‘Look â he’s still breathing. If we can get him an ambulance, he might still be all right.’
‘Do I look like I care? He’s a fucking fruitcake â he’d be better off dead. Tidier all round.’
Matt took another step back. He was loath to leave Deacon to the mercy of Delafield, but he had no choice. The lad needed an ambulance and his erstwhile minder was clearly not going to call for one. Added to which, if he was reading it right, his own situation was looking increasingly precarious. For both of their sakes, he needed to get to his phone, but all at once the car seemed a frighteningly long way away.
‘You can’t just leave him,’ he said, mentally poised to run and trying to disguise the fact. ‘After all, you ran him down.’
‘Ah, yes. A shame, that,’ came the answer, and Matt sensed rather than saw the accompanying shrug. ‘Just stepped out in front of me with no warning. Off his head, poor bloke; suffering a psychotic episode, no doubt. Who’s to argue? There’ll be no witnesses …’
Matt swallowed, his mouth dry.
‘They’ll know you’re lying. The forensic people can tell exactly what happened.’
‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ Delafield suggested calmly. ‘Time they get their act together, I’ll be long gone.’
There didn’t seem to be anything more to say, so Matt ran.
He’d expected Delafield to give chase, and hoped that his own fitness would give him the edge he needed over the bulkier man; what he didn’t expect was for Delafield to give chase in the Land Rover. Matt had barely covered twenty yards when he heard the powerful engine roar, and twenty more when the headlights caught him, sending his running shadow leaping fifteen feet ahead of him down the road.
How the hell had he got the damned thing turned round so quickly in the narrow lane?
Matt ran harder than he’d ever run before, desperate to reach the relative safety of the car and the phone that represented a lifeline for Deacon and himself.
Slipping slightly as he decelerated on the gritty surface of the lane, Matt grabbed the car’s door handle and pulled it open, glancing back at the oncoming Land Rover as he did so. In that instant he realised that, as before, Delafield had no intention of slowing. He was aiming the 4x4, like a lethal weapon, squarely at the front of the MR2, and Matt had no illusions about which vehicle would come off best in the encounter.
Casting one regretful look at the mobile phone on the passenger seat, he abandoned the idea of retrieving it and concentrated, instead, on his own personal survival. His instincts were shrieking at him to get away from the car, given the speed at which the Land Rover was travelling, to go behind it was clearly suicidal, and to move to the side a moment too soon would make him an easy target should Delafield swerve to follow him.
He had only fractions of a second to play with and, in the end, he left it one crucial moment too late â his dive to the right being thrown off course by the reflex action of the open door as the Land Rover ploughed into the nose of the silver sports car.
Tarmac, hedge, and sky barrelled crazily round Matt and he fetched up on his back at the side of the lane with his head and shoulders resting on the grass verge. From there he had a grandstand view of the Land Rover as it mounted the bonnet of his car like some giant copulating metal monster. The sound was horrific as the sleek bodywork collapsed under the strain and the windscreen imploded, showering the interior with glass.
The impact had driven both vehicles several yards down the road, the Land Rover finishing up with its front wheels dropping into the seating compartment of the MR2, a chilling affirmation of the wisdom of Matt’s decision. For a moment, there was relative silence, broken only by the small sounds of settling machinery. The Land Rover engine had stalled, but any hopes Matt might have entertained that the danger was past were swiftly routed as Delafield attempted to restart it. Obediently, the 4x4 hiccupped back to life and, with a creaking groan of distressed metal, Delafield began to rock it to and fro in an attempt to break free.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Matt saw to his dismay that the manoeuvre showed every sign of success; with each pull backwards the Land Rover rose higher, and it looked to be only a matter of time before it would have all four wheels on the tarmac again. While it couldn’t be said that Matt’s brain was functioning at full power after being thrown across the lane, his self-preservation instincts were unimpaired and they were unequivocal in urging him to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Land Rover as quickly as was humanly possible.
