The child exerted tremendous willpower to slow his panicky heart, then circled around with the stealth of a cat to come at Fox from the slope where the hazel coppices grew. His father would be looking toward the Manor, and wouldn't know Wolfie was there until he put his hand in his. It was a good plan, he thought. Fox couldn't take out the razor if Wolfie had hold of his hand, and he couldn't be cross if Wolfie didn't make a noise. He shied away from thoughts of the hammer. If he didn't think about it, it didn't exist.

But Fox wasn't by his tree, and fear gripped the child's heart anew. For all his father's failings, he had trusted him to keep the police away. What should Wolfie do now? Where could he go where he wouldn't be found? The cold was biting at his bones, and he had enough intelligence to know he couldn't stay outside. He thought about Lucky Fox, thought about his smiley face and his promise that his door was always open, thought about the size of the house and how easy it would be to hide in it. With nowhere else to go, he slid into the ha-ha and crawled up the other side onto the Manor lawn. The darkness of the building didn't trouble him. Time meant nothing without a watch, and he assumed the old man and his friends were asleep. More concerned about the police than about what lay ahead of him, he scampered on all fours, negotiating his way via the shrubs and trees that dotted the park and keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder. Every so often, when he peeked at the terrace to take a bearing, a light winked in one of the downstairs windows. He thought it was inside the house and paid it no attention.

His shock was enormous then, when, fifty feet from the terrace, the clouds began to thin and he saw that it was a torch in the hand of a person. He could make out the bulk of a black-clad figure against the French windows, and the pale gleam of a face. He shrank into a trembling huddle behind a tree. He knew it wasn't Fox. He could always tell Fox's shape by his coat. Was it a policeman, put there to catch him?

The cold dampness of the ground seeped through his thin clothes, and a dreadful lethargy stole over him. If he went to sleep, he might never wake up. The thought appealed to him. It was better than being frightened all the time. He clung to the belief that, if his mother hadn't gone away, she would save him. But she had gone away, and his new, tiny voice of cynicism told him why. She cared more about herself and Cub than she did about Wolfie. He rested his head on his knees as tears spilled in hot streams down his frozen cheeks.

"Who's there?"

He recognized Nancy's voice and heard the fear in it, but he thought she was talking to someone else and didn't answer. Like her, he held his breath and waited for something to happen. The silence stretched interminably until nervous curiosity drove him to see if she was still there. He lay on his belly and squirmed around the base of the tree, and this time he saw his father.

Fox stood a few yards to Nancy's left, his head bent to stop the moonlight catching his face, the silhouette of his hooded coat unmistakable against the stone wall of the Manor. The only movement either of them made was Nancy's switching of the torch beam to and fro. With his infinite capacity to understand fear, Wolfie knew that she was aware of Fox's presence but couldn't see him. Every time the light flicked in his direction, it lit a bush on the front of the house and failed to show the shadow behind it.

Wolfie fixed his father with an intense gaze, trying to make out if he held his razor. He decided not. Nothing of Fox showed except the black shadow of his long hooded coat. There was no flash of blade, and the child relaxed slightly. Even if Fox was stroking it in his pocket, he was only truly dangerous when he held it in his hand. He didn't bother to question why his father should be stalking Nancy, guessing that her visit to the campsite had something to do with it. No one invaded Fox's territory without facing the consequences. His sharp little ears picked up the sound of tires on gravel, and he sensed Nancy's relief as she lowered the torch to light the flagstones at her feet. She shouldn't have done that, he thought, when Fox's only escape was to run past her to the back of the house. Panic-stricken, his eyes returned to his father, and he watched in alarm as Fox's hand slid from his pocket.

Monroe drew in beside Nancy's Discovery and left his motor running as he climbed out to look through her windows. The driver's door was unlocked and he hoisted himself onto the seat, leaning across to retrieve a canvas bag from the floor in front of the passenger seat. He thumb-punched numbers into his mobile, while he flicked through the contents. "I've found a car," he said. "No sign of the owner but there's a wallet here-Visa in the name of Nancy Smith. The keys are in the ignition but I'd say the engine's been off for a while. There's precious little heat in here." He peered through the windscreen. "This side's certainly in darkness… no, the Colonel sits in the room overlooking the terrace." He frowned. "Out? So who reported it? The solicitor?" He frowned. "It sounds a bit flaky to me. How does the solicitor know this woman's in danger if he's halfway to Bovington? Who is she, anyway? Why the panic?" He was taken aback by the answer. "The Colonel's granddaughter? My God!" He glanced back up the drive as he heard the sound of an approaching car. "No, mate, I've no idea what's going on…"

"You shouldn't have told them who Nancy was," said James angrily. "Have you no sense? It'll be all over the newspapers tomorrow."

Mark ignored him. "Leo called her Lizzie's love child," he said, accelerating to ninety on a straight piece of road. "Is that how he usually refers to her? I'd have thought 'bastard' was more in his line."

James closed his eyes as they approached the bend before Shenstead Farm at high speed. "He never refers to her as anything. It's not something we discuss. Never have done. I wish you'd concentrate on your driving."

Again Mark ignored him. "Whose idea was that?"

"Nobody's," said James irritably. "At the time it seemed no different from an abortion… and you don't revisit abortions over the lunch table."

"I thought you and Ailsa had a row about it."

"All the more reason for the matter to be closed. The adoption had happened. Nothing I said or did could reverse the decision." He braced his hands against the dashboard as the hedgerow slapped the side of the car.

"Why did you feel so strongly about it?"

"Because I wouldn't give a dog away to a total stranger, Mark. Certainly not a child. She was a Lockyer-Fox. We had a responsibility to her. You really are going much too fast."

"Stop bellyaching. So why did Ailsa give her away?"

James sighed. "Because she couldn't think what else to do. She knew Elizabeth would neglect the baby if she forced her to acknowledge it, and Ailsa could hardly pass it off as her own."

"What other option was there?"

"Admit our daughter had made a mistake and take responsibility ourselves. Of course, it's easy to be wise with hindsight. I don't blame Ailsa. I blame myself. She thought my views were so rigid that it wasn't worth consulting me." Another sigh. "We all wish we'd acted differently, Mark. Ailsa assumed Elizabeth would have other children-Leo, too. It was a terrible shock when they didn't."

Mark slowed as a car's headlamps shone out from the Copse. He glanced in briefly as they passed, but couldn't see beyond the lights. "Did Lizzie ever say who the father was?"

"No," said the old man dryly. "I don't think she knew herself."

"Are you sure Leo's never had any kids?"

"Absolutely sure."

Mark dropped down a gear as they approached the Manor drive, watching the lights of the other car swing out behind him. "Why? He's been with a lot of women, James. By the law of averages he should have had at least one mistake."