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We finally arrive at the campsite. On any other occasion I would describe it as ‘lovely’, but that hardly seems like the right sort of word to be using now. A place to bed down and gather our thoughts is what it is. Here, we can lie low and keep away from motorways and police cars, at least until the initial buzz has died down and we can work out how to prove I had nothing at all to do with any of this.
That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway, because deep down I just want to keep running. I don’t feel safe anywhere – not here, for sure. Interpol will soon know we’ve been through France. My car went through the tunnel and was seen leaving at Calais. Jess went into the shop in Kerzers, too, and she’s not exactly the sort of woman a shopkeeper’s going to forget seeing – particularly n
