He could understand what they were doing. Simple if you examined it, applied logic. The process of vegetation, that is what it was all about. They wouldn't talk to him yet; they would wait until they had assembled the dossier, hardened the evidence. When they were ready and not before, that was when interrogation would begin. Stupid if they rushed it So he knew what they were at, why they were taking their time. And he knew what they would be asking of him when finally they had prepared themselves.

It had been decided in the group that he would be the first, because it had been he who had drawn the short straw.

All four had known their role in the attack. Rebecca from the front, asking the policeman for directions and fumbling in her bag for the map, holding his attention. David from behind, his clenched fist landing on the tunic cloth of the man's right shoulder, enough to fell him. Isaac springing from the shadow, hands at the holster flap to prise away the precious pistol, drawing it clear and throwing it abruptly to where Moses stood. When the gun was in his hand the others had run off, deserting the stage.

Moses's hand had been shaking, and the barrel waving, dancing in the air. And all the time the elephantine form of the policeman had convulsed as semi-stunned he had tried to rise from his knees and make his escape. Bewilderment and pain were etched on the policeman's features, as he struggled to make some sense from the previous moments of confusion. And as Moses had looked down at the barrel, fascinated by its movements, the identity-protecting balaclava had slipped and obscured his vision. He had pulled at it, ripped it across his face, over his head, clear of his hair. A distant scream from David for him to hurry, in concert with a sharper growl, Isaac's.