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jumped back in his car. Ten seconds later he was roaring down the twisting country lane out of the village, heading for the main road to Stirling about five miles distant. Overhanging branches crowded in close to the road, forming a natural tunnel of sorts that reflected the bright beams of his headlights.
    The narrow, unpredictable road would slow the vehicle following him, the steep river gorge to his right acting as a deterrent to all but the boldest of drivers. Sinclair almost smiled as he pressed harder on the accelerator, knowing there was a long straight coming up. He’d grown up around this area, had learned to drive here and knew every bend and corner of this road like the back of his hand.
    He held the advantage over the car following him.
    No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he saw something on the bend up ahead, something that made his heart leap and adrenaline surge through his veins. Straight away he slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel hard over. Tyres skidded on slick tarmac and the low metal crash barrier at the edge of the road swung into view as the car fishtailed.
    Sinclair tensed up, bracing himself for what was coming.
    The crash barrier at the edge of the road presented little resistance, buckling and shearing apart under the impact as the car slammed into it. Pitching over the edge, the car flipped straight over on its roof, rolling and crashing down the steep brush-covered slope to the fast-flowing river far below.
    By the time it hit the surface, the chassis had been reduced to a mass of twisted and buckled metal. With nothing buoyant enough to support it, the wreck quickly filled with icy cold water and disappeared beneath the surface within a matter of seconds, leaving only the wreckage-strewn slope behind as testimony to the violence of its final moments.
    And in the post box at the nearby village, unseen and undetected by the vehicle that had passed by less than a minute earlier, a single letter waited to be collected.

Chapter 4
    It was raining by the time Alex finally made it home that evening, a heavy ceiling of sombre grey clouds having descended on the capital during the afternoon. Not heavy, drumming rain, but that vague misty stuff that clings to hair and skin, and soaks through clothes more effectively than the average monsoon.
    The train station from which he’d disembarked along with all the other weary commuters was about half a mile from his flat, leaving him with the none-too-pleasant prospect of a run through the rain in a jacket that was wholly inadequate for the task. Using the takeaway pizza box he’d picked up on the way home as a makeshift umbrella, he scurried up the street to the grey four-storey apartment block that he called home.
    It didn’t make much difference. By the time he was done fumbling around with his keys to get into the main stairwell, he was more or less soaked to the skin anyway. The pizza box was also rapidly disintegrating into a sodden mess, which did little to improve his mood as he trudged up two flights of stairs to his landing.
    The flat he’d been renting for the past year or so was certainly nothing to look at, he reflected as he pushed the door open with one foot, ignoring the pile of letters that had accumulated behind it. Most of them were circulars anyway – charity appeals and solar panel brochures that he had no interest in.
    Typical of low-rent single-bedroom places in the western suburbs of London, it was small and cramped, designed with simple utility and efficiency in mind. A talented interior decorator might have made the modest living space appear cosy and homely, but Alex wasn’t such a person. The furniture was mostly cheap Ikea flat-pack stuff that never seemed to go together properly, the kitchen cluttered and untidy, the sink filled with unwashed dishes.
    Dumping the pizza box on the kitchen counter, Alex peeled off his jacket and undid his work tie, gratefully discarding both. One way or another, he didn’t