Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  Judge threw up an arm instinctively to protect his face, but the force of the impact knocked him from his feet and down on to the tarmac. Linc leaped out of the lorry and scooped the keys up from where they'd fallen, before climbing back into the cab. The BMW would still have been the better option but he couldn't be sure that Judge hadn't removed the keys from that, too, and he certainly didn't have time to search for them. The others were almost upon him, Beanie marginally ahead of Marty, and the foreman trailing some twenty yards behind. Out on the Blandford by-pass he could hear the whooping of a police siren, probably chasing a speeding motorist, Linc thought wryly. Where were they when you really needed them?

  With shaking fingers he fitted the most important-looking key into the ignition and turned it, and with a hiccup and a shudder, the massive engine roared into life. As he selected first, the gearbox protested loudly and the lever almost jumped out of his hand, but on the second attempt it accepted his direction, he let the clutch in and was moving.

  Not a moment too soon. With a flying leap, Marty launched himself at the cab and landed on the running board, trying to wrench the door open. Linc stamped on the accelerator, causing Judge to scramble hastily out of the way, and the cab lifted a little as the lorry leaped into the harness. From the initial sluggishness, Linc suspected that the machine was carrying a fairly full load.

  Beside him, undaunted, Marty had succeeded in opening the door and Linc responded by hauling the steering wheel round hard to the left. The lorry listed sharply under this unsympathetic handling, the unfastened door swung out to the limit of its range where it stopped with a jerk, and Marty was shaken loose and flung – cursing and swearing – into a patch of rough grass and nettles.

  Still accelerating, Linc dragged the wheel back the other way causing the lorry to lurch unhappily, and the cab door to slam shut again. His attempt to engage second was scarcely more fluent than the last, but he managed it and suddenly he was putting a comforting amount of space between himself and his pursuers. Unfortunately, he found as he returned his attention from the wing mirror to the rain-obscured screen in front of him, he wasn't putting very much space between the lorry and the first of the buildings, which now loomed large in front of him.

  'Shit!' Linc said through clenched teeth, as he pulled the protesting machine into an even tighter curve. There wasn't time to apply the windscreen wipers, even had he known for sure where to find the controls but, after what seemed an eternity, the wall of the unit slipped away to the left and he was clear.

  He'd missed it. With a sigh of relief, Linc spun the wheel the other way to get back on course, only to plough straight into a medium-sized concrete mixer.

  If he'd kept his foot on the accelerator, there was a good chance that the rig might have cleared the obstruction from its path and carried on. However, Linc's immediate instinct was to brake, and having done so, the vehicle only succeeded in pushing the heavy mixer a few yards before it ground to a halt and stalled.

  As the grinding, screeching cacophony ceased, Linc slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel in frustrated disappointment, before reaching for the key to restart the lorry.

  The machine was having none of it. It sat still, with the huge orange barrel of the cement mixer reflecting in the thousands of raindrops on the screen, and stayed stubbornly silent.

  Beside Linc, someone pulled the cab door open, making him jump. In desperation he snatched up a heavy-duty socket spanner that was lying amid the debris on the seat and prepared to do battle.

  FIFTEEN

  'WHOA, LINC! STEADY ON! He's one of mine!'

  Linc looked past the black-waterproof-coated man he'd been within an inch of clobbering to see the familiar and eminently welcome face of Detective Inspector Rockley. With a sigh that went way beyond relief, he lowered the spanner, closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat.

  'Sorry. I thought you were one of Judge's lot. I wasn't expecting you.'

  'I don't know why. You told us where to find you,' Rockley observed, breathing heavily.

  Linc opened his eyes. 'So that was you on the phone! I hoped it was but I wasn't sure.'

  Rockley nodded. 'That was quite an impressive bit of quick thinking. I took it you didn't want me to answer.'

  'I prayed you wouldn't!' Linc agreed. 'What's happened with Judge? Did you catch him?'

  'Oh, yes,' Rockley said, with great satisfaction. 'And his partners in crime except for Scott. But he won't get far, we've got a helicopter up there. Look, call me picky if you like, but I'm not a great fan of standing around in the rain, and it's just starting to run down my neck. Shall we go somewhere dry?'

  'Sorry,' Linc said again, noticing for the first time that both Rockley and the black-jacketed man were looking like drowned rats in the unremitting downpour. He slid out of the cab and followed them across the rough grass to the Portacabin where another officer had switched a light on and was attempting to ignite a Calor gas heater. The cabin, which was probably the foreman's office, was furnished with an untidy desk, two or three chairs, a filing cabinet, kettle and microwave, and the obligatory page three-style calendar.

