I slow down. Move to the side. They stay behind me. Maybe there’s something wrong with the Volvo. The tail lights might not be working. I could be blowing smoke. None of the warning lights are showing. My temperature gauge is normal.
We’re bumper to bumper. I touch the brakes. He won’t back off. High-beam lights fill my mirrors, making it hard for me to see the road.
Unconsciously, I’m accelerating, trying to pull away. A long sweeping left-hand corner is followed by a right- hand bend where Combe Hay Lane passes through a copse of trees. There’s nowhere to pull over.
I’m travelling too fast, gripping the wheel too tightly, my eyes smarting at the brightness, seeing phantoms leaping from the ditches and from behind trees. I try to remember what lies ahead. There’s a farm track on the left with a turning circle for tractors. It’s two hundred yards away. I’ll pull over. Let the car pass.
We’re inches apart. I touch the brakes. Indicate. I don’t want him crashing into me. The nearside tyres leave the asphalt and dig into the softer edges. I almost lose control and wrench the wheel to the right. The Volvo fishtails and veers wildly across the road, heading for a ditch. I have to correct again.
Ahead I see the approaching lights of a car. The headlights behind me suddenly disappear. As the oncoming car passes, I see a vehicle for a brief moment in the rear-view mirror. Big and boxy, it could be a Range Rover. Black. Just a driver - he must have turned off his headlights.
He flicks them on again and the high beam blasts my corneas burning a white spot that won’t go away.
The Volvo leans heavily on the bends and surges over dips. The trees and hedges are like passing shadows. I’ve missed the farm track. There’s a turn-off to Combe Hay a hundred yards ahead. I can’t make the turn at this speed.
Fifty yards. Forty. I hit the brakes hard. Swing the wheel. Brace for the impact. The Volvo skirts the far ditch but makes the turn and skids to a halt on loose gravel. I expect to see the Range Rover shoot past, but instead it makes the same manoeuvre, far more expertly, stopping twenty yards behind me.
Shouldering open the door, I scream at his idiocy, my heart pounding. Shielding my eyes against the brightness, I take three steps towards the car. There’s no response. The doors remain closed, the engine running.
‘What’s your problem?’ I yell.
No response.
I glance at the Volvo. Nothing appears to be wrong. The tail lights are working.
Hesitating, I can think of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t move any closer. I’m alone. I’m unarmed. I don’t have a tyre iron to take out his fucking windows.
Finally, I take a step back, reach into the car and pull out my mobile.
‘You see this? I’m calling the police.’
The waiting car rocks forward suddenly and stops. What’s he doing?
I start punching in 999, glancing at the glowing screen. At the same moment, the car accelerates in a roar of horsepower and spinning wheels. It’s heading straight for me.
I don’t have time to run. I throw myself across the seat and pull my legs inside as the driver’s side door is ripped from its metal hinges with a crunching finality.
The sudden backdraught blows dust around the interior of the Volvo. Then there’s silence. No sound except my breathing.
I climb out and look down the empty road. My crumpled car door is lying thirty yards away in the ditch. The Range Rover has gone. Walking across the road, I retrieve the door, loading it in the back of the Volvo. Then I put in a call to Ronnie Cray.
‘Sounds like something out of
‘Duel?’
‘Spielberg’s first classic. This ordinary guy - Dennis Weaver - is driving through the desert and he gets terrorised by this big truck that’s like the Freddy Krueger of trucks.’
‘Are you taking this seriously?’
‘Yeah. Course. Did you get a number?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get a make?’
‘It looked like a Range Rover. Black.’
‘Did you get a description of the driver?’
‘I couldn’t see anything.’
‘Not much I can do. Where were you going?’
‘Home.’
‘Where were you coming from?’
‘I was talking to Sienna Hegarty’s therapist.’
‘You think it’s connected?’
‘Maybe. What do you think?’
‘It was probably just a joy-rider, winding you up.’
‘What about my car door?’
‘You’re insured. Make a claim.’
She’s about to hang up. ‘Hey, Professor, maybe you should stop asking so many questions.’
22
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my feet argue for a moment, curling inwards and not wanting to press flat on the rug. I have to concentrate, forcing my toes to the floor, then my heels. Slowly the spasms ease and I can reach the bathroom.
The mirror is cruel this morning. I pull at the skin beneath my bloodshot eyes and examine my tongue. For the past two nights I have had a black Range Rover with blazing headlights chasing me in my dreams. Each time I’ve woken with my heart pounding and my fists clenched on an imaginary steering wheel.
Strawberry is weaving between my bare legs, nipping at my toes, wanting to be fed. I follow her downstairs and fill her bowl, listening to the sound of Gunsmoke beating his tail against the back door and whining with excitement. At least one creature celebrates my getting up each morning.
The phone rings. Ruiz shouts to be heard above aircraft noise.
‘Hey, Professor, you ever wondered why when you park in a totally empty airport car park someone always comes and parks next to you?’
‘It’s one of life’s great mysteries.’
‘Like pigeons.’
‘What’s so mysterious about pigeons?’
‘They’re always the same size. You never see baby pigeons or old-age pigeons.’
‘You don’t get out enough.’
‘I’m just a thinker.’
The jet has passed. A boiled sweet rattles against his teeth. ‘Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Where?’
‘In Edinburgh.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
A part of me wants to resist the idea. I don’t want to travel. I want to stay close to home - particularly after what happened two nights ago - but I set Ruiz on the scent and he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.
‘I’ll book a flight and get back to you.’
Firstly, I call Bill Johnson at the local garage and ask him to pick up the Volvo and find me a new door. I tell him that I’ll leave the keys under the seat. Hanging up, I turn on my laptop and go online to book a flight to Edinburgh. Finally, I call Julianne and ask if I can borrow her car.
‘What’s wrong with yours?’
