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phone inside the vehicle. He could hear the helicopter searching the coastline. Spitting blood again he glanced backwards, trying to remember the location of the nearest house, before deciding to head in the same direction as the car. Ten minutes later farmhouse lights appeared and he increased his speed, jogging the final few metres.
    The farmhouse, a two-storeyed white building with broad staircase, red-painted barn and a couple of outhouses, had an ancient oak with a colossal crown of leaves in the middle of its yard. Inside the barn, horses whinnied as they stirred restlessly, aware of his presence.
    A grey and white cat stared at him from the top step before lifting a black bird from the doormat and slipping away.
    On one side of the blue-painted door a large ceramic sign gave the residents’ names. Pressing the doorbell, Wisting felt at his bruised face while he waited. A man with a luxuriant red beard opened the door, planting himself in the wide doorway to scrutinise his visitor.
    ‘I’m from the police,’ Wisting explained, fumbling in his trouser pocket before realising his identification card had vanished with his car.
    Nodding, the man stepped back to allow him through. Wisting had been responsible for so many cases highlighted in the media that most people in the area knew him by sight.
    ‘What’s happened?’ the man asked, closing the door.
    Wisting took no time to explain. ‘I need to use a phone,’ was all he said.
    The man produced a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘You don’t look too good,’ he commented. ‘Do you want to use the bathroom?’
    Shaking his head, Wisting took the mobile and tapped in the number for the police central switchboard. His description of what had taken place was short and succinct. The bearded man stood, eyes popping as he listened and, when Wisting ended the call, asked whether he could offer any assistance.
    ‘Do you have a car?’
    The man nodded, reaching for his jacket. ‘It’s in the barn.’
    Wisting requested the man drive him home, but he had no keys for the house either, as they were on the same key ring as his car key, and this also applied to his admittance card for the police station – tucked into his wallet with his ID. He was forced to ring his own doorbell. Suzanne cautiously opened the door. ‘My God,’ she fussed, taking him by the arm. ‘What on earth do you look like?’
    ‘It’s madness,’ Wisting replied, smiling for the first time. Heading for the bathroom, he wrenched off his wet bloodstained clothes while explaining quickly. ‘Can you get me some fresh clothes?’ he asked, stepping into the shower.
    She agreed but first began to gather up his dirty, discarded clothing. ‘Don’t wash them,’ he said, turning on the water. ‘Hang them up to dry. Some of the blood might be his.’
    The water heated rapidly, and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the spray.
    ‘You should see a doctor,’ Suzanne advised.
    Wiping a streak of moisture from the glass door, he peered out at her. ‘I’ll see. Can you phone for a taxi?’
    ‘At least let me have a look at it before you go.’
    He made no protest and finished showering. She handed him a towel from the cupboard before leaving to fetch the first aid kit. On her return, he stood naked before her as she examined his face.
    ‘Do you think it was him?’
    ‘Who do you mean?’
    ‘The killer!’ She pressed antiseptic-soaked cotton wool on his wound. ‘Do you think he was the man you were fighting?’
    It was the same question he had already asked himself. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘That cut doesn’t look too good,’ she said, taking out a small sticking plaster. ‘But I think it’ll be all right.’
    He kissed her to express his thanks, and she stroked his chest with her hand, moving it down over his stomach, as though to remind him what he was missing. Smiling, he kissed her again and began to dress. ‘Have you phoned for a taxi?’
    ‘I can drive,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t