Crouching down, with a torch gripped between his knees, he worked quickly to tape the plates securely over his own, ensuring a perfect fit. Once he was satisfied, he stowed the torch and took the white envelope in his hand, feeling the contents between his fingers before carefully slipping it into his pocket.

Moments later, his car rejoined the main road and he accelerated away, the route now very familiar to him. This would be his fourth visit to Severn Beach – he’d made two preparatory trips in the weeks since he’d tracked her there – and it would be his last.

He cruised past Warminster and drove on into the night, enjoying the long, clear road as it snaked towards him out of the darkness. Bath was asleep, a succession of empty streets and glaring traffic lights, soon left behind as he pressed on towards the orange glow of Bristol on the horizon. There was a little more traffic here, but it was quiet enough as he swept down towards the city centre and round to Hotwells. The Clifton Bridge hung like a strip of fairy lights above the gorge, and he found himself leaning forward to gaze up as he passed beneath it.

Not far now . . .

Avonmouth was a ghost town, and he was suddenly conscious of being alone – conspicuously alone – on the silent roads. This close to his destination, a local police car would present too great a risk. He would have no choice but to postpone and drive on. The thought irked him as he came to the roundabout by the towering old mill and turned off onto the broad, straight length of St Andrews Road. He was watchful now, checking each side turning as it slipped by, glancing up at the mirror to see anyone behind him, but there was nobody else. He was alone.

A little before Severn Beach, there was a turning for a single-track access road that led down towards the water – he’d found it on his second visit and it seemed the ideal place. He drove a short distance along it, then switched off the headlights and looked behind him for other cars.

Nothing.

He waited a few moments, allowing his eyes to grow used to the darkness, then cautiously eased the car forward along the narrow tarmac. It was difficult without lights, especially negotiating the low bridge where the road passed under the railway line. The shore side of the tracks was a dead end, hidden from the main road by the embankment – probably the local lovers’ lane but now, just after 3 a.m., it was empty. He turned the car so that it was facing out, ready to leave, then switched off the engine and got out.

A chill wind whipped along the shoreline, rippling the tall reeds like waves. Naysmith stretched and yawned, savouring the bite of the cold after the soporific warmth of the car journey. The Second Severn Crossing dominated the night horizon, a ribbon of motorway lights cast out across the miles of dark water, its reflection glittering on the river below. He shivered and went back to the car, opening the boot and drawing out the refuse sack containing his new clothes. After one last check to ensure he had everything, he locked the car and set off into the wind, trudging along the swathe of rough grass that divided the railway from the beach.

He made his way on into the darkness until he came to a solitary tree and the large group of bushes gathered about it. Pausing for a moment, he looked around, then carried the plastic sack into the midst of the bushes and laid it carefully on the ground. Beside it, he placed the white envelope – an incongruous pale square in the gloom. Removing the keys and cash from his pocket, he took a new refuse sack and began methodically undressing, placing each item of clothing into the sack. It was cold, but it would be folly to rush – he had to make sure that everything was accounted for. At last, naked, he gathered the top of the sack and twisted it shut, before opening the other bag and taking out his anonymous new clothes.

A few minutes later, shivering but dressed, he pulled his gloves on before pushing the black sack deep into the bushes. Shoving his keys and cash into empty pockets, he stared down at the envelope for a moment, then scooped it up and made his way out onto the beach.

The grass gave way to small stones that crunched underfoot as he drew closer to the shore, an endless strip of shingle and debris that marked the uncertain boundary between the land and the estuary. The first houses were visible now, less than a mile ahead, the outermost arm of the village stretching out towards him.

He walked on as the sky began to brighten, the pre-dawn light giving form to dark, heavy clouds. He hoped it might rain, but not until later. Not until afterwards. Water washed away a multitude of sins.

There was one more thing to attend to. Picking his way along the beach, he began to study the larger stones that lay here and there among the pebbles.

Something round and heavy that would fit well in the hand . . .

He stooped to examine several river-smoothed rocks before he found what he was looking for. It felt right as he picked it up, testing the weight and swinging it experimentally. It also had the beauty of coming from this shoreline – he could drop it anywhere and even if it was discovered, it would only reinforce the idea that the whole thing was opportunistic rather than planned. Nodding to himself, he slipped the stone into one of his large anorak pockets and walked on towards the Severn bridges.

As the ground fell away before him, he came to the start of the sea wall that protected the low-lying houses beyond. He walked along the beach below it, keeping close to shield himself from the worst of the wind, and to stay out of sight. Finding a sheltered spot, he sat down on the stepped concrete at the base of the wall and checked his cheap watch. All he had to do now was wait.

5

Saturday, 26 May

She appeared at roughly 6.45 a.m. – slightly earlier than he had expected – a solitary figure, running at an easy pace out of her street and turning to follow the coastal path that led along the top of the beach. From his vantage point, Naysmith studied her, taking in the white T-shirt, the blue shorts. Her hair was tied back, bouncing in time with her stride. Absently, he wondered how fast she could run.

Standing up, he shook his arms and legs to loosen them, then set off at a leisurely pace after the receding figure. There was no need to hurry. Let her enjoy her run . . . he would meet her on her way back.

The early-morning light was breaking through the furthest clouds, dappling the distant reaches of the coastline and spinning thin strips of glistening silver across the water of the estuary. He gazed out at the towering wind turbines, visible even though they must be some five miles away, their immense blades gently turning in the seemingly permanent gale that blew along this part of the Severn. Walking on, his eye was drawn to the industrial buildings that punctuated the gently curving coastline towards Avonmouth, the tall chimneys pouring out long, slow streams of smoke. It was a bleak place, but there was an odd sort of beauty in it as well . . .

Fifteen minutes later, he caught sight of her again, a still distant figure, jogging steadily back towards him. She would be fatigued now, breathing fast to get the oxygen to her weary muscles. He knew how it felt to be tired after exercise, the body working in an almost automatic way, the mind already thinking of home and a relaxing bath.

He carefully checked his walk, making all his movements deliberately slow and lazy, despite being wound tight with readiness. Everything about him must be ordinary, unthreatening, irrelevant to the approaching runner. He glanced over his shoulder but there was no one else around.

Green light.

His gloved right hand slipped gently into the anorak pocket and drew out the heavy, round stone, concealing it by letting his arm hang close to his side. He began to adjust his course so that she would be on his right – the side nearest the water – when they met.