The marsh stretched ahead, or rather the fields next to the marsh, surrounded by wire fences, ditches and bulrushes. To the right, the path lay in a high straight line on top of the dyke back to the village.
Exposed. Very exposed.
Over to the left, at least half a mile away along the coast, the dunes rose into something more substantial, crowned with thick green pine trees.
That was a better bet. But how to get there without being seen?
Hide. The ditch would be good, except it ran in a dead straight line, and it would be easy for the shooter to get a good line of sight along it. Toby examined the bulrushes. He would have to cross the ditch and the fence; which should be possible, but would slow him down in the open. Once in the rushes he would be hard to spot.
Rickover was looking up at him, with a confused expression on his face, wondering what he would do next.
Shooing off the dog wouldn’t work. Would he keep quiet with Toby in the bulrushes? Maybe, if Toby hugged him close.
No time to waste. He was just about to make a dash for it, when caution got the better of him, and he tentatively leaned out from behind his dune.
A figure holding a rifle was crouching low and making its way towards the base of the dyke, with its back to Toby. Toby couldn’t see who it was, beyond that it was a man, he was above average height and he was wearing a green coat of some kind and a woolly hat.
Toby didn’t hang around to stare.
Abandoning the bulrush idea, he doubled back through the dunes, across the sandy hollow, and out on to the beach, Rickover keeping pace.
He estimated the pine woods were half a mile away. Toby was reasonably fit, but the sand would slow him down: maybe three to four minutes at full speed. With luck, the shooter would still be creeping around the dyke on the other side of the dunes, out of sight.
Without luck? Better not think about that.
He glanced back at Lars’s body, lying crumpled on the beach, not moving. If he wasn’t dead already, there was nothing Toby could do to save him now. If Toby went back to check on him, he would most likely wind up sprawled on the sand next to Lars, a couple of bullets in his own body.
So he started running, slowing briefly as he passed the boat, which was little more than a fibreglass tub. There were indeed footprints behind it, and a couple of casings. He bent low, grabbed one and ran on. Every few seconds, he looked over his shoulder, but no sign of the shooter.
He was getting closer to the pine woods. His breath was short and his chest was pounding, but he kept his legs pumping. Rickover, now several yards behind him, began yapping with the excitement.
Toby looked over his shoulder to tell the dog to be quiet. Way behind, beyond the green boat, he saw a figure spill out of the dunes.
The figure stopped and raised his rifle.
Once again, Toby darted into the dunes, just as he heard the rifle crack. He had no idea where the bullet landed; all he knew was it hadn’t been in him.
The sand was softer in the dunes and it was slower going. But he was out of sight of the shooter, and soon he reached a barbed-wire fence bordering the pine wood. He flung himself over it, rolled, and pulled himself to his feet. Through the trees he spotted a small car park.
Three vehicles stood close to each other: a white Range Rover and two smaller hatchbacks, one silver and one blue. A tall woman was loading a golden retriever into the back of the Range Rover.
Toby sprinted for the car, yelling and waving, but the woman had climbed inside and didn’t hear him.
He listened out for the sound of another rifle shot, but all he could hear was Rickover yelping somewhere behind him.
He threw himself at the car door on the passenger side, yanked it open and jumped in. ‘Drive!’ he said.
The woman was about forty, with well-groomed blonde hair. She was wearing a Barbour. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, her voice cut glass. ‘Will you please get out of my car?’
‘There’s a man with a gun,’ Toby said. ‘Just drive.’
‘Get out of my car, or I will call the police.’
‘I’ll call the police,’ said Toby. ‘You drive, for God’s sake! Didn’t you hear the shots?’
The woman looked at him. Rickover was barking furiously outside the passenger door. The retriever licked Toby’s ear.
‘OK,’ said the woman. ‘Let your dog in.’
Toby opened his door and Rickover jumped up on to his lap. The woman put the Range Rover into reverse and the vehicle leaped backwards. She slammed the gear into first, and the car surged forward.
‘Where to?’ said the woman.
‘Anywhere,’ said Toby, reaching for his phone. ‘Just drive fast.’ He punched out 999, while the woman did as he had told her, the car reaching fifty over the bumpy track, flinging Toby and the two dogs off their seats.
The track from the car park led away from Barnholt through the pine trees. Within two minutes they had reached the main road.
‘Which way?’ the woman asked.
‘King’s Lynn,’ said Toby to her, and ‘Police,’ to his phone.
THIRTY-TWO
Toby sat in the interview room sipping a cup of tea. It had sugar in it: at least three spoonfuls. He didn’t take sugar, but it tasted good. Some cop technique for dealing with shock, maybe.
He and his volunteer getaway driver, whose name was Caroline, had remained remarkably cool as they had sped to King’s Lynn. A series of police cars hurtled past them towards the coast, until one peeled off and escorted them to the police station.
The police had told Toby they wanted to interview him right away, but he had been waiting fifteen minutes, time to let the jumble of thoughts and emotions begin to settle.
His heart was still beating rapidly from adrenaline or shock or both. Toby had never seen a dead body before. Lars’s surprised expression was seared into his brain, as were the two red holes opening up in his chest. Toby knew he would never forget them.
He wasn’t just shocked, he was sorry. He’d realized that, despite Lars’s dodgy background, he liked him. In fact, he admired him. It was Lars who had decided to risk everything to stop the launch. Lars had been willing to own up falsely to killing Craig, out of loyalty to Bill.
Shocked, sorry and scared. Someone had nearly killed him less than an hour before. The shot had hit the sand only inches away from his nose. He was lucky to be alive. And unless the police caught the shooter right away, he might have another go at Toby.
Toby wanted to help the police find the man, whoever he was. He strongly suspected the shooting had something to do with the near-launch on the Hamilton, although he had no idea what. He regretted signing the damned Official Secrets Act. Should he just ignore it?
And then there was Alice. She was off the hook now. Wasn’t she?
He had to find a way to tell the police what he knew.
The door opened and DC Atkinson came in, together with his boss, DI Creswell. They both smiled at him as they took their seats on the other side of the interview table.
Atkinson started. ‘How are you feeling, Toby? That must have been quite a shock.’
‘It was. But I’m OK. Did you catch him?’
‘Not yet,’ said Creswell. ‘But we’re looking for him. We’re fortunate: because we are so close to the royal residence at Sandringham we are well prepared for this kind of thing.’
‘Anything you can tell us would be useful,’ Atkinson said. ‘While it’s fresh in your mind.’
So Toby told them what had happened in as much detail as he could from when he and Lars had left the house. He described what little he had seen of the shooter, and gave them the casing he had found by the green boat. He mentioned the other two cars in the car park and the couple walking down by the sea. Atkinson told him one of the cars, the blue one, belonged to the couple, and they were unlikely suspects: retired, living in a nearby village, originally from Cheshire. Toby was unable to describe the silver hatchback in any detail.