The stone cottage was at the end of a deep-sunk dirt track, two, three miles beyond the huddled town of Kington. Locating the place by car had been a problem for publisher Ben Corby, who hadn't travelled much outside London for a couple of yean now, except on planes. And who had always - despite his enthusiasm for The Old Golden Land - found the countryside basically hostile. So this place immediately gave him the creeps. It was a low cottage, barrack-block long, the last of the light making its windows opaque and sinister, like Mafia sunglasses. No sooner had he switched off the ignition than something came rushing out at his car: a black and white dog or maybe a big cat. Something disturbing about it, the way it moved. Ben nervously wound his window down as a shadow edged around a door at one end of the long cottage. 'OK, Arnold.' Was the voice familiar? Was it him? Ben's headlights showed that the animal was, in fact, a dog.
