Free Beyond Reach by Graham Hurley

gunned the engine, sweeping by. There were no street lights but he had time to register a modern-looking bungalow, set back from the road, before the darkness swallowed him up again. He drove on for perhaps half a mile, then pulled onto an apron of mud in front of a farm gate. A three-point turn took him back down the road, moving very slowly. At length, round a couple of bends, the bungalow came into view. There were a pair of dormer windows set into the roof and a light was on in one of them. Ezzie’s BMW was still in the drive.
    Winter parked on the verge and took more photos. Later he’d confirm a house number and the name of the road but for the time being - once again - all he had to do was wait. He toyed with another helping or two of Elton John but settled for Carly Simon instead. By the end of the first album, he’d developed a serious respect for this bloke’s stamina. By the end of the second, he was convinced Ezzie was staying the night. Then he realised that the light in the dormer window had been switched off. Moments later, the front door opened and two figures stepped out. Expecting a lingering farewell kiss, Winter watched the pair of them walk around the front of the bungalow to the driveway. For the first time, he realised that another vehicle was parked in front of the BMW. It was an estate car. It looked like a Renault or maybe a Vauxhall.
    Ezzie kissed her lover goodnight, tossed her sports bag into the back of the BMW, got in behind the wheel. The bloke watched her for a moment or two, raised his hand in a farewell wave, then reached in his pocket for his car keys. Ezzie was already backing the big 4 x 4 into the road. The estate car followed. At the top of the road both cars signalled left, back towards the motorway. Winter stirred the Lexus into life. The next village was called Brook. Ezzie, as Winter expected, headed east while the estate car turned right, accelerating hard, plunging deeper into the forest.
    Winter had left the village behind before he caught sight of a pair of red lights in the distance. He couldn’t be sure it was the estate car but it was way past midnight and he had no choice but to find out. It had stopped raining by now but this part of the forest was virtually treeless, a vast plateau of heather and scrub, and despite the 40 mph speed limit the driver had his foot down. Slowly, Winter began to close the gap between them, pushing the Lexus past ninety on the faster stretches. From time to time, in the flare of the headlights, he caught a glimpse of ponies grazing at the roadside. Once, he saw a cow look up with a start as he swept past. What might happen if one of these animals ambled onto the tarmac didn’t bear contemplation but Winter didn’t care. He was back doing what twenty years in CID had trained him for: getting tighter to the target, plotting his next move, trying to assess the many possibilities that lay ahead. By now he’d closed the gap to a hundred metres. Definitely the estate car.
    A signpost flashed by. FORDINGBRIDGE 3 MILES. Winter didn’t know this part of the world but they seemed to have crossed the New Forest in no time at all. The road started to descend. Suddenly they were back in the trees. Then, for whatever reason, the hazard lights came on in the estate car. It began to slow. Winter did the same, his brain furiously computing his next move. Should he hit the indicator and overtake? Should he then find a spot down the road from which he could resume the chase? Seconds later, the mystery driver saved him having to make the decision. Slewed across the road, the estate car blocked his path. Right first time. A Renault.
    Winter braked and came to a halt barely yards away. The driver’s door opened and a tallish figure in a black tracksuit stepped out. In the throw of his headlights, Winter watched him approaching. There was something familiar in the way this man held himself, in the rigid upright posture, in the jut of his chin, but only when