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A man came out of the house on to the lawn. He said something to the woman and she smiled and moved closer to him. He put his arm around her waist.

The sight brought a low growl from Pike's lips. She belonged to him now.

Several hours later he retraced his steps to the hole he had dug and collected his canvas bag. He had already removed some of its contents, including tinned food and a Primus stove. On his next visit he planned to complete the dugout and make it habitable. Then it would be a matter of waiting until the moment was ripe.

It was unlikely he would ever be asked to explain why he had built the dugouts, and in any case would have found it impossible to give a coherent reply.

Originally, in the woods above Highfield, he had set out simply to construct some kind of shelter for himself. The dugout had taken shape almost without conscious intention on his part. Once it was completed, however, he saw that it was right. Sitting in the womb-like darkness he had experienced moments of peace and contentment so foreign to his nature he had wondered at first if they were signs of illness.

Thereafter, he had allowed instinct to guide his actions, and it was just such an unconsidered impulse that had taken him back to Highfield only a fortnight after he had broken into Melling Lodge. He had felt a strong need to return and had hesitated only to the extent of remaining close to his motorcycle throughout the night, waiting until dawn came to assure himself that the police were no longer searching the woods.

His subsequent discovery that two men were tracking him — one he had recognized as the village constable — had caused him to react in momentary panic. Up till then he had felt himself to be invulnerable, almost invisible as he went about his business unseen and unsuspected. Now he knew better.

Even so, it never occurred to him to stop. It was beyond his power to do so. The need released in him had come to govern his life, filling his thoughts and forming the sole purpose of his existence. It would die when he did, not before.

But his experience in the woods had induced him to be more cautious. He had altered his appearance by shaving off his moustache and repainted the bodywork of the sidecar. The changes made him feel more secure.

He also believed that his decision to travel late at night, and by little-used roads, was a wise one, and was not unduly alarmed when, sometime after midnight, having crossed the main road to Hastings, he was waved down by a helmeted policeman on a narrow country lane bordered by hedgerows.

The constable was carrying a lamp, which he swung from side to side as he stood planted in the middle of the road. Pike, who was travelling at less than twenty miles an hour, pulled up on the verge. The policeman ordered him to switch off his engine. Pike obeyed.

The lamp's beam was bright in his eyes.

'Where might you be heading, sir?' The voice was a young man's. Pike couldn't see his face against the light.

'Folkestone,' he replied.

'Would you give me your name, please?'

'Carver,' Pike said. 'George Carver.'

'Occupation?'

'Gardener.'

'And what would a gardener be doing riding around this time of night?'

'I was spending the weekend with my sister in Tunbridge Wells. My bike broke down and I couldn't get it fixed till late. I've got to get back before tomorrow morning.' The man was beginning to irritate Pike with his questions.

'This isn't the road to Folkestone.'

The fact was incontrovertible. Pike said nothing.

The constable moved the light off his face and shone it on the sidecar. 'What's in the bag?' he asked.

'Tools.'

'Open it, please.'

Pike climbed off the saddle. He took the canvas bag out of the sidecar and laid it on the ground. It was held shut by two leather straps. He began to undo them. As he was working on the second one the light shifted off his hands. He looked up to see the policeman directing his lamp at the sidecar. Pike's eyes followed the beam. He saw the new red paintwork had been scratched, probably when he rode into the thicket. In one spot a broad flake of paint had been removed, revealing the original black surface beneath.

Pike went on undoing the strap. The light was back in his face.

'I'd like to see some identification.' The constable's voice had hardened. 'Also proof of ownership of this vehicle.'

'I've got it here,' Pike said, reaching into the bag.

He stood up, turning towards the constable, and drove his clenched hand into the pit of the man's stomach.

The policeman dropped the lamp. He arched his body.

A retching sound came from his lips. Pike withdrew the bayonet and the man clutched at his stomach, lips working. He stepped back and stabbed him a second time, in the chest. The constable fell to the ground.

He groaned once and lay still.

Pike picked up the lamp and shone it on the side of the road. A few feet away he saw a gap in the hedgerow. Placing the lamp on the sidecar, he gathered the constable's body in his arms and carried it to the spot. With some difficulty he thrust it through the gap in the hedge into a ditch on the other side.

He returned to the sidecar for the lamp and spent some minutes examining the ground nearby. He found two small pools of blood which he covered with handfuls of dirt taken from the side of the road.

Satisfied, he switched off the lamp, wiped it down with a handkerchief and then threw it as far as he could over the hedge into the field beyond.

9

Sinclair returned from lunch to find Madden bent over a map spread out on the top of his desk.

Hollingsworth stood beside him.

'I've got the Ordnance Survey map here, sir.' The sergeant was speaking. 'It's marked. Elmhurst.'

Madden looked up and saw Sinclair. 'We've a constable down in Sussex, sir. Murdered. He was killed on a back road on Sunday night.'

'Sunday?' The chief inspector joined them, shedding his jacket. 'Why didn't we hear before?' It was Thursday.

'They only found his body yesterday. I've been talking to the CID in Tunbridge Wells. The body was taken there. They could see he'd been stabbed, but it was only when their pathologist examined the corpse that he discovered they were bayonet wounds.'

'He's sure about that? The pathologist?'

'Seems to be. He was an Army doctor at Etaples for two years.'

Sinclair stood at Madden's shoulder. 'Show me.'

Madden checked the Ordnance chart Hollingsworth had brought against his own smaller-scale map.

He pointed. 'About there. Say twenty miles south of Tunbridge Wells. Very near the main road to Hastings. The constable — his name was Harris — was stationed at a village called Hythe. There it is, it's marked.'

Sinclair squinted at the Ordnance map. 'Bit off his beat, wasn't he?'

'That's why it took a while to find the body.

Elmhurst's four miles away. Apparently there've been reports of organized cockfighting in the district. The detective I spoke to said they think Harris went over there on Sunday night to see if he could catch them at it. He must have been on his way back to Hythe when he ran into trouble.'

'Where was his body?'

'In a ditch by the road. They found traces of blood someone had tried to cover up. Nothing else, I'm afraid.'

The chief inspector bent over the map. 'What do you think? Did he try to stop him? Damn it, I told them to exercise caution.'

'We don't know that it was him.' Madden scowled.

'Yes, but let's suppose it was.' Sinclair drummed his fingertips on the desktop. 'It was late on a Sunday night. He was heading home, back to his job or whatever it is he does. But where did he spend the weekend?' He pored over the map.

'You'd have to know which way he was going.'

Hollingsworth offered his opinion. 'Which direction.'