She's followed the sea wall to its end and the beach as far as the wooden jetty, and now she's on the narrow lane that heads back inland. Boyd's succinct directions seem to have been accurate because she can finally see the Ferry House Inn, and there, at the very edge of its car park, is the waiting grey car and its very familiar driver.

"Drive," Grace cries breathlessly before she's even fully settled in the passenger seat. "Drive, Kat! Follow the signs to Leysdown and Shellness."

Starting the engine, Kat doesn't argue; she waits long enough for Grace to close the car door and then she puts her foot down hard and the car's tyres squeal briefly as they fight for traction. Slewing the car round and out onto the lane, Kat demands, "What the hell's going on? I heard the shots. Where's Boyd?"

"Hopefully almost back at the house by now," Grace tells her. "Just drive, Kat. Spence isn't answering his phone."

"Christ, do you think he's…?"

"Just drive!"

-oOo-

Boyd is not at the house and neither is Spencer. They are both standing unharmed on the Shellness road, perfectly illuminated by the headlights of an ambulance and several police vehicles, and as Kat brings her car to a rapid stop, the only thing going through Grace's mind – bizarrely – is how incongruous the continuously strobing blue lights on the vehicles seem in such a remote spot. Kat swears, mutters, "What the…?"

Grace shakes her head, confused, and then Spencer is jogging quickly towards them, waving off an uniformed officer who's also heading towards them on an obvious interception course. His shouted words are quite clear: "Stay in the car, Grace! Stay in the car!"

She obeys, but lowers the window to demand, "What's happened? Rowse…?"

Spencer comes to a rapid halt by the passenger door and nods. "Shot two local officers on a routine call-out. They were heading down to the hamlet, and I guess he saw them and got spooked."

An ice-cold lump seems to form in the pit of her stomach. "Dead…?"

"Yeah," Spencer confirms solemnly. "Youngsters. Driver was shot in the chest, passenger in the head."

Grace thinks of the two young men she made tea for just hours earlier, and somehow she just knows…

"I sprinted up here as fast as I could," Spencer tells her, "but there was nothing I could do. Boyd got here just before the ambulance… Shame they didn't get here first, really – he looked like he could do with some oxygen."

Grace is not amused. "We thought you'd been shot. You didn't answer your phone."

Spencer looks bewildered for a second. "Shit. I must have left it back at the house. I didn't think, Grace, I just ran all the way up here – sorry. Guy from the house further up had already dialled nine-nine-nine when I got here. That's him talking to the Sergeant – he saw an old Vauxhall take off at high speed towards Leysdown just after the shots were fired."

"Rowse," Kat says from the driver's seat.

"They've closed the bridges, but the speed he was reportedly going…"

Grace shuts her eyes and lets her head drop back against the headrest. Quite suddenly she feels old, tired and very, very scared. The nightmare isn't abating, it's just getting bloodier. An exhausted part of her wants to give in and let the tears fall, but a tougher, much more dominant part of her takes control and she opens her eyes again. She reaches into her pocket. "Here, take my phone, Spence. Call Hewitt."

"He's already on his way, Grace," Spencer tells her quietly. "Three officers dead in as many days… It's out of all our hands now."

She looks towards the tall, silver-haired figure who's talking animatedly to two of the uniformed officers. Equally quietly, she asks, "Will he be able to come with me?"

Spencer's expression is grim. "I doubt it. Boyd may be good at talking himself out of trouble, but I think Hewitt's going to attempt to charge him with just about everything from obstruction to lifting Fuller's gun from the scene…"

-oOo-

Boyd confirms what Grace already knows – the dead men are the two officers who visited them earlier. Two young men investigating a series of petty crimes; two young men who ended up in the wrong place and the wrong time and inadvertently fell victim to an incredibly dangerous and focused predator. Instinct and experience make her look at Boyd and say, "It's escalating, isn't it? His behaviour? He only has one objective, and nothing else matters to him. He doesn't care if he's taken alive or not, just as long as he makes his final kill."

They are standing not far from the edge of the road, facing the sea. The breeze has stiffened, become much colder, but whether that's all that's making her shiver, Grace isn't sure. She doesn't complain when Boyd puts an arm around her shoulders and draws her against him, and it isn't just his physical warmth that she welcomes. He says, "Man like Rowse isn't made for imprisonment."

"You think this is his last hurrah?"

"Don't you?"

Grace shrugs slightly. Resting her head against his shoulder, she admits, "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Boyd. I'm so tired, so drained emotionally and physically…"

"It's going to be okay, Grace. By now everyone from the Commissioner downwards is going to be kicking Hewitt's arse. Wherever they take you, you can bet the security's going to be absolutely watertight."

"Find me," she says urgently. "As soon as they bail you, come and find me."

"About that," he replies, and tightens his hold on her. "I'm not hanging around long enough to be arrested and banged up in some obscure nick somewhere, not while Rowse is still on the loose."

Grace frowns up at him. "What are you going to do? You can't get off the island, Boyd, the bridges are closed."

"Who says I'm going off by road?"

"What are you going to do, then? Swim across the bloody Swale?"

His reply is deadpan. "Don't be ridiculous, Grace. Far too cold."

She knows it's pointless to argue with him, knows his mind is already made up. Pulling away from him, she says fatalistically, "I suppose you want me to cause a distraction, then, do you?"

Boyd grins at her. "You read my mind."