Scrambling to his feet, Matt was relieved to find his limbs were all in working order â if a little bruised. He glanced up and down the lane in momentary indecision and came to the rapid conclusion that his best hope was to head back down the lane towards Rockfield, though he knew he had little chance of reaching it on foot before the Land Rover caught up with him. Even a practically unachievable goal was better than no goal at all, which was what he would face if he went the other way, past Deacon Brewer’s inert form and on into the no-man’s-land beyond.
Seconds later he was sprinting past the revving 4x4 â still riding high on the mangled remains of the MR2 â and away round the bend in the lane. With the wind in his ears, Matt couldn’t hear anything except his breathing and the slapping of his soft-soled shoes on the road, and the sensation that the Land Rover had broken free and was bearing down on him began to prey on his mind to the extent that he had to keep checking over his shoulder. He had covered the best part of two hundred yards and glanced back half a dozen times when he finally saw the sight he’d been dreading â the oncoming lights of a vehicle.
There was never any doubt in his mind that it was the Land Rover; quite apart from the fact that traffic was rare on this road, this vehicle was dragging a section of metalwork beneath it, scraping over the tarmac with a horrendous screech, and sparking like the fifth of November.
Whatever was caught under it didn’t seem to be slowing the Land Rover much, and, desperately, Matt searched the dark line of the right-hand hedge for a thin patch as he ran. He was instinctively looking to the right because that way, albeit a good mile or more distant in the valley bottom, lay the farmhouse and stable yard of Rockfield. However, as the roar of the pursuing vehicle grew ever louder, he would have taken any route that offered.
Finally, just when Matt had begun to think his luck had run out, a gap appeared in the blackthorn and, stepping up onto the verge, he launched himself through in a flying leap designed to clear any wire that might span the opening.
There was indeed wire, its barbs making themselves felt in a burning pain down the length of his right leg as he caught his toe in the top strand and sprawled untidily onto the spiky stubble headland of the field beyond. The lights that had chased him down the lane followed him still, shining above his head as the Land Rover bumped up onto the verge and ploughed into the fence in its turn. At this point, the wire â which Matt had been roundly cursing just moments before â now earned his gratitude, as the three strands combined to bring the heavy vehicle to a halt, its engine stalling and its headlights illuminating nothing but empty acres of ploughed earth and a couple of startled pheasants.
‘Fuck!’ Delafield said plainly into the sudden silence that followed, and, keeping low, Matt raised himself onto all fours and scuttled closer to the hedge, where he paused to catch his breath, taking in the lie of the land while he waited to see what Delafield’s next move would be.
On this side of the hedge the wind was bitingly cold and Matt could feel the chill of evaporating sweat on his body. Above, the moon was sailing in a sky that was now clear of all but the wispiest ribbons of cloud, and it was plain to Matt that any attempt to cross the huge open field would leave him horribly exposed. Looking to his right, he could see a dark cluster of farm buildings on the skyline, but he’d driven past them many times and knew there was no farmhouse amongst them. The barns and stables might offer a place to hide, in the short term â�
� always supposing he could reach them unseen â but they offered little in the long term.
While Matt racked his brains for a plan of action, the Land Rover engine turned over twice and came back to life. Twanging free of the wire, the 4x4 reversed and moved off up the lane, but slowly â as if searching for something. That something turned out to be a gateway and there was clearly no gate to hinder its progress, for, as Matt watched with a sinking heart, its headlights blazed out across the field once more, some twenty yards further on, and began to swing round in an arc that would inevitably bring them towards his position by the hedge.
It was time to be moving again.
Standing up, Matt bent the top strand of wire down as far as it would go and stepped carefully over. Back on the tarmac, the need to make a decision about which way to go became imperative. His idea of heading for Rockfield had lost some of its feasibility but, then again, he didn’t have a better one, so he set off at a run along the lane once more, hoping that the next field might perhaps be less accessible to the Land Rover and gain him a little leeway.
