. His death might have been inevitable, but a primitive urge to flee kept his legs moving as he stumbled up the mist-cloaked escarpment.
Adrenaline flooded his system. Fight or flight. And there was no way he could fight, not against them, not now they’d realised what he had done. What he had taken from them. What a fool he’d been to think he could bring them down.
He clutched the blue leather notebook to his sweaty chest. Where could he hide it? He couldn’t keep running forever. His legs were tiring, and the ache in his chest was getting worse.
They would catch up with him eventually anyway, and it would all be for nothing if they found the book.
He slipped and skidded as he desperately tried to climb the dew-soaked grass slope. Though lactic acid made his legs burn and a demand for oxygen made his chest tight, his muscles continued contracting and pushing forward as he climbed the hill.
He’d been running along the road first, his dirty trainers hitting the tarmac hard as he tried to escape the inevitable. Though his brain was a mass of jumbled panicked thoughts, his instincts had taken over. On the road, he was easy to spot, easy to catch. Before he reached the petrol station, closed and dark at this hour, he had turned and run into the open field.
A faint glow on the grey horizon told him dawn was approaching. It was still dark, but as the light improved, his chances of evading his pursuers fell even further. A sound made him pause.
He stiffened, his harsh breath sounding ridiculously loud in the early-morning silence. Then he heard it again – a dog barking. One of theirs, probably. Was it following his scent?
He was halfway up the hill when he realised another mistake: he was exposed in the middle of misty grassland. He needed cover of some sort. Camouflage.
There were plenty of trees and shrubs in the vicinity, but panic had made him stupid. He pivoted quickly. Too quickly. His knee gave out from under him and he crashed to the ground, dropping the book.
With a groan of pain, he snatched it back up and, muddied and bruised, headed for a copse of trees.
He hadn’t had time to formulate a plan. Instinctively he’d been heading for the towering spire on top of Canwick Hill. A landmark that could be seen from all around. A monument to the lives and deaths of those who had served their country. But no one would mourn his passing.
He thought of his daughter then, regret hitting him even harder than his fear. A rasping sob tore from his throat. But still he pushed on, until beneath the trees, he paused. The dawn light gave the copse an unworldly, fairy-tale appearance. He could almost believe he’d be safe under the protection of the boughs of the old oak that towered above him. Almost.
But the sharp, eager bark of a dog, closer now, made him catch his breath. Dropping to his knees, he set the book down on a tuft of grass and began to scrape away at the earth with his hands. The smell of musty, damp, decaying plant matter reminded him of what was to come. What we all become in the end.
His fingernails broke as they scratched the ground, and the raw skin beneath began to bleed, but he didn’t stop, clawing at the dirt over and over until the hole was large enough to hide the book in.
The next bark made him whimper. They were closing in. Almost there. He had only minutes left. Maybe only seconds. He shoved the notebook in the hole, bending the cover, not caring that dirt wedged itself between the pages. Then, hastily, he replaced the dark soil, frantically patting it down before covering it with bracken.
Pushing up, he staggered away. They couldn’t discover him here, near the book. He couldn’t let them find it.
Leaning against the rough bark of a beech tree, he panted as he tried to sort through his options. Fear had turned his brain to mush. But if he could just lure them far enough away from the buried notebook . . .
He moved, forcing his tired limbs to work as he darted out into the open again, crossing the grass and heading for the next group of trees, which were further down the hill. If he could get past them . . . then the road would be in view again . . . the B1188 out of Lincoln. If he was lucky, someone would be driving along, even at this time of the morning.
He might get away after all. He could flag down a car, ask the driver to call the police . . . Or he might even get as far as Canwick village and rouse some sleeping resident.
Hope gave him another burst of speed.
He ran at full pelt into the next cluster of trees, as young branches whipped and scratched at his face and chest. He stumbled over dips and roots, but still kept moving. The road was almost in view – safety was so close.
A larger branch slammed against his temple, making him cry out and stagger. Then the barking was right behind him. Snarling. A man’s voice. The bouncing beams from a torch hit the trunk on a tree directly in front of him.
Terrified, he turned to face the snapping jaws and heard the cold laugh of victory – the sound of a man who’d caught his prey.
CHAPTER ONE
Marissa Clerkwell shaded her eyes against the bright sunlight of the May afternoon. She’d headed out for her regular walk along the South Common later than usual, after waking up with a terrible hangover. She’d consumed half her body weight in coffee but still the nagging headache remained. All self-inflicted, she thought glumly as she trudged up the hill, watching her black dog, Toots, frolic happily, chasing a butterfly. If only she had the dog’s energy, Marissa thought with a sigh.
Marissa had adopted Toots from a rescue centre three years ago. Her pedigree was uncertain, but Marissa suspected she was a German Shepherd and black Lab mix. Thanks to a deformed front paw, she’d been in the centre for months and had been overlooked by most people wanting to adopt a dog, but Marissa had fallen in love the moment she’d walked into the kennels. Toots’s paw still caused issues from time to time. But today she was content racing up the hill. Marissa smiled. It certainly didn’t hold her back.
Marissa managed to raise a polite smile for the couple walking down the hill towards her. They had a gorgeous grey Weimaraner on a leash. The alert dog strained and jumped enthusiastically as they approached.
‘What a beautiful dog!’ Marissa said as they passed.
‘She is. Still a puppy at heart, though. If she decides to chase a rabbit, she’ll be halfway across Lincoln before we catch up with her. That’s why she’s on the lead.’ The man chuckled and leaned down to scratch the dog behind the ears.
Marissa paused and watched as the couple walked down the hill arm in arm, then turned her attention back to her own dog.
‘Toots!’
The black dog halted immediately and turned in a tight circle before running back to Marissa’s side.
‘Good girl!’
Marissa leaned down to stroke Toots’s black fur and looked into the dog’s adoring brown eyes. Toots was the most loyal, loving dog, and despite her boundless energy was usually quick to follow instructions.
She straightened and clapped her hands, signalling Toots could continue to play. The dog dashed off up the hill.
The South Common was a pleasant place for a walk. There were always people around, so Marissa felt comfortable walking Toots on her own. Today, there were even more people than usual, owing to the fine weather. The early-morning mist had given way to a sunny afternoon, though the breeze was bracing. The fresh air was slowly helping Marissa feel more human again.