-oOo-

"And you just let him slip away from under your damn nose, did you, Jordan?" Hewitt barks angrily. "Christ, man, just how incompetent are you? First Rowse and now Boyd. You can expect a disciplinary for this."

Thus far, Grace has said very little, preferring to stay at the edge of the big, brightly-lit squad room that has been temporarily commandeered, but Hewitt's hectoring tone and his implied thread make her hackles rise. Ignoring the armed protection officer at her side, she steps forward. "For heaven's sake, Chief Superintendent, look at him. Does he look like he let Boyd 'just slip away'?"

Hewitt glowers at her, but then automatically looks at Spencer. He sees what everyone else sees. There's heavy bruising to the side of Spencer's face and his split lip is badly swollen. Less aggressively, Hewitt demands, "He assaulted you, Jordan? Spit it out, man!"

"Look at him," Grace says again, saving Spencer from having to give a straight answer. "And as for Rowse, DI Jordan got to the scene of the shooting as quickly as he could."

Through the glass panel in the closed door, she can see the palpable interest their presence is generating amongst the local officers. The police station at Sheerness is not large, and she doubts it ever sees as much excitement as it has tonight. When they first arrived the atmosphere in the building was electric, a mixture of anger and shock, and very little of that has dissipated, but now intense curiosity has been added into the mix.

Hewitt clears his throat noisily. "Well, Boyd can be dealt with later. We'll pick him up at the airport, if not before. In the meantime, our concerns are Rowse, and getting you to safety, Doctor."

She's so tired now. So impossibly tired, and dizzy, too. Her legs hurt, her back hurts, and all she wants to do is lie down somewhere quiet and go to sleep. She doesn't know or care how late it is now, but she guesses it's well after midnight.

"Grace?" Spencer's voice says. It seems to be coming from a long, long way away. He sounds very concerned. "Grace…?"

-oOo-

When she opens her eyes, the first thing Grace registers is bright autumn sunshine streaming through a large, rectangular window. She can see the sky. Very blue, almost completely cloudless. Blinking groggily, she raises her head from thick, soft pillows and realises she's in some kind of hospital room. At least, that's what it appears to be. There's all the usual medical equipment – none of it in use – a plethora of official-looking notices on the walls and a strong smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. There's also a rather square-shouldered young woman in black body armour sitting in the chair in the corner. The heavy pistol on her belt seems somehow less incongruous than the brightly-coloured women's magazine she's slowly flicking through.

Frightened and disorientated, Grace tries, "Spence…?"

The woman looks up instantly. She smiles a little uncertainly, puts the magazine aside and stands up. "Doctor Foley? I'm Sergeant Barrett. Amanda Barrett. How are you feeling?"

"All right, I think," Grace says cautiously, sitting up properly. "Where am I? Where's DI Jordan?"

"Relax," the woman says. "You're in The Pines. A private clinic just outside Sittingbourne. DI Jordan's been summoned back to London, I'm afraid."

"Hewitt…?"

"The DCS has also gone back to London. Bear with me, I'm just going to call the doctor, tell him you're awake."

It very quickly transpires that there's nothing much wrong with her, that she's merely completely exhausted and has been heavily sedated overnight following her unexpected collapse in Sheerness. The doctor is professional, calm and friendly, but Grace can't help feeling increasingly uneasy. She has no real idea where she is, nor how safe she might be – and there's no sign of any of her former colleagues. She feels incredibly alone; abandoned, even. She wonders where Boyd is, whether he's been picked up and arrested; she wonders where Spencer is. Most fundamentally of all, she wonders where Michael Rowse currently is.

"If you'd like to take a shower," Amanda Barrett says, "it's just through that door. There are some clean clothes and things here. I'm afraid yours are rather… muddy."

Thinking back to the previous night, Grace says dryly, "I went for a bit of an unexpected walk."

"I see," the younger woman says in the kind of tone that suggests she has absolutely no clue what's actually going on and is simply following orders handed down from on high. "Shall I organise breakfast for you, Doctor? Tea? Coffee?"

It's all just a little bit too surreal.

-oOo-

Seconds after she switches her phone on with the intention of calling Spencer, an impatient chime announces the arrival of a text message. Grace doesn't recognise the number, but the content is quite clear, six digits followed by a simple instruction: "176401. Call me. You have until 6pm before I shoot him."

Her stomach knots tightly, and for a moment she feels faint again. One-seven-six-four-zero-one. Boyd's former Metropolitan Police warrant number.

"Doctor Foley?" Barrett asks, eyebrows raised. "Are you all right?"

Still staring at the small screen, Grace forces herself to nod. "Fine."

Michael Rowse has Boyd. She's still using the cheap phone provided by Spencer just a couple of days earlier and there's no other plausible way Rowse could have obtained her temporary number. He has Boyd, and she absolutely knows he will carry out his threat. It would mean no more to him than shooting a rabbit or a pigeon. People are nothing more than interesting, exciting prey to him. Shooting Boyd will be as easy as shooting Fuller was, or the two young officers on Sheppey. Or any of his previous victims.

Abruptly getting to her feet, she announces, "I need to use the bathroom."

Barrett merely nods and returns to flicking listlessly through yet another magazine. Grace moves past her, quickly locks herself in the small bathroom with its immaculately clean basin, toilet and shower, and dials Spencer's number. Waiting impatiently, she drums her fingers restlessly on the top of the cistern. A moment later Spencer's voice says, "Grace. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she tells him briskly. "Can you talk?"