Slowing down as he reached the first gateway, he peered round the gatepost and saw the Land Rover in the far corner but heading back. It looked as though Delafield was doing a sweep of the whole field, driving round the perimeter to avoid the uneven plough.
Matt hesitated. The long metal gate to the field was opened right back against the hedge and he toyed with the idea of shutting it, to buy him some precious time. On the other hand, it would be a clear signal of his whereabouts, so, resisting the temptation, he stepped back and ran on.
Pounding over the tarmac, Matt was grateful for the endurance fitness that his profession required, but aware that a prolonged game of catch-me-if-you-can with a motor vehicle could have only one ending. He had to get off the road and out of sight; after all, surely Delafield couldn’t afford to remain in the area for too long, with the evidence of what he’d done laid out for any chance passer-by to see. On the other hand, where could he go? As the only witness, did Delafield think that removing Matt would solve his problems? Matt couldn’t believe he’d be that short-sighted. He must know that he’d burnt his bridges, so his determination to silence Matt could only be to buy himself time in which to make a clean getaway.
Spotting a gap low down in the hedge to his right, Matt stopped, threw himself to his stomach, and began to wriggle under the bottom strand of wire. A knobbly root made the manoeuvre extremely uncomfortable, but that was forgotten when, halfway under, Matt felt his jacket snag securely on one of the barbs. His attempt to tear his way free was unsuccessful â the thick leather withstood all the force he could bring to bear from his restricted position and all he succeeded in doing was to gouge a painful furrow in the skin of his back. Neither did it seem possible to shrug the garment off, his arms necessarily being in front, in order to help pull him through the narrow gap.
Directing a stream of invective at whomever it was who had invented barbed wire, Matt fought back panic and tried to think rationally, an attempt that was routed when he heard the roar of the Land Rover, plainly back on the road and bearing down on the spot where he lay.
Shit! Would Delafield see him? What portion of his legs still protruded from the untidy line of blackthorn? Should he throw everything at the struggle to get under the wire or should he lie still and hope that he wouldn’t be seen in the shadow of the hedge? In spite of the risk, Matt chose the latter, aware that nothing draws the eye like movement. Even so, it was as much as he could do to lie perfectly motionless as Delafield drove closer, and he found himself imagining the agony of having the 4x4 run up on the verge and over his outstretched legs. He’d had brutal evidence that the deed was well within the ex-army man’s capability and it would be a sure-fire way of ensuring that Matt ran no further.
By the time the Land Rover thundered past, Matt was shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle. He let out the lungful of breath he’d been holding, but there was no time to celebrate his narrow escape for, seeing the empty road ahead, Delafield would soon realise that he had overshot the mark and almost certainly return, no doubt driving more slowly and searching the banks and hedges for any sign of Matt.
Reaching awkwardly behind with one hand, he managed to locate the part of his jacket that had caught on the wire and, by dint of wriggling backwards an inch or two, unhook it. Even as he started to crawl forward once more, he heard a screech of tyres as the Land Rover’s brakes were savagely applied further down the lane.
Moments later, Matt was out the other side of the hedge and getting to his feet. With relief, he found he was in a different field. This one was laid to pasture, if the short-cropped turf could be called that, and, in the pale light of the moon, he could see a number of irregularly shaped dark objects a little way off. At first he thought they might be cows, but, as he stood up, the movement attracted their attention and he could see by their size and the length of their necks that they were, in fact, horses â carthorses, to be exact â feeding from a big circular hay rack.
As the Land Rover began its return journey, Matt walked calmly towards the group of horses, talking in soothing tones as he went. The equine giants watched him with interest but no apparent alarm, jaws still winding in long streamers of hay, and one of them even fluttering its nostrils and uttering a low whickering sound.
