Out under a fretwork of stars, Joanna, eyes wild, rotates on the spot, and for a few frantic seconds her legs don’t seem to want to work. Teeth chattering and feverish, the night slaps its clammy skin to hers and holds her upright. She fumbles for the exterior wall of the cottage and gropes her way along, the brown-stemmed rose bushes by the gate ripping her jeans as she pushes herself into the luminous black lane. Blood mixes with her tears. She has no idea which way to go. She swings her head in panic, tastes the lake’s breath drifting towards her through the trees.
She risks a quick look over her shoulder. Sees Ellie’s killer. His unwieldy silhouette gaining on her through the dark. She’s blind in her left eye and the evil air sharpens in her throat as she springs headlong into the brushwood, the icy wet mulch of last year’s leaves sliding beneath her feet. One soaked sock on, one sock missing, the pain is severe, but her fear drives her on. Fresh blood from the cut above her eye trickles down her face, but she doesn’t stop, won’t stop. Branches and twigs snap against her – scratching, wounding – but still she crashes on, hurling her terror against the frozen rime of night. But there is no one to hear her. No one to save her.
Tarmac under her feet. It hurts to run. Her breathing ragged, her heartbeat banging in her ears. There is a flicker of hope in the squares of ochre light in the distance. Beacons through the dark. Pludd Cottage. Mrs Hooper. Her hope curdles to dread. She can’t lead the monster there and put her in danger.
Breath on her shoulder. She is knocked to the ground. Lies dazed and sprawled full-length on the lane. His big black shape is above her. Everything hurts, but it’s the cold that strikes her. A small spot where her cheek meets the icy asphalt. Head down. She mustn’t provoke him. Her eyes roll to the left, to Mrs Hooper’s gate, as if by some miracle there might be someone there to rescue her. She squints, lifts her head an inch or two and wriggles forward on her belly. Someone is shouting. Buttons is barking.
Then the sound of a car. Headlamps swing with the bend in the road. And like the fox and the rabbit, she crawls instinctively towards the cones of light. A screech of brakes. The big dark car stops just in time. Up on her knees, she slams her hands down on the hot bonnet.
The next thing she knows she is screaming.
‘Help me. Help me.’
The driver: ghost-white and open-mouthed behind the wheel.
‘Help me.’ She thumps the bonnet. ‘For God’s sake … stop him. Stop him! ’
The driver’s door of the BMW opens and a tall, grey-haired man slips out. Bewildered and silent, his sizeable onyx ring winks in the indeterminate light.
‘Stop him,’ she bawls at the driver again. ‘He killed Ellie … he killed Ellie.’ Her eyes wide with fear. ‘And now … now … he wants to kill me.’