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Tyninghame to search for the missing children. Two eight-year-olds disappearing like that was a terrible thing. Dougal shook his head as he thought of them and of all those who’d lost their lives over the years on that stretch.  
         The volunteers looking for the big cat were split up into groups of three so that they could cover more ground.  
         One group had gone to the deer-park, one to the area around the cement works, a third to the John Muir Way and Dougal’s group were taking Lochend, near to where the sighting had taken place.  
         Sam Surf was in the Lochend group, glad to be able to be out and about after his surfing ordeal. Being on crutches didn’t make the terrain easy for him, but he enjoyed the exercise his arms were getting.  
         Martin was there, too, dressed for the job in hiking boots, beany hat, walking stick and trousers tucked into his thick, woolly socks.  Hanging from his neck was a pair of binoculars and from the top of one of his coat pockets poked a note-book and pencil with a rubber on the top. “In case I need to take notes,” he’d said when Dougal looked down at them and furrowed his brow.  
         They might have looked like any bunch of ramblers or twitchers if it hadn’t been for the shotguns that Sam and Dougal had slung over their shoulders.  
         All was quiet. There was a damp feel to the air and the ground was sodden after a night of rain. It would make walking less pleasant but meant that any paw-prints would be easily spotted.  
         The three men set off without talking, alternating their gazes between the ground and the woodland.  
         The brief was simple. Find anything that might suggest a large animal on the prowl. Dung, footprints, chewed carcasses, bones, scratches on tree bark, fur, a lair or even the large animal itself, heaven forbid. Whatever they found, they were to map it, take a sample or make a cast and get it straight to Edinburgh Zoo for analysis. If they could prove that Martin was right, that’s when the really big guns would come down.  
          “ Dougal,” Sam asked in a loud whisper. “What the hell does Panther poo look like anyway?”  
          “ How the hell should I know?”  
         Martin took out his smart phone with enthusiasm. “I’ll look it up, shall I?”  
         Sam pointed down at the ground. “Whatever it looks like, I think I’ve just stepped in some.”  
         There was a smear of dung all over Sam’s right trainer and behind him on the ground was a large pile of brown poo that had been spread along the floor like melted chocolate. From it, a strong smell of rancid meat slowly rose in the air until it reached the nostrils of the hunters.  
          “ Pwah,” they all managed through the hands that covered their mouths and noses.  
         Sam felt his stomach tighten and his breakfast rising in his stomach like it was keen to make a reappearance. The back of his throat retched and retched again. He bent over and put his hands on his knees just in case.  
          “ You found the thing,” Dougal said. “I guess that means you’ll be taking the sample.”  He smiled at Martin and winked. “He who did the crime does the time…”  
         This time Sam couldn’t hold his breakfast back. It forced his way up and out of Sam’s mouth like a Tsunami of soup and carrots. Noises came from his mouth with the vomit – ‘Bleurrrrrrrgh’ and ‘Awghhhhhh’ and ‘Jeezzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’.  
         Once the spewing had finished, Sam stood and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. There were tiny orange splashes on his trainer and on the stookie the hospital had put around his ankle that complemented the browns of the poo.  
          “ That the new Adidas logo?” Martin asked, chuckling.  
         Sam set to wiping his shoe clean on a thick knot of grass.  
          “ Don’t think throwing up’ll get you