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the call.
    ‘What is it?’ his boss demanded.
    ‘They’ve taken out Bufton.’
    There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Are you sure it’s them?’
    ‘They’re calling it a burglary gone wrong on the news but the report said he’d been tortured, which seems like too much of a coincidence to me.’
    Mr H’s boss sighed. ‘This is a real problem. We can’t lose our man. Not until we’ve found out what he knows.’
    ‘What do you want me to do?’
    ‘Call the house where they’re holding him. Tell them to sedate him and take him away for a few days where they can lay low. But sort it. And sort it soon. And get that bloody psychotherapist to work a bit faster. We need that information.’
    Mr H was a fixer. He had good contacts; he got things done; and best of all, he didn’t worry too much about who got hurt in the process. It made his services very expensive and, luckily for him, his boss had very deep pockets. But he also knew that all that would count for nothing if he messed up on something as important as this. He needed to make a lot of new plans very fast. But first he needed to get the house evacuated.
    The mobile reception out on the coast was awful so he stubbed out his cigar and called the landline, waiting while it rang and rang and rang.
    He looked at his watch: 7.30 p.m. Someone should have been there. Taking a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm, he called again.
    But there was still no answer.

Four
    I awoke with a sudden start.
    I was lying on my back staring up at a darkening sky, the final orange glow of the sun just inside my field of vision. For a few seconds I was completely disorientated before I finally realized where I was. I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock. Jesus, I must have been out for three hours. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately and I guessed I was just making up for it. I’d been dreaming too. Short, dramatic bursts of activity that might have been memories. And then again might not have been. It was very hard to tell.
    Below me I could hear the sound of the sea lapping against the rocks, and the occasional cry of one of the seagulls that lined the cliffs on this coast. But there was no sign of Tom anywhere.
    I tried to remember the dreams and compartmentalize them for later analysis, but the effort was too much and I gave up as other thoughts came into play. I was cold, and I was hungry. And frightened of being alone. Whatever their motives, Jane and Tom were the only people looking out for me right now and I had a sudden urge to be back in the warmth of the house eating a decent meal. I’d take whatever flak they threw at me and examine my admittedly limited options after that.
    But first I had to climb to the top of this cliff in poor light. I stared up, thinking it looked a pretty scary prospect. If I fell again, I probably wouldn’t be so lucky next time, and it was a long way down to the sea. But the need to get home was so powerful that I started up it without hesitation.
    Fifteen minutes later, the house loomed in front of me. It was a beautiful place, built from local stone, and surrounded on all sides by well-tended lawns. It might have been in need of modernization both inside and out but, even so, it still possessed a certain grandeur. Both floors were lit up and the curtains were drawn in all the windows, but there was no sign of anyone.
    I didn’t own a key – Jane had always said there was no need – so I went round the back of the house and peered through the window into the kitchen. The lights were on but the room was empty and there were no used pans or crockery left over from dinner, which meant they were probably out trying to track me down. Unfortunately, I had no way of contacting them. They both had mobile phones but, needless to say, I didn’t. We’d talked about getting me one in case I ever got lost but, like so many things round here, no one had ever quite got round to doing it.
    The back door was unlocked, however,