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air. The sound chilled the sweat on his face and
made him shiver. He looked down at the bike and realised how lucky
he was. The siren had saved him from another fuck-up.
    The police were in the village, less than half a mile away. If he
started the bike they'd hear it easily. Maybe they wouldn't think
anything of it, but maybe they would. He couldn't take the chance.
    He wheeled the bike as fast as he could, jogging beside it. He took
the turning towards the farm, bouncing the Kawasaki along the beaten
dirt track. Ice gleamed like broken glass in shallow ruts. His lungs burned
and his muscles screamed, but he ignored them and allowed himself
a little hope. You can still do this. You can still get away with it.
    The farmhouse loomed into view beyond a line of beech trees. He
shuddered. The farmhouse was where it had all gone wrong.
    He saw the front door was open slightly. He thought he'd shut it,
but couldn't remember for sure. He kept an eye on it as he passed,
half expecting someone to spring out.
    Beyond the farmhouse the lane twisted to the right, between a barn
and a large corrugated-steel shed. It should be safe to ride from here.
The buildings and trees would muffle the sound.
    Mounting the bike, he raised the visor and wiped his face. As he
glanced back, he caught a flash of light in the sky. A helicopter, no
more than a speck against the Downs. The perspective made it appear
to be gliding along the top of the hills. It was heading for the village.
    For a second he was transfixed. The enormity of the event was
starting to sink in. It wasn't just murder. It was fucking slaughter .
    He imagined alarms sounding across a vast network. Emergency
services descending on an enormous scale, the media hot on their
heels. The impact reverberating around the whole world.
    This realisation sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. With it came
a peculiar spreading warmth in his chest. Gradually he recognised it
as pride. He'd faced terrible obstacles, and against the odds he had
come out on top.
    The bike kick-started on the first attempt. He set off along the track,
heading north of the farm. He looked back again, but couldn't see
the helicopter. He forgot about it and accelerated, keeping a light grip
on the handlebars as the bike juddered over the track.
    He'd planned the route carefully. After half a mile he turned off
the main track and cut through a gap in the hedgerow, joining a bridle
path that took him north-west. He raced past winter fields of dark
churned mud, glistening with frost like icing sugar on melted chocolate.
Another mile, then left across a meadow of wild flowers.
    He threaded through a knot of trees that marked the northern
perimeter of the farm, then burst on to the road and sped away. And
as he did, he allowed himself a brief scream of laughter. He had never
in his life felt so vital, so extraordinary, so complete .
    He had found his vocation.

Eight
    The first media report was broadcast at 9 a.m., by a local independent
radio station. The BBC picked it up shortly afterwards and prepared
to insert a mention into the next round of headlines. At this stage it
was merely a brief, unconfirmed report of a shooting in a small Sussex
village. News producers monitored the situation before deciding
whether to break into regular programming.
    Craig didn't hear the first bulletin. He was watching Spongebob Squarepants and refereeing between his children. Usually goodnatured
and co-operative, this morning they seemed to have picked
up on his irritable mood and were determined to push him over the
edge.
    Nina had gone to the office again. Christmas aside, she'd worked
something like seven out of the past eight weekends. Usually Saturday
mornings, but once or twice the whole day, and a couple of Sunday
afternoons.
    'I need to do it,' she had said. 'My career matters to me.'
    'More than your family?' he'd retorted. He stopped short of saying, More than your marriage ?
    'No. And don't try emotional blackmail. Have I ever