‘Hello, lads,’ he said, reaching a hand up to caress the nearest lowered nose. He thought they were probably shires. A good two hands, or eight inches, taller than the thoroughbreds he was used to, these draught horses were bigger in every way â long roman-nosed heads set on massively crested necks, barrel-shaped bodies, stout legs feathered with a mass of long hair, and hooves ten or twelve inches across.
Matt counted five horses in total as they gathered round him in anticipation of possible titbits. Glancing in the direction of the lane, he could see the lights of the Land Rover approaching the field gate. He dropped to a crouch as the beams swung towards him, illuminating the galvanised metal feeder behind which he hid, and haloing the horses, who blinked uncomfortably. Confident that he couldn’t be seen, Matt stayed still and, after a minute or so, heard the vehicle back away and continue up the lane.
Letting out his breath in a shaky sigh, Matt considered his position. Fairly safe for the moment, he could conceivably stay where he was all night, if necessary, or at least until Delafield gave up the search. However, it wasn’t only himself he had to think of â although in a bad way, Deacon had been alive when Matt had last seen him, and he couldn’t square it with his conscience not to do everything possible to get him some help.
Thinking about the option of returning to the lane once more, and not liking it at all, Matt stroked the neck of the nearest horse and noticed â for the first time â that three of them were wearing headcollars. He continued to stroke the animal, thoughtfully. If one was contemplating riding, a headcollar wasn’t much use without a rope, but was he really contemplating it?
He rather felt he was. On the back of a horse, he could move a good deal faster and would feel a lot less vulnerable than on foot.
Looking around him, he saw that the hay the horses were pulling at was in the form of three or four bales, which the farmer had dumped into the feeder wholesale, binder twine and all, probably earlier that day. At any other time, Matt would have deplored such carelessness, worried for the safety of the feeding animals, just now, though, he sent a blessing winging in the man’s direction. A length of orange twine, whilst not ideal, could be fashioned into a makeshift rein that might just provide the means for his getaway.
It proved necessary to climb into the feeder to retrieve the string, but, even so, in less than two minutes he had attached a piece to either side of the headcollar of his chosen horse and was preparing to climb onto its broad back. This he did with the help of the feeder, talking quietly all the while, and trying not to allow his tension to communicate itself to the animal who, for all he knew, might never have been ridden before.
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br /> In the event, it wasn’t an adverse reaction he had to worry about as much as no reaction at all. Beyond turning an ear in his direction, the horse took no notice whatsoever of Matt’s presence and continued to eat hay unperturbed.
It took a fair amount of unattractive kicking and hauling to coax the animal away from his feed, but, eventually, Matt managed it, and even succeeded in bullying the animal into a reluctant trot. His plan â if plan it could be called â was to ride the horse down the field in the hope of finding a way out at the bottom. Failing that, then at least he would be close enough to make his way to Rockfield on foot.
For twenty or thirty yards or so, the animal trotted, head up and showing a strong inclination to turn back to his companions if Matt would let him, but then fate, in the shape of the other four horses, took a deciding hand.
Matt didn’t realise they were following until one of them kicked up its heels and cantered past, causing his mount to veer sideways. Slipping a little, Matt grabbed a handful of rough mane to steady himself. The shire’s back felt acres wide compared with the lean thoroughbreds he rode everyday, and his legs didn’t reach far enough round its girth to grip effectively. Being herd animals, the sight of one of their number running got them all going, and soon the other horses joined in the fun, running alongside Matt’s horse, bucking and snaking their heads.
Matt cursed. Steering a horse with string attached to its headcollar was never going to be a very precise art and relied a good deal on the willing co-operation of the animal; with five horses on the run in a ten-acre field on a windy night, he might just as well have tried to convey his wishes by Morse code for all the notice the shire took of them. Caught up with the exhilaration of this wild charge, the five heavy horses got faster and faster, thundering down the field towards the boundary fence in the valley like massive warhorses going into battle.
Murder in Mind Page 30
