The clouds were moving fast, occasionally making way for a half-moon. When they covered it again, the countryside vanished into blackness.
Breen walked slowly, with his hands out in front. Another few yards. Then he fell, tripping on a tussock of grass. He had been in this kind of darkness before, but that had been in a city, where there were solid walls and pavements. The countryside lacked predictable geometries. Here he stumbled on every thistle and hummock.
He had seen Hibou disappearing down the track that led to the estuary below the farm to meet the tramp.
Had Doyle persuaded her to collude with him? Had the secrecy been his idea, or hers? She was used to secrets, he knew. The idea that she had been sneaking him eggs from the henhouse made his stomach lurch.
His foot dropped suddenly and he fell forward again, into shallow, cold water. The mud stank. He recoiled, shoving himself up and staggering backwards.
There was a pond, he remembered. Falling in at this time of year would be lethal. Which side of the path was it?
The cloud parted again briefly and for a few seconds he got a clear view of the land around him and the water. The dark hump of the bridge that carried the path over the railway was to the right of him.
He looked back. The lights of the farmhouse still looked close. He had not come far. Had Helen managed to get through to Sharman yet? He doubted it. The local police were in chaos. Even if she did, she had to persuade him to divert resources here. That would not be easy. They were still convinced they were looking for a woman.
He trotted now, partly to warm himself after the coldness of the water, partly because he knew the cloud would cover the moon again soon.
At the railway, the tracks shone below the bridge for a few seconds and then the thick darkness returned. But he felt more confident of his route now. The estuary below seemed to glow slightly, even when the moonlight was not there.
He could hear the lapping of the water on the land now.
He tried to think. Doyle was an ascetic. A man who lived on little and who had survived below the radar for years, living rough or in other people’s houses. He might be keeping Eloisa Fletchet in the van still, but Breen guessed he would need somewhere more remote to hide in. A Mini van would be too cramped for him to torture someone in.
Finally he reached the water’s edge. Which way would Hibou have walked? Right would be upriver, towards the town, towards where Doyle had pitched a tent. Left would be out towards the sea.
The tide was high. Helen seemed to know whether it was rising or falling just by looking at it. Breen had no idea.
Which way?
Right? Breen had walked back from the town this way once, along a muddy footpath. Doyle would know that Breen had already seen him here. Breen peered into the blackness but could see nothing. He turned around. There was just darkness between him and the lights of the town at the mouth of the estuary, three or four miles away.
The air smelt dank and rotten. The stink of mud and dead water. A tang of salt too.
He chose left, calculating that Doyle, if it was Doyle, would always pick the remoter zone.
But the shoreline was narrow. After a few hundred yards it seemed to disappear completely. In its place, a steep, artificial bank made from rocks.
He climbed the bank and near the top saw, through the stubby trees, a faint orange light in the distance. A hurricane lamp maybe? It was something at least. A house, perhaps, that he’d never noticed before. Or a shed? He started to work his way along the bank towards it.
It was hard work. The bank was at an angle of roughly forty-five degrees, made of carefully laid stones. At low tide it would be easy to walk this way, along the mud and mussel beds below, but now they were covered in water. Instead he edged slowly forward, bent double to avoid the low branches above, always worried that he’d lose his footing and slide into the cold seawater.
He stopped and tried to spot the farmhouse on the hillside above, to see if there was any activity there, but it was hidden behind the bank now. He could still hear nothing beyond the splashes of the water hitting the stones beneath him. Even if Helen had managed to get through to the police it would take them a little while to reach the farm, wouldn’t it?
What if they didn’t come?
A click somewhere above him startled Breen.
A gun?
In the panic, he almost lost his footing, sliding off the bank.
Was someone watching him? If there was someone on the bank above him, Breen would be clearly silhouetted against the water.
Heart clattering, he shrank slowly to the rocks, trying to make his profile harder to see. He pressed his face against the bank, listening for any noise, waiting for the gunshot. The rocks were cold and rough against his cheek.
But instead of a gunshot, another noise. A rumble, building fast from a distance, then coming closer, until it was a roar.
A rush of wind too. And long flashes of light, illuminating the slapping waves below. The shock of it was so great he lost his grip on the rocks and slid downwards. At the last second, his feet inches from the water, his left hand managed to grab a rock that protruded from the wall, yanking his sore shoulder but stopping his fall.
A train, he realised, after what seemed an age. A diesel heading towards London at what seemed, at this close distance, a ridiculous speed.
The bank was the edge of the railway line, he surmised, snaking alongside the water.
He pulled himself back up the bank and lay against the rock, panting, trying to recover himself.
And then he heard the click again.
He looked up. The light that had been amber was now red. He laughed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It had been the noise of the cable, changing the signal up ahead.
The train was now far down the valley, a line of light outlining the course ahead.
The house he had thought he was going towards was just a railway signal. Other than that, there was only the blackness ahead.
Should he go back or carry on?
There was no sign of anyone behind him. No torchlight. No other searchers. He edged on again, the cold beginning to make his fingers ache.
Another train was coming, this time in the other direction. In the strobe of lights as it passed, he tried to make out the shape of the route ahead. There seemed to be a dark lump of land jutting into the estuary.
Ten yards later he almost fell into a culvert cut into the bank. Water from some hillside stream bubbled underneath him as he cautiously edged his way around the top of it. If he fell in here, he would never get out.
Forced upwards, he was now squeezing under the hanging branches at the top of the slope. They scratched him, flicking into his face.
There was a sudden scrabble ahead of him and a bird flew out, wings scraping face. Quacking in alarm, a duck moved low over the water to his right. The noise faded as the creature travelled further across the estuary. Just when his heartbeat had slowed again, a second bird shot out, repeating the same quacking. It sounded absurdly loud.
He had cramp.
Something about the position he was crouched in and the cold in his limbs was making the muscles in his left foot seize up. The pain grew. He should move on. If he could reach the land ahead he would be able to stand up properly and stamp out the pain.
He moved less cautiously now, keen to make it to flatter ground.
Was that another light?
He was shivering slightly now. It was harder to hold his gaze. Another small, pale, orange-ish glow in the distance.
Was it just a distant sodium light? Or something closer?
And then it was gone.
He stopped and looked, straining his eyes.
There. Again. It was not far away at all, on the dark land ahead. Yes.
He stepped forward.
And fell.
His foot sliding into nothingness, his head cracking against something hard and then his body engulfed in coldness. An iron fist around his chest.
Down into a churning current.