I even worked out the best route in my head.
I had grown up in Prestbury and I knew intimately all the shortcuts from there to Cheltenham town center. I had used them either on foot or on my bicycle for half my life. And I knew all the deserted back roads and the quiet way through Pittville Park, past the Pump Room that gave Cheltenham its spa status, across the Tommy Taylor recreation area and down past the allotments off Gardners Lane, where I had often played as a kid with my school friends. Wherever possible, I would keep the horse off the hard surfaces and on the grass, all the way to Swindon Road, not far from the old Cheltenham Maternity Hospital, where, nearly thirty years ago, I had been brought screaming into the world.
I could then trot the horse past the railway station and down the wide tree-lined avenues around Christ Church to my destination on Lansdown Road.
Yes, I thought, I really ought to turn right towards the police station.
Instead, I turned left towards Woodmancote and Claudia.
How could I have been so stupid as to have told Shenington that she had gone to my mother’s? If he had been the one who sent the broken-neck gunman there to kill me, and I had no doubt that it had been, he would know exactly where to find my mother’s cottage. It would only be a matter of time before he worked out that he could get to me by attacking Claudia.
I just hoped I would get there first.
Fortunately, at this time on a wet Wednesday, the road was quiet. Only on a couple of occasions did I have to pull off onto the wide grass verges as cars came sweeping past. Neither of them even slowed down. Other than that, I kept to the road. It was much too dangerous for the horse even to walk along the verges at night with the many hidden drainage ditches.
However, the noise of the metal horseshoes clickety-clacking on the tarmac as we cantered along suddenly sounded alarmingly loud in the night air. Which was safer, I wondered, speed or stealth? That same question had been taxing military strategists ever since armies had been invented.
I opted for speed, but I did slow to a walk as we reached the edge of Southam village and, as much as I could, I used the grass there to minimize the noise. Even though it was late, and still raining, the sound of a horse at such an hour, especially one moving at speed, might bring people out of their houses to investigate, and there was no way I wanted to have to stop and explain what I was doing, not yet.
The horse and I went right through the village of Southam without attracting any unwelcome attention, other than a curious look or two from a cat out on its nocturnal hunt for food.
Southam to Woodmancote was less than a mile, and I trotted the horse down the center of the road, using the dotted white line for guidance. At long last the rain was beginning to stop, not that it made much difference to me. I was completely soaked to the skin and cold because of it.
I skirted around the edge of the village towards the lane where my mother lived.
The lane was actually the fourth arm of a crossroads junction, and I was just approaching it from straight ahead when a car came along the other road and turned right into it. The car had to be going to my mother’s cottage, as it was the only one down there.
I kicked the horse forward and followed, keeping to the grass to deaden the noise of the hooves.
Halfway down the lane I slid off the horse’s back and tied him to a tree, moving forward silently but quickly on foot. I stayed close to the hedge as I came around the last turn.
I could now see the cottage, and Shenington was standing to one side of it by the front door, his face brightly lit by the outside light. I crept closer, across the grass, towards the gravel drive.
“Viscount Shenington,” he was saying loudly. “We met earlier at the races.”
“What do you want?” I could hear Claudia shouting back from inside.
“I’m returning Mr. Foxton’s coat,” Shenington said. “He must have left it in my box by mistake.” He was holding my coat out in front of him.
Don’t open the door, I willed Claudia. PLEASE-DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.
She did of course. I could hear her turning the lock.
Once Shenington was inside, I would have no chance. He could simply put a knife to Claudia’s neck, or a gun to her temple, and I would do exactly as he wanted. A lamb to the slaughter it would certainly be.
My only chance was to act decisively and to act now.
As the front door swung open I ran for him, crunching across the gravel. He turned slightly towards the noise, but I was on him before he had a chance to react.
At school, despite my moderate size, I’d been a regular member of the first XV rugby team and primarily for my tackling.
I caught Shenington just above the knees in a full-blown flying rugby tackle that literally lifted him off his feet.
The two of us crashed to the ground together, the whiplash causing his upper body and head to take most of the impact.
Shenington was in his mid- to late sixties and I was less than half his age, and I had the strength brought on by desperation and anger.
He really had no chance.
I jumped up quickly and sat on him, twisting my fingers in his hair and forcing his head down into a rain-filled puddle on the drive. How did he like it, I wondered, having his face held underwater?
Claudia stood, shocked and staring, in the doorway.
“Nick,” she wailed. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. You’ll drown him.”
“This is the man who has been trying to kill me,” I said, not releasing my grip.
“That doesn’t mean you can kill
I reluctantly let go of his hair and rolled him over onto his back. His lips were blue, and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. I didn’t care. One thing was for sure. There was absolutely no way I was going to put my mouth over his to breathe air into his lungs. Even the thought of it made me feel sick.
“He’s got a gun,” Claudia said suddenly, the fear clearly apparent again in her voice.
He’d been lying on it.
I leaned down and picked it up by the barrel.
I left Shenington where he lay and went inside to call the Cheltenham Police Station.
“Can I please speak to DCI Flight?” I said to the officer who answered. “I want to give myself up.”
“What have you done?” he said.
“Ask DCI Flight,” I replied. “He’s the one who wants me.”
“He’s not here at the moment,” the officer said. “Some bloody lunatic has stolen a horse up at the racetrack and every spare man is out looking for him.”
“Ah, I might just be able to help you there,” I said. “The horse in question is tied up outside my mother’s house in Woodmancote.”
“What!” he said.
“The horse is right outside where I’m standing now,” I repeated.
“How the hell did it get there?”
“I rode him,” I said. “I think I’m the bloody lunatic that everyone is looking for.”
21
Detective Chief Inspector Flight was far from amused. He personally had spent more than an hour trudging across the dark, muddy track, looking for the horse, while wearing his best leather shoes, and, if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also soaked to the skin. As he explained to me at length and rather loudly, his coat was meant to have been waterproof but, on that count, it seemed to have failed rather badly.
“I’m tempted to put you in a cell and throw away the key,” he said.
We were in one of the interview rooms at the Cheltenham Police Station.
“How is Viscount Shenington?” I asked, ignoring his remark.
“Still alive,” he said. “But only just. They’re working on him at the hospital. The ambulance paramedics got him