"Wait a moment," Spencer replies instantly. There's a pause, some background noise, then, "Okay."

Knowing he'll catch on, and still worried about being overheard, she asks, "Do you know where El Toro is?"

It's an old, old epithet from CCU days. Originally Stella Goodman's, in fact. Always delivered in heavily French-accented Spanish, usually with a pained, pointed look towards the heavens. El Toro – The Bull. The proverbial bull in the china shop, to be exact. Spencer's response is immediate. "No clue, Grace, sorry. Gone to ground for the duration, I assume. Why?"

"I've had a text message. We've got trouble, Spence. Can you get here?"

There's a pause. "Could be difficult, Grace. My Super's spitting blood over my involvement in all this as it is…"

"El Toro's been scheduled for the next bullet."

There's a long moment of silence followed by, "Guess I'm in so much trouble already another bollocking won't matter one way or the other. Give me an hour, Grace. And for God's sake, sit tight and don't do anything rash."

Returning to the main room, she goes to stand by the window. There's a stretch of lawn outside, immaculately tended, and beyond it a high wall and the suggestion of woods and fields. There's a marked police car on the drive, and another closer to the building. Glancing at Barrett, Grace asks, "How many officers have been assigned to protect me?"

The woman looks up. "At the moment there are two of us from SO1, and four local firearms officers. Trust me, you're quite safe, Doctor Foley."

"Do I have to stay in this room?"

"It might be for the best, at the moment. We're just waiting for the order to transfer you to a safe house."

"Soon?"

"Tonight, probably," Barrett tells her. "I know it's difficult, but you should try to rest and relax. I can get the doctor to give you something, if you'd like…?"

"No," Grace says firmly. She looks at her watch. It's almost midday.

-oOo-

Just sometimes, in the evenings, Boyd would sprawl out lazily on the sofa with his head in her lap as she read a book or idly watched the television. Usually on such occasions, he'd eventually fall asleep, more from boredom than contentment, and Grace would find herself looking down at him in bewildered wonderment, hardly daring to believe he was real and not just some wishful fantasy. In hindsight, perhaps such moments should have acted as a warning to her about the dangers of complacency. It's only now that she can look back and see just how bored he very quickly was, not with her, but with the humdrum monotony of everyday life that offered him absolutely nothing in the way of a challenge.

Things will be different, Grace tells herself. This time – if they both survive the nightmare – things will be very different. She won't allow herself to fall into the trap of mindless domesticity, won't allow herself to imagine he could ever be as content just to be as she is. She wonders about New Zealand, speculates on whether or not there could be some kind of professional opening for her there. Boyd needs to work, she knows that now, and perhaps she does, too. Not just when she feels like it, but regularly.

If Rowse shoots him…

Grace can't picture a world without Peter Boyd. Even when there were so many miles separating them, she'd always known he was out there somewhere, and there had been continued contact via occasional emails and sporadic phone calls. A little guarded, sometimes, true, but the open promise of communication was always there whenever she needed it.

He shouldn't be the right man for her. He's too highly-strung, too intemperate. He makes her laugh. There are times when she comes close to fearing him, times when she could easily start to despise him. He makes her shiver, too, in the quiet dark, the one place where he's consistently generous and gentle. He's a big man with a big heart… and she loves him. God help her, she loves him. She loves him enough to die for him.

It's a terrifying, shocking, wonderful realisation.

-oOo-

Spencer's warrant card is enough to grant him access to her room, but is not, it seems, enough to persuade Amanda Barrett to wait outside in the corridor. Watching the rapidly-heating exchange, Grace speculates on the effect so many years spent as Boyd's lieutenant has had on Spencer Jordan. Spencer will never see it, she's certain, much less admit it, but he has all of his former commander's belligerent obstinacy. And none, she thinks wryly, as she sees Barrett beginning to bridle, of his occasional, startling charm. It doesn't seem to occur to Spencer to change tactics the way Grace knows Boyd would. Sighing to herself, she cuts into the argument with, "Just five minutes, Amanda, please. What's the harm?"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Foley, but I have my orders."

"Of course you do," Grace agrees. "But surely if you're right outside the door…? It's not as if anyone can get in or out without you seeing them, is it? DI Jordan and I have something rather… personal… to discuss."

Predictably, she gets her own way eventually. Not easily, but Grace gets her own way. She and Spencer stand with their backs to the door conversing in low voices, and in the end she says, "I don't have a choice, Spence. If I don't call him, he'll kill Boyd without a second thought."

Spencer shakes his head dubiously. "I don't know, Grace. Boyd might just be the best bargaining chip he's got."

"Rowse doesn't think like that," she tells him impatiently. "This is a one-time deal. I'm not prepared to risk calling his bluff."

"You know what he's gonna say, don't you? Your life for Boyd's."

She knows he's right, but she shrugs as casually as she can. "We don't know that."

"Yes we do, Grace. That's exactly what he's going to say."

Grace takes a deep breath. Martialling her thoughts, she says, "If that's the way it's got to be…"

"No," Spencer says instantly. "No. Absolutely not. You're not doing a deal with Rowse. I won't let you."

"It's not your decision to make, Spence."

