She ran to the sound of screaming.
It seemed to be coming from the far side of the field, from the direction she had seen Ferriter running towards minutes earlier.
Her progress across the meadow seemed impossibly slow; she stumbled across the hummocky land, lungs already aching from her sprint to try and catch the girl.
Ahead, a pair of mallards rose, startled, quacking, flapping into the air. Something had disturbed them.
As she reached what she thought was the edge of the field, she saw it curved away further to the right. At the far side, the land was hedgeless. Against the broad horizon the figures of two men were silhouetted against the dark blue evening, one plump, the other thin. They were shouting at each other, or at someone down below.
She ran faster; though marshy, the ground was more even underfoot.
When the yelling stopped, briefly, she heard the dog barking and snarling. It was down in the ditch where the men were looking. ‘Christ.’
There was the sound of frantic splashing. And then the screaming started again.
The noise covered Cupidi’s approach. About twenty metres away she began to be able to make out that this field ended in a ditch, much like the one they had found Hilary Keen’s body in. Panting hard now, a stitch starting to burn in her left side, she could see that the two men looking down into the water were on opposite sides of it, one closer to Cupidi, the other in the next field.
And now, from the left, she caught sight of someone else running towards the men.
A woman. A sensibly dressed, Hunter wellies and olive-green gilet kind of countrywoman. Absurdly English.
She was speeding alongside the far side of the water towards the commotion. Cupidi didn’t have time to wonder what she was doing.
Out of sight, Ferriter’s voice came again, ‘Help me!’ But Cupidi was still frustratingly far away from the slope to see down into it.
‘Jill,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m coming.’
The fatter man on the far side looked up, saw her approaching, shouted urgently down into the ditch.
Cupidi tripped, fell.
When she got up, the man who had seen her was scampering away. The second man, now covered from head to foot in dark mud, was desperately trying to scramble up the side of the slope, finding it impossible to get a hold on the wet bank.
He must have tried to jump the ditch to get away, she realised.
She was up again now, running towards where she had heard Ferriter’s pleading coming from.
The other woman reached the place first. She paused at the top. Cupidi could see shock in her eyes. ‘Call it off,’ the woman shouted. ‘Call the bloody thing off.’
And then the woman plunged downwards, feet first, out of sight, slithering down the steep slope and knocking the escaping man backwards, into the water.
The dog had its jaws clamped on Ferriter’s calf. It was shaking its head methodically from side to side as the police officer tried in vain to kick it off.
Ferriter’s head thrashed sideways. She was trapped halfway up the opposite bank, trying to escape the dog, which was also scrambling for a foothold.
It looked like some kind of mastiff. Large, floppy-jawed, it seemed unbothered by Ferriter’s attempts to struggle free, or by the mud it was caked in. Ferriter’s other foot was below the water; but each time she bent her leg to try and kick the dog away, she slithered downwards to the surface of the water, losing what little purchase she had. Instead she began desperately to try to push the dog’s head off with her hands, still yelling in pain as she did so.
‘I’m coming,’ Cupidi shouted.
Next to them the other man was struggling to get back up the steep bank. Cupidi leaped feet first into the dank water below her.
It was a mistake; she was too far from Ferriter. The bottom of the ditch was soft, giving way under her. She realised why attempting to cross here had been such a poor move for the escaping men – and for Ferriter, who had presumably been chasing them. It was a natural trap. As she tried to move in Ferriter’s direction, her feet stuck in the sludge, ooze sucking at her shoes.
Ferriter caught her eye as she flailed towards her. She was desperate, in pain and exhausted from struggling with the animal. The dog’s spittle flew from its gums as it shook its head.
Next to her, gasping for breath, was the other man, face black with silt.
The other woman had known what to expect. Instead of jumping like Cupidi had, she had slithered down the bank on her backside.
Now, with the kind of decisiveness you rarely saw from members of the public, she launched herself in a tackle onto the dog’s body, her arms around the mastiff’s chest.
As Cupidi was edging closer, one slow step after another, she heard the woman order, ‘Bend your leg.’
With her free arm she slapped Ferriter’s thigh. ‘Bend it,’ she hollered.
Shocked, Ferriter bent her right leg – the one the dog was not latched on to.
The woman barely had time to take a breath before she and the dog disappeared under the water’s dark surface.
‘Hold on!’ Cupidi shouted to Ferriter, who now understood what the woman was trying to do.
Ferriter nodded, grimacing. Meanwhile the man she had been chasing was halfway back up the slope.
Cupidi lunged out, caught the runaway’s ankle and tugged. With nothing to grab on to, the man came tumbling back down easily.
‘Christ,’ screamed Ferriter. The dog had finally released her. She straightened again.
Using her good leg and her arms, she tugged herself along the bank, away from where the dog had been holding her.
The woman’s face emerged from the water.
Took a breath.
Submerged again. From below the water came a desperate kicking, frothing the dark surface.
Came up again for a second time.
Then suddenly everything was calm.
Under the water, out of sight, the woman let go of the dog and it floated slowly to the surface, pale coat matted wet, lifeless now.
The woman stood dripping, dark hair across her face.
Ferriter began shivering.
The runaway stared, shocked, turned. Realising he was still free, he started trying to wade along the silted watercourse, one slow step after another.
‘Oh for God’s sake, stop,’ said Cupidi.
The man took another heavy foot forward. And another.
Cupidi reached inside her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. The screen was dead, the device ruined. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said.
Cupidi wanted to ask the woman who had saved Ferriter what she was doing here, to thank her for what she had done, but the man was still splashing away down the trench so she set off painfully slowly after him.
It was comical, this slow-motion chase through the sludge. He was only three or four paces away, and with each absurd step, she was gaining on him. He was heavier, she realised. His feet sank deeper than hers, and took more energy to dislodge. She had the edge over him.
‘Please,’ she called. ‘For God’s sake stop. You’re going nowhere. This is exhausting.’
He hesitated, but then took another slow step. But what would happen when she got closer? Would the advantage be back with him when they were next to each other? He looked stronger. There was no time to think. She had to catch him.
As they reached what first looked like a bend in the watercourse, she realised they were at a T-junction. Another wider ditch lay ahead of them. The water seemed to have suddenly deepened. It was above her belly. The banks were steeper and it would be even harder for either of them to climb out, but the deeper water would make it lighter for him.
But it meant she could swim. Kicking off her shoes, she started to move towards him.
He looked round and then, just as abruptly, disappeared below the water, a look of panic on his face.
A hand surfaced, splashed, then sank again.
He couldn’t swim, she realised. The clothes he wore had pulled him under.
‘Christ,’ she said.
She paused to pull off her sodden jacket, but it caught on her watch. She tugged again, heard a ripping sound. It would be ruined anyway. Her watch as well, she guessed.
His hand emerged again from below the surface, then his head, then he sank again.
She counted to ten slowly, threw the shredded jacket onto the bank, took a deep breath and dived into the black cold water.