He was panting hard, his heart pounding, legs sinking into the sucking moss and mud. In his hand was the small envelope containing the answer to the riddle of the Death Pictures. He desperately wanted to stop, open it, look at it, but didn’t have time, had to keep running. Behind him chased the raging mob, the men and women who’d spent months trying to solve the puzzle. He’d burst through the trees into a clearing, the crowd shouting and baying, only seconds behind him. He was exhausted, his legs shaking, ready to crumble. He could hear their screaming triumph as they ran down their prey. There were three paths out of the forest. A woman stood beckoning by each. To his left was Kerry, ahead Thomasin, to his right Claire, the Detective Sergeant. He stood, just for a second, deciding who to run to when Joseph McCluskey appeared before him, laughing manically. In his hand was a mobile phone. He spoke into it, his words booming around the trees as if amplified through a loud hailer.