He shakes his head again, defiantly this time. "No. And before you tell me to butt out, what the hell do you think Boyd would say? He'd be furious with you for even thinking about it – and with me for not stopping you."

"I can't let this happen. I can't let Rowse shoot him."

Spencer snatches hold of her arm, and his grip is far from gentle. "Boyd loves you. It may pain me to admit it, but he does. He'd die for you without a second thought."

Recalling her earlier thoughts, Grace nods. "I know. But that cuts both ways, Spence, can't you see that?"

"You're crazy, the pair of you. It's not healthy, this… obsession… you've got with each other."

"You're jealous," she says slowly, taking in his expression, the intensity in his eyes. "My God, you're jealous. That's what all this aggression towards Boyd's been about, isn't it?"

Letting go of her arm, he takes a quick step away from her. "Don't be so bloody ridiculous."

And in a flash of clairvoyance, Grace understands everything. All the antagonism, all the bluster, all the accusations. Gently, she says, "Oh, Spencer…"

Suddenly he looks hunted, haunted, and old beyond his years. "Leave it Grace, okay? Just leave it."

She can see the truth in his eyes. She says quietly, "He never understood why you had such a big chip on your shoulder, never understood why you'd square up to him at every possible opportunity. All that conflict, all those arguments…"

Spencer is staring at the floor. When he speaks, his voice sounds unnaturally hollow, empty. "Nothing I did was ever good enough."

"Spence," she says, reaching out to grasp his shoulder gently. "Oh, Spence. Don't you realise how proud of you he is? How proud of you he's always been?"

Spencer doesn't look up. "He was my DCI at Limehouse for three years, did you know that? When they offered him the chance to set up the CCU I told him he was a fool to even consider it."

"And…?" Grace prompts quietly.

"And… after he finished kicking my arse right round the squad room, he offered me the sergeant's job. I owe him so much, Grace. You have no idea."

Grace thinks she does, but she settles for saying, "I know you've spent years trying to prove something to Boyd – and to yourself."

"I'm not a high-flier," Spencer tells her unhappily, raising his gaze. "Not like Stella was. Or Mel. I work hard and I'm a damn good copper, but… Oh, it doesn't matter."

"But," Grace guesses, "You've never felt you were living up to his expectations?"

Spencer shakes his head. "I tried, Grace. In the beginning I really tried. But there was always someone quicker, cleverer… I was always standing in someone else's shadow. In the end I think he just stopped caring whether or not I was really making anything of myself, just as long as I showed up for work and did my job."

She can see the pain in him, the frustration. There's so much she wants to say to him, but time is definitely running out. She opts for, "That's simply not true, Spence. He always saw you as his natural successor. Why do you think he was so angry when you left the CCU?"

"Went crawling back though, didn't I? With my tail firmly between my legs."

Grace watches him for a few seconds more, still acutely aware of the passage of time. When it becomes clear he's not going to say anything else, she says, "Challenging him might get his attention, Spence, but it's not the way to win his respect."

"Worked for you, though, didn't it?"

"No," Grace says honestly, ignoring the clear bitterness in his tone. "There's a huge difference between telling him what he doesn't want to hear and openly challenging his authority. You need to learn that. No-one took Boyd away from you, Spence, you created a schism between you all by yourself. He has no idea why you became so hostile towards him."

Spencer walks across to the window and stares out. Quietly, he asks, "What happened, Grace? What happened to us all?"

"We got older," she tells him simply. "We got older and more cynical, and we made some stupid mistakes."

"I guess so," he says. He turns to face her and visibly takes a deep breath. "All right, Grace. Go ahead. Call Rowse. God knows how, but we'll get this done."

"One for all, and all for one," Grace suggests, and realises she's only half-joking.

"Yeah, that's us," Spencer says gloomily. "The three bloody musketeers…"

-oOo-

Rowse's voice hasn't changed much since Grace last heard it. A fraction older and deeper, maybe, but still quiet and calm with the same flat, Estuary accent that's so common in and around London. There's no drama in the way he says, "There's a disused wartime airfield near Oxley Green, south of Tiptree; you'll find it. Be there at six. Alone."

"Let me speak to Boyd," Grace says again.

"Aside from a slight bang on the head, the Detective Superintendent's absolutely fine, Grace. Don't worry about that. Or don't you trust me?"

She knows it's a loaded question. Giving the wrong answer could easily be enough to cost Boyd his life. Carefully, she asks, "Should I trust you, Michael?"

"Of course," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Be fair, Grace; you know I'm a man of my word."

It's true. Within his own twisted moral framework, Michael Rowse is exactly that – a man of his word. The psychologist in her knows he wouldn't – couldn't – lie in such circumstances; for him, sharing the truth with his intended victims is all part of the extended excitement of the hunt. It's almost part of a perverse sort of… intimacy… that he needs to create with his prey before he kills it. She looks at Spencer, says to Rowse, "Six o'clock, alone. Or…?"

There's a dry chuckle followed by, "Oh, you know the answer to that, Grace. And make no mistake, if I get the slightest hint that you're not alone, or that you're trying to mess me around, I'll put a bullet through his head before I do anything else."

She believes him. Completely.

