Oh yes, she thought, I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to overtake, jam on your brakes and force me to stop.
Faster. Go faster. Panic was shouting to her again, screaming at her to run. The Audi could beat off the 4x4 with no trouble. Race away, top speed, before it’s too late, but self-preservation stopped her. She wasn’t ready to die yet.
There was a turn-off not far ahead, she remembered. A narrow road; little more than a lane. She might be safer there, less room for her pursuer to manoeuvre, more chance for her to persuade an oncoming car to stop. Or maybe not. Maybe a narrow lane would be a trap. Should she take it? She couldn’t decide. Her brain felt hot and choked.
The lights behind moved and the engine revved. It was coming out, it was overtaking. Her decision was made.
It was level with her now and she forced herself to look. Observe. Log the evidence. She was a lawyer and lawyers were supposed to be good at that. But there was nothing to see. Desperately, she stared into the night but there was just the rain on the tinted windows and darkness beyond. Impenetrable.
It stayed put. Not passing by, just staying level, getting closer and closer to her. Dear God, she thought, it’s going to run me off the road!
Where was the turning? She should have reached it by now. Please let it be there, she prayed. And then she was on it, almost missing it. She wrenched the wheel violently to the left, so sharply that for a moment she didn’t think she would make it. She felt the back of the car skid on the wet tarmac, collide with the side of the four-wheel drive before peeling off alone into the lane. She changed down into second, brought the car under control, and slammed her foot to the floor.
Nothing in the rear-view mirror. Her pursuer was gone. A wave of euphoria buzzed through her, ridiculous, of course, because it couldn’t be long before it was back. But for the moment that didn’t matter. She had shaken it off, if only briefly, and that was just great. Tears of relief filled her eyes. Hell, she thought, now I can’t even see where I’m going. She wiped away the tears and felt the side of her face sticky with blood.
No sign of it. She couldn’t believe it. Kept looking in the mirror but it stayed clear. She thought that time was playing tricks – that what seemed to her, in her terror, like an eternity, when the 4x4 could have turned round and caught up with her three times over, was in reality just a few seconds and it might only now be turning into the lane after her. She stared at the clock on the dashboard and when another whole minute had gone by, she really started to hope. Another turning in the road. She took it. Took every turning she came to, kept driving fast, with no idea or care about where she was going, but each one making her feel a little bit safer, twisting and turning away from danger.
She felt like she was driving round in circles, her heart stopped by every passing car, her eyes strained for lights in the woods as she imagined it chasing her across country, her brain punch-drunk, unable to focus on finding the route home. It was almost ten minutes later that she made it out of the lanes onto a main road she recognized, and joined a welcome convoy of traffic.
Reaction set in seriously then. Her arms were shaking, her teeth were chattering and it was with tremendous relief that she saw the service station. She pulled in, parked by the café and tottered inside.
The man behind the counter looked worried and when she caught sight of her bleeding, tear-streaked face in the mirror, she could understand why. He wanted to call an ambulance but she told him she hadn’t been physically assaulted and she wasn’t drunk or drugged and he settled for her phoning her husband and handed over what she needed most – a strong black coffee.
She sat huddled over it, trying to remember. But there was nothing, nothing she could recall but the dark and the fear and the noise. No make, no model, no part of a licence plate that could be dredged from her subconscious. No clue as to who the driver had been. Not a single fact to tell the police. And she knew the police – without facts and details and evidence, she was wasting her time.
The door opened and she looked up. Joe. How fast he’d arrived, a white knight charging to her rescue in record time. Her battered heart gave a thump of joy. Tall and solid and hugely comforting. Things would be all right now, she thought.
It was 4 a.m. and Harry Pelham lay awake thinking about the poisonous, scheming bitch who was doing her best to hang him out to dry. He smiled bitterly to himself. No, he wasn’t thinking about his wife, though she also fitted the description; he was thinking about her lawyer, Laura Maxwell.
She had been responsible for the nineteen-page divorce submission designed to crucify him. It damned him as a bully, a wife beater, and a bad father. He could remember every word of those nineteen pages. They sent him into a frenzy of rage and resentment. It was a vile, disgusting diatribe, full of lies and exaggerations. It had lodged in his brain like splinters of glass.
His wife had no doubt provided the raw material but she’d been egged on by the toxic Maxwell woman; she wouldn’t have done it by herself. The weaving together of that deadly, distorted whole, calculated to tick every box against him, had been the lawyer’s work. He was sure of it and he hated Laura Maxwell for it.
His own solicitor, Ronnie Seymour, usually so shrewd, had been like a lamb to the slaughter. He played through in his head the previous day’s conversation with Ronnie.
‘Slight problem, Harry,’ Ronnie had said on the phone, ‘nothing to worry about, though. Come over and we’ll talk it through.’
How many times in the last few months had he heard those words ‘nothing to worry about’ from Ronnie Seymour. Inevitably, they meant the opposite.
Ronnie had been his good friend and trusted adviser for more than twenty years. He had sorted out, with no trouble at all, the frequent problems that Harry had run into with his property development empire. When Harry had gone too far, had bent the rules, had tried rather too aggressively to ‘persuade’ people who stood in his way, Ronnie had been there to smooth out the consequences. Like a few months ago, when old Charlie Rhodes refused to sell part of his back garden, a crucial piece of land that Harry needed for one of his developments.
Late one evening, Harry knocked on the old man’s door with a higher offer. Charlie yelled at him to piss off, called him a piece of shit and Harry lost his temper, pinning the pensioner against the wall by his throat and telling him how much better for him it would be to take the offer. It turned out that Charlie’s son was a police officer, and shortly afterwards, the police arrived at Harry’s office to question him about the ‘bullying and harassment’ of Charlie Rhodes. It was only because of Ronnie’s efforts that Harry avoided being charged.
Ronnie was a fixer and the business had flourished. Harry was rich. That was why he’d been so keen that the man should also sort out his marriage break-up. Ronnie knew his secrets and Harry didn’t want a stranger nosing around in his financial affairs. But although Ronnie might be clever, and spot on when it came to property law or criminal law, he was no expert on divorce or family law. That was another thing, another thing entirely, and Harry thought Ronnie wasn’t up to it. Correction. Harry knew that Ronnie wasn’t up to it.
‘They’ve frozen your business bank accounts,’ Ronnie told him as soon as he arrived. ‘It’s a nuisance but there’ll be no problem getting them unfrozen.’
Harry glowered at the tall, blond-haired lawyer and gritted his teeth: ‘You said there’d be no problem over money. You said the undertakings we gave the court were enough, you said—’
Ronnie held up his hands to stop the protest, his usual smooth manner just a tiny bit ruffled.
‘Different judge, I’m afraid. Frankly, I’m surprised at this. It’s quite unnecessary.’
‘How long before I get them back?’ Harry growled.
‘Depends how quickly we can get it listed for a hearing. Then, when we get it overturned,