Page 149 of Slack Tide Kill

Sally craned her stiff neck back. The white van was there, almost at the bottom of the hill too. "Right behind us."

Liam swung the wheel, taking a tight corner in a sharp, hydroplaning skid.

"Bloody hell, Liam," Sally said, holding the dash. "It's not worth dying for."

"Isn't it?" He spun the wheel the other way, squealing into another turn. An SUV screamed past on their right, horn wailing, barely an inch away. "Spate's got away with murder for 30 years, and I don't want these wankers seeing what I'm going to do to him."

Sally rocked back into her seat as Liam straightened up. That made sense. Spate had just become their number one suspect. "Hit your blues and twos, then."

Liam grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

He hit the button and they became a wailing, flashing bullet shooting south at 60 miles an hour. Adrenaline coursed through Sally's system as they flew over the surging RMC, ran a red light through the tiny village of West Hythe and accelerated hard down Botolph's Bridge road back toward Dymchurch. In moments they were surging back past Martello 24, with Spate's holiday park spreading out on the left-hand side.

"Good God," Sally murmured, looking down.

The park had become a lake, its surface battered by sheets of driving rain, the artificial grass no longer visible. Each caravan had become a lifeboat in a network of gray canals, bobbing with litter; cans, bottles, chip wrappers, crisp packets.

Sally flashed back to the strand line on Dungeness, split by the body of Jason Harrow. Hair perfectly combed, cockle shells in his eyes, white strips of salt crystallizing in his clothing. Left there on a bed of bleached driftwood, tangled blue fishing net and glass fragments worn down to amber.

A sudden rage swelled in her chest.

The killer had done all this. They'd set their little traps, shared their stupid Heraclitean theory, but this is what it came down to. Real people dumped like garbage.

Liam closed on the entrance and turned the wheel, but Sally reached out and grasped his arm.

"Stop here, Liam! Don't pull in."

He braked sharply, pulling to the side, and turned to her as the car still rocked.

"Why not?"

"Look." Sally pointed.

The incline down to the park was a true waterfall now. Huge amounts of water were flowing off the road and down into Dymchurch's haven every second, inches thick, frothing with shingle and brown mud.

Liam cursed under his breath. "We'd never get out again."

"We have to go on foot."

"But Brown will see us parked here. She'll come down."

"So let's go fast."

Sally pushed open her door and bounded out. Water flowed fast around her feet. She slammed the door and ran down the incline, hands windmilling to keep her balance before splashing into the deepening sump below. The water was inches thick now, up past her ankles. Together they ran past numerous vacant caravans, their doors hanging open, the residents long-fled.

Foam flashed over the sea wall, splashing noisily into the waterlogged park. The endless pulse of the waves slamming against concrete carried up through her body, drumming into her chest.

Ahead, Spate's mobile mansion became visible through the downpour. The porch tarpaulin was swollen with wind over his foul little hot tub, and there, square in the center like a chick in its nest, sat Gerald Spate.

His eyes widened as they approached.

"The fuck are you two doing back here?" Spate shouted over the thudding of his generator. He stood and water dripped down his red chest.

"We went to see Meeks," Sally said, stopping before him. Liam circled back to the generator and began ripping things away.

"Cut that out, you cheeky little shit!" Spate shouted, swinging a punch toward Liam's head.

Sally caught it and shoved Spate back into the water.