-oOo-

The fire alarm is still blaring loudly, causing panic and confusion amongst staff and patients alike. There's no doubt that well-practised emergency protocols are being followed, but in the adrenaline and the chaos it's possible – just – for Grace to quickly duck into an open doorway for the scant few seconds necessary to break the invisible tether between her and her ever-vigilant bodyguard. She can see Barrett looking round sharply, hand hovering over the gun on her hip, her expression clouded as she tries to locate her charge, and then the tide of people in the corridor forms a barrier between them. Grace doesn't wait, doesn't hesitate. A better chance may never come. It's now or never, and for once it pays to be shorter and slighter than most of the people around her as she lets herself be drawn towards the stairs and the exit by the hasty, unsettled throng.

There are uniformed police officers amongst the frightened crowd trying to leave the building, but it seems they aren't yet looking for her, and Grace does everything she can to stay in the middle of the human stream heading downwards, her head ducked. If they see her and stop her, Boyd will die. In her mind, the equation is that simple.

She's almost there now. She can smell fresh air, can feel the slight drop in temperature. No sign of Spencer yet, but that's okay. They agreed that after he set the alarm off, he would head straight for his car and bring it as close to the main entrance as possible without arousing too much suspicion. The crowd's starting to move faster now, as if the proximity of the big doors and the promise safety beyond is acting like a powerful magnet, and Grace gratefully continues to allow herself to be swept along. She can hear shouting over the wailing fire alarm now, not just the sound of anxious staff and frightened patients, but clear, authoritative voices barking at each other.

Her feet crunch on the gravel. Almost there. Almost free.

Spencer's car is less than a hundred yards away, stationary with the engine running, but there's a police car coming up the drive at high speed and Grace is suddenly so afraid that it's difficult to force herself onwards. If they stop her, Boyd will die. It's all she can think about.

The police car passes Spencer's vehicle and comes to a rapid halt on the crescent-shaped stretch of gravel in front of the building, its driver and passenger alighting swiftly and heading towards the main door now well behind Grace. Still masked by the people milling around her, Grace is able to escape their notice, and she starts towards Spencer's car, trying her best not to attract any unnecessary attention to herself by moving too quickly.

She's almost at the now-open passenger door when a cry goes up behind her. "Doctor Foley…!"

-oOo-

"I'm sorry, Spence," she says abruptly. There's been a tense, stiff silence between them since they swapped vehicles in Romford, Spencer parking down a side street close to a small industrial estate and then emulating his former superior by rapidly acquiring one of those no-questions-asked vehicles of distinctly dubious heritage that Grace is beginning to think every criminal and detective in London must have some kind of supernatural ability to obtain when necessary. She reaches out to pat his arm. "You've done so much for me already, now this…"

He makes a sharp, dismissive noise and keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. "I really don't wanna think about it, Grace. There goes my pension."

There's not much else she can say. They both know the potential consequences of what they're doing. She glances restlessly at her watch. Tiptree isn't far away, but the shadows are getting longer with every passing minute, and it won't be long before the sun finally dips below the treeline to their left. Forcing a very neutral tone, she says, "If this… doesn't go well…"

"I'm not discussing it," Spencer says curtly.

"Spence…"

"No, Grace."

"I just wanted to say – "

"No," he says again, sounding so like Boyd that she nearly winces. "We'd better start thinking about changing seats. It can't be far to the airfield now."

-oOo-

There's a short access road to the airfield through the trees, its concrete cracked and scoured by many, many winters. Plainly, it sees very little use, but down by the rusty metal gate that prevents vehicle access to the small former RAF base there's an elderly blue Vauxhall parked snugly under the trees. Even if the car hadn't exactly matched the description of the vehicle seen speeding away down the Shellness road back on Sheppey, Grace would have automatically assumed it belonged to Rowse. Parking Spencer's recently-acquired scruffy hatchback behind it, she switches off the engine and unconsciously takes a deep breath.

Slowly opening the car door, she's struck by how very quiet it is, just a few snatches of birdsong and the faint rustling of leaves disturbing the tranquil silence. Fading light. Autumn chill in the air. Getting out of the car, she thinks she should feel an oppressive sense of destiny, but she doesn't, not really. She feels tired in a numb, subdued sort of way; tired and apprehensive. Not even properly scared. She's a long, long way past that.

She just wants it to be over. No more running, no more fear. Mechanically, she follows Rowse's earlier instructions and switches her phone back on. There's a weak signal. It's enough.

Climbing over the locked gate isn't easy, but Grace manages it, and she starts to walk steadily along the strip of broken concrete that leads towards what once must have been the airfield's control tower. She can almost picture aggressive rows of Spitfires and Hurricanes lined up alongside what remains of the wartime runway. The encroaching trees that now give the place a very quiet, secluded feel must have been much smaller in the airfield's heyday – if they even existed at all. She wonders if the fatal shot will come as she walks. Part of her hopes it will.

Ahead, she can see smaller derelict structures. Barracks, she assumes. Barracks, offices, mess-rooms. All the facilities required for the pilots and mechanics who once lived and worked here. It doesn't look as if the buildings will continue to stand for many more winters. It won't be long before they collapse in on themselves and the spreading dark ivy takes over completely.

There's an old abandoned car a little way from the crumbling buildings. Very old, 'sixties or even earlier. Grace is no expert. Tyres perished, flat and split; glass gone, bodywork slowly rusting away. The underlying chassis must still be reasonably sound, though, because that's what Rowse has chained Boyd to. Nothing fancy as far as Grace can see, just a tight loop of steel links wrapped around his ankle and secured by a heavy padlock. He looks rather like a goat staked out as live bait for a tiger. It's probably not the best analogy under the circumstances. He's very much alive, though, because he's on his feet and he's tugging furiously at the chain with both hands, as if he somehow imagines he can break it loose from the chassis by sheer brute force alone.