  Linc dropped into a semi-comfortable chair, feeling emotionally and physically wrung-out. The rain pounding on the roof was, if anything, getting harder, or maybe it just sounded that way on the thin skin of the cabin. Either way, he thought, the open-topped Morgan, with his new laptop behind the seat, was going to be absolutely soaked.

  Rockley spoke in a low voice to the man in the black waterproof, who turned with resignation and made his way back out into the rain.

  Linc felt in his pocket for the life-saving mobile phone and flipped the top shut. Almost immediately it chirruped, probably to advise him of messages left, but he ignored it. He supposed he should really let someone at Farthingscourt know where he was but just at the moment he lacked the energy for explanations.

  He watched as Rockley took off his buff-coloured mackintosh and hung it on the back of the door. It was of the type beloved by TV detectives and Linc wondered whimsically if they were standard issue to the senior ranks. The DI's radio crackled into life and he answered it while the second policeman turned away from the glowing heater and busied himself with a kettle and some mugs.

  The door opened and a paramedic peered round it. 'All okay in here?'

  'Could do with some blankets,' Rockley replied, breaking off from his conversation. 'And maybe a dressing for our friend over there. Everyone else all right?'

  'Just cuts and bruises,' the paramedic said, nodding, and disappeared, presumably to fetch the blankets.

  Linc had frowned at the mention of a dressing and in doing so became aware of a tightness on his forehead. An exploratory hand found a cut on the hairline, though he had no idea how it had come about, unless it was the result of the collision with the cement mixer.

  'So.' Radio communication over, Rockley came across and pulled a stool up to sit facing Linc. 'Tell me what's been going on. The whole story, please. I got your message about Scott Phillips, who is of course known to us, but with everything else that's been going on, I didn't have a lot of time to follow it up. I thought it would keep. I wasn't aware of any connection with Alan Judge, and even if I had been, I wouldn't have expected you to plunge straight into battle with him. What the hell were you playing at? After all my warnings! You're a persistent bugger, I'll give you that!'

  'I didn't know about Judge until it was too late,' Linc protested wearily. 'I certainly wouldn't have come here if I had. I'm not a complete idiot! Sandy introduced us and, as far as I knew, Judge was just a businessman who fancied the idea of sponsoring my riding.'

  'Hmm. We'll come to Sandy in a minute. Well, then I got your message about Judge and rang your home number, only to be told that you weren't there and no one was quite sure where you were. You really should keep your staff better informed, you know.'

  'Yeah, well, it wasn't estate business.'

  'Anyway, I tried your mobile and the first thing I heard was you t
alking to Judge, saying – well, you know what you were saying. Suffice to say it made me sit up and listen. I was just hoping you wouldn't forget to tell us where you were. So what happened then?'

  Accepting a blanket from the returning paramedic, Linc gave Rockley a brief description of events while the cut on his head was patched up. 'I didn't know for sure that anyone was actually on their way,' he finished. 'Or I might have tried to stay hidden for a bit longer. As it was, I had some idea of using the lorry to bust out through the fence but my driving skills let me down a bit!'

  'When we arrived it looked like something out of a James Bond film,' Rockley said. 'You at the wheel of the juggernaut, fighting off all-comers and scattering bodies in all directions. Roger Moore's got nothing on you!'

  Linc smiled tiredly. 'Pierce Brosnan.'

  'What?'

  'Pierce Brosnan,' the other officer put in helpfully, handing them both mugs of tea. 'Roger Moore was years ago.'

  'You can tell how long it was since I went to the pictures,' Rockley said, unabashed. 'Anyway it was very impressive.'

  'Till I crashed.' Linc took a sip of his brew and wrinkled his nose as he found it loaded with sugar.

  'Yes, until then.'

  The paramedic finished up and left, followed by the tea-making policeman, and the DI looked at Linc critically.

  'How d'you feel now?'

  'Shattered but okay, I guess.'

  'You're a resilient bugger, too!' Rockley said with a smile.

  Linc's mobile began to vibrate once more and he fished it out. 'Hello.'

  'Where the hell have you been?' Crispin's voice demanded. 'That Inspector bloke was looking for you earlier, but nobody knew for sure where you were and we couldn't get through on your mobile.'

  'Yeah, sorry. Anyway, I've seen Rockley now.'

  'So where've you been?'

  'I . . . er . . . had a couple of meetings and they went on longer than I expected,' Linc said with selective veracity. 'Did you want me for anything in particular?'

  'No, not really. It's just . . . well, with everything that's been going on lately, we were worried about you, that's all.'

  'Ah, that's so sweet,' Linc teased, and was rewarded with a pithy description of his character.

  He disconnected and found Rockley regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

  'A couple of meetings? I suppose that's one way of putting it. But it makes me wonder what you're not telling me . . .'

