He took onefinal glance behind him then squeezed himself through the gap into safety.
And just likethat, he’d escaped the clutches of the Windsor-Sackvilles. It actuallywasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be.
Having regainedhis energy, he ran across the field towards the village, which was now bathedin a washed-out orange from the nascent sunrise. The Mini appeared inview and he heaved a sigh of relief. This thing, this monster projectthat he’d daubed the Coldrick Case was almost over. All he neededto do now was get to the police station. Climbing into the safety of theMini, he locked the doors and pulled out his mobile. Fourteen missedcalls from Juliette in the last ten minutes. He started the car anddialled her back. The phone dialled endlessly, as he sped the car alongthe deserted street. He began to panic. What if the plan hadfailed? What if Dunk’s henchmen had realised that the large intimidatingriot van only contained Juliette and the accompanying police only contained herpartner, Dan?
Finally, thecall connected and he heard Juliette’s reassuring voice.
‘Did you findGuy? He was knocked out by Dunk,’ Morton blurted out.
‘Yeah, we foundhim. He’ll be okay, bit of a bump to the head. Listen, we stoppedmost of them but a couple managed to escape in a BMW.’
Morton glancedin his rear-view mirror and saw a pair of headlights in the distance. Headlights that were quickly gaining speed.
‘I think Ifound the BMW,’ Morton said, watching the car zoom closer. ‘Or at least,it’s found me.’
‘Where areyou?’
‘Er, justleaving Sedlescombe,’ was all Morton managed, before he dropped his phone fromthe force of a rear shunt. The Mini lost control and swerved dangerouslytowards the edge of the road. Morton knew the occupants of the BMW hadone aim: to force him down the steep embankment they were currently speedingpast. He yanked the steering wheel hard and managed to level the Mini asit bumped the hard curb.
When Mortonrealised that the BMW was trying to get alongside him for a final swipe, it wastoo late to stop it. The BMW was driving neck and neck with him.
He knew thiswas it.
He lookedacross at his assailants: Daniel Dunk and Philip Windsor-Sackville. Hewatched, as if detached from the scene, as Dunk wrenched his steering wheel andsmashed into the side of the Mini. They had achieved their objective.
His head was spinning faster than theworst of the worst drinking sessions put together. A wave of nausea cameand went. His hands felt like they were on fire. He swallowed downagainst another wave of nausea and tasted blood. A lot of blood. Itwas too dark to know where he was. He was on his side, pinned in.
That smell, heknew it. Clear, fetid, like ammonia. But what was it? Petrol. Something in his brain, something intense was able to pushthrough the soupy confusion and tell him that he needed to get out of thecar. But there was another, separate reason why he must escape. Something to do with the rucksack that he found his face buried in. Grabthe rucksack and get out; that was all he knew.
The door waswelded shut. The window? He ran his hand around the door, knowingthat there should be a handle or a button, something to make the glassmove. Then he realised that there was no window; it was just an openspace that led out into darkness. Trees. What was he doing in awood? He caught a flashback of the shooting box at Charingsby. Wasthat where he was? Something to do with Sir Winston Churchill. AndDaniel Dunk.
The pungentstench of petrol sent a fresh wave of sickness surging around hisstomach. He grabbed the rucksack and pulled himself towards the vacantspace beside him.
There wastalking nearby. Men. That was it; the reason why he needed to getout. The men mustn’t get their hands on the rucksack.
He tuggedfuriously at it but it wouldn’t budge. Besides which, he couldn’tactually move. Was it his injuries? Was he really so badlyhurt? He tentatively felt around his torso, tapping his fingers over hisjacket. No, he wasn’t so damaged to prevent escape. Then his turbidbrain realised: it was the seatbelt; that was what was pinning him in. Hefumbled for the release button and slumped forward as the belt pinged back overhis shoulder. He spat out a mouthful of blood and held his stomach toprevent him from being sick.
The men weretalking more loudly, moving towards him.
He pulled atthe rucksack but it was stuck fast. He couldn’t remember quite why but heknew that he couldn’t let them get their hands on it. Then he caughtsight of something glinting at his feet – it was the rucksack buckle.
Another flashof clarity and he realised that he’d been pulling on the flaccid airbag.
Morton lungedat the rucksack, wincing at the pain in his hands, and wriggled out of the openwindow, flopping heavily down onto something prickly.
Themerry-go-rounding inside his head and the surging waves of nausea were too much– he vomited beside the car.
His frangible,addled brain was able to decipher some of the men’s voices. ‘He has to bedead,’ one of them said. He recognised the voice, then recalled the lasttwo faces he had seen. It belonged to one of them but he couldn’tremember which.
‘About bloodytime, you kept him alive too long,’ the other said. ‘I told you to getrid of him days ago. You didn't have this much trouble with Peter.’
As Morton layon the prickly plant beside a pool of his own vomit, he knew, with certainlucidity, what he had to do. He dipped his painful right hand inside therucksack and rummaged until he found the box of matches.
The men hadfallen silent but for their heavy breathing. They had almost reached him;Morton was out of time. He struck a match and threw it towards the car’sunderbelly. For a moment the match laid on the ground, the flameflickering, as if deciding whether or not it was up to the task. A secondlater a growing lozenge of flame flowed like a river towards his car. Hisbrand new car.
Morton knewthat he had to move. He began to drag himself and the rucksack along thewoodland
