He moved forward, his boots slipping on the wet stones, and swept his torch around again. Nothing. There was nothing.

Shivering, he forced his way into the teeth of the wind, emerging between the dunes onto the beach and turning towards the grave. In the roaring darkness he could see the flash of breakers and hear the suck of the water as they pulled back against the wind. Beneath his feet the ground seemed to be shaking.

‘Allie!’ His fear, under control in front of Kate, was rising by the second. Fear for Allie and fear for himself. He had walked on this beach a thousand times in every weather, at midnight and in the day but never before had he found it so ball-breakingly terrifying.

His steps slowed as he approached the grave. He could feel his heart thundering beneath his ribs and he felt cold and sick. The torch was slippery in his hands as he thrust it ahead of him, seeing the beam slide waveringly towards the edge of the excavated hollow.

‘Allie?’ His voice was growing hoarse. ‘Allie? Prat! Where are you?’

It was dark in the hollow below the beam. The rushing hail and wind seemed to speed across it, leaving the gaping blackness very still.

Sliding in the wet sand he climbed to the edge and looked down, directing the beam swiftly up and down the digging. For a moment his heart stood still. A black cavern seemed to open up beneath his feet, leading down and down forever. The torch hovered for a long moment over it, then he forced it to move on and saw that it was just a trick of the light, a lie perpetrated by the shadows. There was nothing there but a slightly higher ridge in the sand, which had cast that deep impenetrable shadow. Beside it lay the usual scattering of shells and weed. The grave site was empty. He felt a rush of relief and at the same time a sharp pang of disappointment. He had half expected – hoped – to find her kneeling there, just as Kate had found her. He leaped down into the hole. The torchlight showed up every bump and indentation in the sand, but he could see no footprints, just the pitting of the rain.

Crouching down out of the wind he directed the torch at the sandface, running the beam of light along the strata. It was smooth now, wet, compacted. There was no sign that he could see of any remains. No bones. No hand reaching out from the sand, the broken fingers beckoning in supplication. He felt his body shaken by another uncontrollable shudder. Standing up he swung the torch round. Where was she? Where in the name of Christ was she?

This damn grave. If she hadn’t found it all would have been well. He aimed a vicious kick at the sand and with a sharp sense of pleasure saw a large section of the sandface break away and fall. He kicked again. It would only take a few minutes. The sand was so soft. They would think it was the sea. Behind him the tide was hurling itself ever closer across the beach. Gritting his teeth, he drew his foot back for another kick at the base of the sand cliff when he heard a sound behind him. He swung round, holding his torch out before him, like a weapon.

‘Allie!’ His voice came out as a croak. ‘Allie?’ He tried again. ‘Where are you?’

The destruction of the dune forgotten, he scrambled, slipping and stumbling back into the wind. The torch beam was growing less sharp. He shook it angrily and slapped it against his palm. His hands were ice cold and wet, his fingers growing numb.

The darkness was empty. She could be anywhere. In the woods; on the beach; in the marsh. Anywhere. Helplessly he turned slowly round, staring into the tearing darkness, feeling the ice-cold fingers of sleet sliding down inside his collar, fighting the battering of the wind, hearing the throb of it in his ears.

She could be back at the cottage by now. His hand tightened on the torch. Supposing she had gone there? Supposing she was hiding in the woodshed or amongst the trees, waiting for Kate to come back? She liked Kate. She seemed to trust her. Surely that is what she would have done. Turning, he began to retrace his footsteps, his back to the sea.

It was then he thought he saw a figure at the very edge of his torch beam.

It was a man.

As the figure moved sharply backwards Greg’s feeble torchlight caught the glint of what looked like a knife blade before he vanished into the darkness.

XXXVIII

‘Bill?’ Kate’s whisper sounded strangely loud in the silence of the room. ‘Bill, are you asleep?’ He was lying on his side, huddled beneath the blanket she had tucked around him, his head on the pillow she had brought down from her bed. One of the cuts had reopened on his temple and she could see a slow trickle of black blood soaking through the dressing onto the flowered pillowcase, adding to the entwined cornflowers and poppies an obscene decoration which shone slick and oily in the light of the lamp. ‘Bill?’ She knelt down next to him. His sleep frightened her. It was too deep, too sudden and she didn’t know what to do.