  Linc shrugged and pursed his lips. 'Nothing important.'

  'But . . . ? Come on, Linc. I can see you've got something on your mind.'

  He looked down at his hands, frowning; not sure whether he wanted to talk about it. It seemed incomprehensible, looking back on it.

  'I almost gave myself up, back there in the unit,' he said finally. 'Marty was so close I was breathing his cigarette smoke, but I was well hidden, he couldn't have found me without climbing up. I knew what they'd do if they caught me – Judge made that perfectly clear – but suddenly I just wanted it all to be over, as if anything was better than waiting for it to happen. I can't explain it . . .'

  He looked up at Rockley, not knowing what to expect, but the policeman was nodding, apparently unsurprised. 'It's actually not that unusual. It's a known phenomenon – probably got some highfaluting name, if we did but know it. It happens even under war conditions when people know they'll be shot on sight. The tension becomes too much to bear and they just stand up in front of the guns. It seems daft but it happens. Try not to worry about it.' He paused, looking thoughtful. 'I hate to do this, but I need to ask you a favour . . .'

  'Just as long as it doesn't involve vigorous physical activity,' Linc stipulated. 'I haven't done that much running since I hung up my rugby boots, and that was longer ago than I care to admit.'

  'No running,' Rockley assured him. 'And no stunt driving either. No, I'm afraid this has to do with your friend Sandy Wilkes.'

  'Ah,' Linc said heavily.

  'I know he's your mate, Linc, but it's too much to suppose that being in the business he is and being associated with Alan Judge, he had nothing to do with the tack theft ring. That would be one hell of a coincidence, and in my line of work those kind of coincidences almost always turn out to be something else altogether.'

  'He saved my life . . .'

  'Yes, I know. And I wouldn't mind betting he got a rocketing from his boss because of it, if Judge ever found out.'

  'But . . .' Linc paused, remembering the day he'd gone to Sandy's premises, bottle of Scotch in hand, to thank the saddler. Judge had been there then and he'd been patently unhappy about something. He forced his mind back. 'If you'd used your head there wouldn't still be a problem,' Judge had said. '. . . you had a chance to put things right and you didn't . . .' Had he been talking about the night Sandy had found Linc unconscious in his car? Was he suggesting that Sandy could have finished what someone else had started?

  'He needn't have done it at all,' Linc persisted, but even to his own ears he sounded less sure. 'He could have just left me there in my car but he took me to the Vicarage . . .'

  'I'm not saying he's a murderer, or even that he had anything to do with the attack on Abby Hathaway, but I am saying that I'm pretty sure he's guilty by association, if nothing else. I'd stake my reputation on it.'

  'Who do you think did attack Abby? Have you any idea?'

  'An idea, yes; the proof may take a little longer. I think it lies in the concept that people, to a large extent, see what they expect to see. I think Abby was convinced it was you because she went down to the yard expecting it to be you, saw someone – perhaps from behind – who was enough like you not to raise any suspicions, and was struck down before she was fully aware that it wasn't you.' Rockley paused. 'And who do we know – not a million miles from here – about your height, dark-haired and wearing a leather jacket very much like one I've seen you wear?'

  'Marty Lucas!' Linc said on a note of discovery. 'Of course. So what now? Do you think he'll confess?'

  The detective shrugged. 'I'm afraid it's not very likely. It's not the first time we've had occasion to question Mr Lucas, and he's notoriously silent under interrogation. No, this is where we need a favour from you—'

  He broke off, looking up enquiringly as the officer in the black waterproof stuck his head round the door.

  'We've got the lad, Guv.'

  'Good. You'd better get them all back to the station, then. Any injuries to speak of?'

  'Nothing much. I'll be off then,' the policeman said, suiting his actions to the words.

  'What'll happen to Scott?' Linc asked. 'A slap on the wrist and a caution?'

  Rockley shook his head. 'Not this time. He's got an ASBO on him. Anti-social behaviour order. He must have breached that a dozen times this afternoon. It'll be a custodial sentence this time. He's run out of chances.'

  'Well, that's something at least. So, what is it you want me to do?' Linc said, reverting to their previous conversation, and afraid he already knew the answer.

  'Well, as I was saying, I don't anticipate getting much joy from Marty Lucas. Naturally we can charge him in connection with what's gone on here today, but unless Judge is forthcoming we don't have any evidence against him or anyone else for the attack on Abby, and that's what I'd really like to pin on them.'

  'But Judge more or less admitted responsibility to me, I told you.'

  'Yes, but I'm afraid "more or less" via a third party – however respectable – would be torn to shreds in court by a good lawyer,' Rockley told him. 'I want the case against them to be absolutely concrete. Sorry – bad choice of word, considering what you've been through!'