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prey.
    ‘But the thing about life,’ said Steven from behind his shovel, ‘is that no matter how far you run, my friend, there’s no getting away from it.’
    Brother Steven tossed dirt with methodical abandon. Barney Thomson stared into the grave.

We Will All Lie in the Same Grave
     

    Mulholland tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the rain on the windscreen. In the car park at Stirling services. Waiting for Proudfoot; paying for petrol, buying magazines, chocolate, drinks, music and everything else they had to offer. Expecting her to return to the car wearing a new outfit and carrying a flat-packed kitchen unit.
    Preoccupied with thoughts of Mrs Mulholland. On hearing that he’d been ordered to travel north on police business, possibly for a few days, she had issued the classic ultimatum: if you go, I won’t be here when you get back. Considered herself a police widow. Saw the prospect of becoming a real widow if her husband had to come up against that evil monster, Barney Thomson. Would take this opportunity to stay with her sister in Devon, and not just for a week or two. His tapping on the steering wheel became a tight grip as he thought about what else, besides her sister, might keep Melanie in Devon. But then, would he be that bothered if she never returned? Confused. Jealous and disinterested at the same time.
    The car door opened and Proudfoot climbed in, preceded by a cold blast of air, a gallon of rainwater and a bulging bag of merchandise. Closed the door, buckled up.
    ‘What’s the matter with your face?’ she said.
    Mulholland grunted, didn’t want to look as if he’d been thinking about his wife. Started the engine.
    ‘You took your time,’ he said.
    ‘Just buying a few things,’ she said. Started unloading as they pulled out of the service station. ‘Everything we’ll need for the journey to Inverness.’
    ‘It’s only a couple of hours, Sergeant.’
    ‘Might get stuck in the snow.’
    ‘It’s pishing down, for God’s sake.’
    ‘Not up north. It’s a snowfest up there.’
    ‘Bloody hell.’
    Onto the roundabout, then back down to the motorway. Driving a blue Mondeo, heating on full, windscreen wipers frenetic. The M9 mobbed with trucks and lorries and people heading north so that they could escape the winter and be somewhere even colder. He settled in the outside lane and his car disappeared beneath the spray from articulated lorries.
    ‘What did you get for all this snow we’re going to get stuck in? A couple of sleeping bags? A tent, thermal underwear, socks, a flask of tea and some flares?’
    She opened the bag, started lifting out items. He kept his eyes on what little of the road he could see, so that they didn’t die before Barney Thomson had the chance to kill them.
    ‘Got a bacon, egg and tomato.’
    ‘A sandwich, eh? That’ll keep us warm.’
    ‘A turkey ham and lettuce.’
    ‘Turkey ham? I never understood that as a concept. Is that like some weird bird/pig crossbreed?’
    ‘I’m ignoring you.’
    He passed the final monstrous juggernaut in his path and settled into the inside lane, his view now marginally less obscured than it had been. Didn’t realise, but had already stopped worrying about Melanie.
    ‘I also got a brie and black grape and an egg and spinach.’
    ‘Bloody hell. How far north d’you think Inverness actually is?’
    ‘You don’t have to eat any of them. Got a couple of cans of Coke, an Irn Bru and a bottle of water.’
    ‘If we run out we can always stop at the side of the road and melt some snow on the bonnet.’
    ‘Four packets of crisps, three chocolate bars, this month’s Blitz! and a Simply Red tape.’
    He laughed, diced with death by holding up his fingers in the sign of the cross.
    ‘Not in this car,’ he said. ‘This is not an elevator.’
    ‘Piss off!’
    ‘Sergeant.’
    Proudfoot gritted her teeth, shut up. Settled back in her seat, cracked open the brie and black grape and a can of Irn Bru, rested the