It's the way Boyd is fighting so stubbornly for his freedom that finally jerks Grace out of her strange, dreamlike state. He hasn't given up, and neither, she realises, has she. She breaks into a run, ignoring the fierce protest of aching muscles and joints, and she shouts, "Boyd… Boyd!"

Letting go of the chain, he wheels round to face her, a vivid mix of emotions quite evident in his expression – surprise, anger, fear. So many conflicting things. There's a bloody gash above his eyebrow and his temple is bruised, but he seems otherwise unharmed. He strains towards her, pulling furiously against the links securing him. "Grace. Oh, for fuck's sake… Grace…"

Again, she expects to hear a shot ring out; absolutely expects the final shot that will forever separate them to come just before they can touch – an exquisite twist of cruelty – but to her astonishment it doesn't. Not as she launches towards him, not as he clumsily catches her. Not even as they cling fiercely to each other in the dwindling twilight.

"Why?" he asks her, his face buried in her hair.

Grace grips him as tightly as she can, putting everything she has left into the embrace, and she hoarsely echoes his words from the previous night back at him. "You know why."

Her phone starts to ring.

-oOo-

"Are you ready, Grace?" the quiet voice asks. "It's time."

She jerks the phone from her ear, pulls her arm back to throw it as far away from her as she can, but Boyd grabs her wrist and shakes his head. It's enough. Swallowing hard, she puts the phone back to her ear. "Just do it. Finish it."

"Oh, Grace, you disappoint me," Rowse chides. "No. We're going to do this properly, you and I."

"Please," she says wearily. "You've got what you wanted, Michael. Do it. Kill me."

"Do you see the trees ahead of you at the end of the runway?" he asks her, ignoring the entreaty. "You have five minutes to reach them. Then we start."

Unwilling to pander to any more of his whims, Grace shakes her head obstinately. "No."

"No?" Rowse says, his tone deceptively mild. The sudden dead silence in her ear tells her he's ended the call.

Her refusal proves to be a serious mistake. As she lowers the phone and stares at it in bemusement, a staccato gunshot shatters the tranquillity of the evening, but it's the sound of the unexpected roar of shock and pain from Boyd not the reverberating echo that instantly seems to turn Grace's blood to ice. He still has an arm around her waist, and although the bullet's impact throws him off-balance, for the split second before he releases her, Grace feels as if she's supporting his entire weight. Alomost immediately, however, Boyd drops away from her, clutching his thigh desperately as he hits the scoured concrete and rolls onto his side. Grace can't move, just stares stupidly at the dark blood welling thickly between his fingers, at the rapidly spreading stain below his grasping hands. The gunshot's last echoes are slowly dying away and all she can hear is the cawing of startled crows and the sound of Boyd's rapid, heavy breathing.

Instinct drives her down onto her knees, and for a moment her gaze locks with his. He's already pale, and there are beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes, though… His eyes are wild and frantic, full of agony. Too many things are racing through her mind. She chokes out, "Spence. Spence is coming."

Boyd grunts, and her phone starts to ring again. A huge surge of rage forces yet more adrenaline into her system, and she answers quickly with a forceful, "You bastard…"

"You've got five minutes to get to the trees," Rowse instructs equably. "If you're not on your feet and moving in two, I'll put a bullet in his other leg."

"Please…" Grace all-but screams into the phone. "Michael, please…"

"Get up and start running, Grace," he says serenely. "If you don't make it to the trees in five, I'll shoot him in the head."

-oOo-

It's for Boyd, not herself, of course, that Grace stumbles blindly into the trees with what she imagines are only seconds left to spare. She's sobbing and panting, her chest feels as if it's on fire and her legs are so weak that they instantly give way under her. Beneath the trees the ground is soft and damp, rich with the earthy smell of leaf mould. Spent, Grace curls up where she is, her whole body trembling with shock, effort and fear. It's only seconds before her phone starts to ring again. Stupidly obedient now, she fumbles it out of her pocket, her hand shaking as she tries to depress the correct button.

"Well done, Grace," Rowse says. Strangely, he sounds more as if he's genuinely trying to encourage her than as if he's gloating. "It's all up to you now. If you can find your way to the road, you might just have a chance. A slim chance, but a chance."

"Boyd…" she manages.

"Has nearly served his purpose," he says with no trace of emotion. "Step out of the trees where I can see you. Now."

Fearing the consequences of refusing to obey, Grace drags herself back to her feet and retraces her steps until she's just on the edge of the trees. Ahead of her, she can clearly see the outline of the derelict control tower against the deep darkness beyond, and she has no doubt that's his vantage point. She wonders if he's using a night scope.

"Good," Rowse says, a note of quiet satisfaction in his voice. "In a moment, you're going to put your phone down and you're going to smash it. If you don't…"

"I understand," she says dully.

"Good," he says again. "I'm on my way now, Grace. Good luck. Don't forget – the phone."

Silence. When she's sure he's not going to say anything else, Grace unclenches her fingers and the phone drops with a soft thud. Hard ground would be more effective, but it doesn't matter. She stamps on it anyway, once, twice, three times. Her last possible connection to the real world gone, she simply turns and walks back into the trees, not caring about direction as she puts one foot mechanically in front of the other.

