His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow and sharp. He slid a bullet into one of the six chambers. Clicked the barrel shut, spun it, replaced it on the table. He stared at it, his world reduced to that one piece of lethal metal. He breathed heavily – once, twice – then swallowed hard and, eyes screwed tight shut, picked the gun up, pointed it at his temple, pulled the trigger. ‘Should be just over this ridge.’ ‘Well, let’s hope so. That’s what you said about the last two.’ Francis Sharkey swallowed his reply, looked again at the map in his lap. The bumps and swerves were giving him motion sickness. He looked up again, breathed deep. ‘All these blasted B-roads look alike,’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t he live somewhere nearer? Somewhere he could easily be found?’ Maria Bennett took her eyes off the road, glanced at him. ‘I think you’ve just answered your own question.’ Sharkey tutted, gave up looking at his map. ‘So what’s this place we’re looking for?’ ‘Ross Bank Sands.