She squinted at her wristwatch. It was seven o’clock. Two hours since they had left Redall Farmhouse, perhaps an hour and a half since they had reached the cottage. So where was Greg? She stared up at the curtained window, straining her ears. The whole cottage was full of the sound of the wind and the sea. The walls seemed to vibrate beneath their combined assault. Trickles of draught played across the floor, shifting the curtains uneasily, flaring the flames in the stove, teasing the fringe on one of the cushions on the chair.

Taking Bill’s hand in hers, she stroked it gently, appalled by the heavy coldness. Slipping her fingers around his wrist she felt for the pulse. She thought there was something there, but it was terribly faint, barely a fluttering beneath her chilled fingers. Too frightened to touch him any more she tucked his hand under the blanket and stood up. The stone still lay on the hearth where she had put it after bringing it in earlier for Alison. Humping it up onto the top of the stove she opened the doors and pushed on another log. Then she turned to her cassette player. The Requiem was still there. As the music filled the room she glanced back at Bill.

It was a long time since she had prayed. Not since she was a small child and had knelt beside her bed, her hands folded neatly and fervently beneath her chin, and prayed for a pony. It had never materialised and her faith which for a short time had blazed inside her, had shrivelled with disappointment and died. She wasn’t sure she knew how to pray now. Our Father, which art in Heaven. Save Bill. Please, save him and keep us safe. Deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom. She kept her eyes open, scanning the room, trying to allow the music to soothe and comfort her. Behind her on the windowsill the puddle of water inside the frame had broadened. A drip fell from the ledge onto the floor. Then another.

The ‘Pie Jesu’ finished. The room fell into silence which was broken only by the sharp click as the player switched itself off. Even the wind seemed momentarily to have died away. For a while Kate sat without moving, then she stood up. She picked up the towel she had fetched from the bathroom and wrapped it round the hot stone.

‘Bill?’ she whispered. ‘Bill? Are you asleep?’ The heavy warm bundle clutched in her arms, she stood looking down at him. His face was remote, white, utterly composed. The wound on his temple had stopped bleeding now. She could see where the blood had clotted into a dried crust on his skin. ‘Bill, I’ll put this by your feet. It will help keep you warm.’ But she couldn’t. His feet were hanging over the edge of the sofa. She lifted the blanket and eased the towel-wrapped stone in near his knees. His trousers were damp. Perhaps she should try and take them off. Then, wrinkling her nose, she realised what had happened. He had peed all over himself as he lay there on the sofa. Closing her eyes she tucked the blanket back over him.

She had never tried to find the pulse in anyone’s neck before, but she didn’t really expect to find it. The total emptiness in the room told her that he was dead. Turning away she sat on the floor in front of the fire and wrapped her arms around her knees, as the tears poured down her cheeks.

XXXIX

He had been hiding in the reeds, lying on his stomach where he had a good view of the proceedings, close enough to see the rivulet of drugged mead running down the man’s chin, dropping into the hollow of his collar bone and on down his chest. As the garotte tightened, he stood up, slowly, in full view, his hands on his hips. He saw Nion’s eyes open; he saw the realisation dawn, saw the man’s hands flail towards his throat as he tried to tear away the ligature and he began to laugh. ‘It was not the gods who ordered your death, Nion, prince of the Trinovantes!’ he shouted into the sunrise. ‘I arranged it all, I and the priests I bribed. You die to avenge my honour at the expense of your own.’ He could see the flesh bulging on either side of the knotted cord around the young man’s throat. He could see the trickle of blood as his struggles grew more frantic. ‘No man lies with my wife and lives. Not prince, not druid, not Briton, not Roman! And no god will greet you and lead you across the Styx. You die dishonoured.’

‘Marcus!’

The scream from the far side of the sacrificial site sounded like that of a wild bird. He swung round, numb with shock, as behind him the priest plunged the knife into Nion’s back. For a second his wife’s beauty stunned him, illumined as she was by the rose gold rays of the rising sun, then the hatred congealed again in his breast and he stared at her with cold loathing as she gazed wildly past him, towards Nion.

For a moment the young man straightened, his dying gaze fixed on the sun. His hands dropped away from the garotte around his throat. As the light died from his eyes his knees buckled and he fell forward into the waiting mud.