It's over. Everything. All of it.

She sits down on a mouldering tree stump. Looks up at the patches of night sky she can see between twigs and branches that are just beginning to drop their leaves. The first few brightly glittering stars have just started to appear.

Grace is not inclined to morbid introspection, has very rarely given any serious thought to the end of her life. A few times when she was ill and the future looked bleak and extremely uncertain, perhaps, but not much thought before or since. Somewhere in the back of her mind there has always been a mild expectation that her death would be a quiet, uneventful sort of thing. A peaceful, painless slipping away at the end of a long, productive and generally very satisfying life.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Boyd's brusque voice asks her. She blinks, startled, and looks round, but she's completely alone under the trees. "Get up, Grace. You heard him, if you can make it to the road…"

"Go away, Boyd," she mutters wearily to the empty air. "I'm exhausted."

There's no answer. He's not there with her; no-one's there with her. It's just her.

Her and Rowse.

She has more of a chance than he realises, Grace thinks suddenly, because Spencer's out there somewhere, making his way steadily through the trees from the place on the road where they parted company. Spencer's out there, and he's armed. Maybe she doesn't have to find the road, maybe she just has to evade the hunter just long enough for him to become the hunted…

Forcing herself to her feet, Grace does what she does best. She thinks.

-oOo-

Rowse is a predator, and he understands the actions and reactions of his prey. Frightened prey does one of three very predictable things – it freezes, rendered completely incapable of doing anything, it runs for its life, or, far more rarely, if it's cornered it will attempt a last, desperate fightback. However, Grace is not just prey, she is a psychologist, a criminal psychologist, and just as Rowse understands his prey, she understands the mind of the predator stalking her. She understands that any real hope of survival depends on her a making a fourth choice.

She can't outrun him, can't outfight him, and simply lying down and accepting the inevitable has ceased to be an option. She's moving through the trees as carefully as she can, her focus entirely on caution not speed. Grace is well aware of her limitations, and accordingly she knows exactly what she's looking for. The darkness makes it considerably more difficult, but there's cold moonlight filtering down through the canopy now, and her eyes are well-adjusted. Almost every individual step she takes is deliberately considered, her attention all on leaving as little trace of her presence as possible.

There's no doubt that Rowse is gaining on her with every minute that ticks past, but Grace refuses to let the knowledge force her into making a stupid, potentially fatal mistake. Something has taken hold inside her, a strong, implacable will to do everything she possibly can to survive. For herself and for Boyd. She won't let herself even begin to think that it might be too late for him already, even if Rowse doesn't shoot him again. Boyd is just too stubborn to die easily. She has to believe that, however haunted she is by the memory of the amount of blood soaking into his jeans as he lay ashen on the ground fumbling to tighten his belt around his leg as an improvised tourniquet.

The much sought-after fourth choice suddenly appears right in front of her. A solid old beech tree with some low, sturdy branches, the base of its wide trunk completely surrounded by brambles and bracken. Grace isn't going to run and she isn't going to fight; Grace is going to attempt to hide until help arrives, and she's going to do it in the very last place she hopes even an extraordinarily shrewd hunter would initially think to look for a small, slight woman whose sixtieth birthday is little more than a distant and faded memory.

-oOo-

The temperature is dropping slowly but inexorably as the night takes firm hold. Almost fifteen feet above the ground, Grace is shivering violently as she clings tightly to the rough tree trunk. Only tightly clenching her jaw stops her teeth chattering. There are new, unnatural noises in the woodland now, noises that are very definitely human in origin. Rowse or Spencer, or quite possibly both. They aren't close, those noises, not yet, but they are strange and terrifying just the same. Part of her, driven by primitive instinct, wants to slither down from her unsafe perch and take to its heels. It's incredibly strong, the instinct to flee, but Grace knows that if she does, she's a dead woman. No doubt about that. Rowse will hear her and then he will quickly and relentlessly run her to ground. She knows the tragic stories of all his previous victims.

No more, she suddenly thinks angrily. If she survives this horror, then she doesn't want anything more to do with crime, criminals or the judiciary system. For far too many years she's been exposed to the very worst things human beings are capable of. She's seen some terrible, terrible things, and heard of many even worse. She's seen hardened detectives break down and cry at some of the awful scenes they've witnessed; she's seen good men – men like Boyd – reach shakily for the bottle when everything became too much. Even the strongest of people has a breaking point. This may be hers.

She'll go to New Zealand with him. The practicalities don't matter. She'll go to New Zealand, move into his nice house in Pakuranga and they'll walk along the shoreline together in the evenings. Maybe she'll do some volunteer work. Maybe she'll –

Her thoughts are shattered by the sound of a shot, and Grace jumps and starts to shiver even more violently. If she never, ever hears another gunshot it will be far, far too soon. It doesn't end with one shot, however, because it's followed by a second, and then a third.

Spencer.

She can hear shouting; indistinct but very definitely shouting. Another shot follows, and then another.

Surely there must be someone close enough to hear the shots and call the police? Surely even in such a rural area, so many gunshots won't be attributed to pest control or whatever else it is that people in the countryside legitimately do with firearms?

Something – someone – is heading her way, and fast. Grace can hear noisy rustling, the loud cracking of twigs underfoot. Rowse or Spencer?

