He carried on, through the picturesque villages with the stone buildings, the undulating hills that climbed into the Vallo di Diano National Park and then, on the right, the endless blue of the Mediterranean. The bike throbbed powerfully between his legs and Milton opened the throttle all the way and gave it its head. He followed the switchbacks and the hairpins, climbing and falling with the camber of the road as it negotiated the cliffs. Eventually, he reached the spot where Number Three’s car had come off the road. It was marked by a long double skid, burnt rubber markings that swung towards the wall. There was a further tracing from where the car must have bounced against the rock face, markings that pointed straight for the unguarded drop to the water below. The sun was bright and strong as he stepped off the bike and removed the helmet, the fresh air washing across his hot skin. He pushed his glasses onto his head, walked back to the start of the skid, crouched down, and turned to the south.