Somewhere off to the right she hears a shout of, "Towards the fence! He's going towards the fence!"

Spencer. And – thank God – it seems he isn't alone.

"Close him down," the answering roar goes up in the dark. "Fuck's sake, Spence, close him down…"

Boyd.

The sense of relief is dizzying. Overpowering. The hows and whys don't matter. Boyd is alive and somehow he is with Spencer, and between them –

There's another deafening exchange of gunfire, much closer this time. So close, in fact, that Grace sees at least one bright orange muzzle flash through the tangle of branches.

A figure runs beneath her, a slim, light-footed figure dressed in dark clothes. The details are impossible to pick out in the dark, but it's not a handgun he's armed with, it's a rifle. Rowse.

Grace freezes against the bole of the tree, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. If something makes him glance up now…

There's another tremendous bang, another fiery muzzle flash, and there's a guttural yell and suddenly Rowse is down and rolling in the bracken just a little way from Grace's hiding place. She can barely see him, but she can hear him, and she also hears Spencer's triumphant shout of, "He's down! He's fucking down…!"

Down, but not finished. Rowse fires once, twice, three times into the dark, and the third shot evidently finds a target, because Grace hears a raw bellow of pain – Spencer's – followed by cursing and then a moment of unexpected and eerie silence.

It doesn't last. Rowse is staggering drunkenly to his feet, crashing through the bracken and the brambles, heading away from her, completely oblivious to her presence, and behind him there are suddenly renewed sounds of pursuit.

It's Boyd's voice that shouts, "Police! Stand still and drop your weapon!"

Why he bothers with the warning, Grace isn't sure, because he fires almost simultaneously. Rowse yells again, a brutal, animal sound of pure agony, and though she can no longer see him, she hears him fall, hears him still desperately trying to claw his way onwards. A dark shadow emerges from the trees nearby, a tall, inexorable shadow that moves neither fast nor gracefully. Boyd.

He fires again and all the wild scrabbling sounds from Rowse's direction abruptly cease.

Grace tries to call out, but her throat is so constricted with fear that she barely manages a breathless squeak. It's too late anyway. Boyd is moving slowly past her, his gait halting and uneven, and for a moment, as he raises his gun and implacably takes aim, she can see him very clearly in the moonlight; a silent and terrifying symbol of judgement and retribution. Grace squeezes her eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see the dénouement, but though she doesn't see the final shot, it's so close and so loud that it almost makes her scream.

Then there's just the soft sound of the breeze stirring the trees.

-oOo-

It's like a scene from a warzone. The arc lamps and the heavy-duty torches are pitiless, exposing every tiny detail of the carnage. Rowse lies on his front, head to one side and one arm still defiantly reaching out towards his fallen rifle; his dark combat clothing hides most of his injuries but the side of his skull shattered by exit of the final bullet is a pulpy mass of hair, blood, brain tissue and bone. Wrapped in a blanket, but still shivering, Grace imagines he is watching her reproachfully, his light grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. Every time she looks away, her gaze is quickly drawn back to him. If she's subconsciously afraid he will close his fingers around his rifle and continue on his relentless mission, there's really nothing left to worry about. The terrifying predator is very, very dead.

Not so Boyd and Spencer. The former is still being attended to by anxious paramedics, but the latter has already been taken from the scene on a stretcher, his shattered shoulder hidden under multiple layers of dressings. The fact that he was able to give her a weak grin as he was carried away is enough to reassure her, however. Spencer Jordan, like his former commanding officer, is a very tough man indeed.

"Doctor Foley?" Hewitt says quietly, interrupting her reverie. "You should go with the paramedics now. The SOCOs are here, and we need to clear the area."

For the first time Grace sees him for what he really is. Not a buffoon or a monster, but a weary, over-worked man trying to do his best in extremely difficult circumstances. She even finds herself feeling genuinely sorry for him. Soon, there will be plenty of questions he will have to find plausible answers to. She asks, "Can I go with Boyd?"

"Not up to me, but I don't see why not."

Grace studies him carefully and then says, "You know he killed Rowse, don't you?"

Nothing in Hewitt's expression changes. "I know what Jordan told me, Doctor, and I have no reason to doubt the word of a fellow police officer. The ballistics report will confirm that Jordan's gun fired the fatal shot, and if it raises any other questions, I'm sure any apparent… inconsistencies… between the forensics and the witness statements can be easily explained by the sheer amount of confusion generated in the dark."

"Thank you," she says, meaning it.

"For what?" he asks her brusquely, turning away. Over his shoulder, he adds less harshly, "Probably best if Boyd goes straight back to New Zealand just as soon as he's fit enough to fly, hmm?"

Grace nods solemnly, and Hewitt walks away to address one of the uniformed officers stringing fluttering blue and white police tape between the trees. Pulling the blanket more firmly around her shoulders, she picks her way slowly towards Boyd, not at all surprised to discover that the makeshift tourniquet has been removed from his leg and replaced by dressings or that he's already being given intravenous fluids. The paramedics are working calmly and competently, their quiet professionalism incredibly reassuring. Like Spencer, Boyd looks pale and shadowy in the harsh artificial light, but he, too, manages the barest ghost of a smile as she reaches his side.

For once, Grace can't find any words. So she simply leans down and gently kisses his forehead.

It's almost always been all the words left unspoken between them that have been the most important.


Continued…