Matt hauled on the orange twine until it felt as though it would cut through his fingers, but to no avail. Carried along with the others, the horse he had chosen swung right to follow the line of the fence before turning inexorably back up the hill again. Even the option of baling out was taken from him, as the five animals stayed closely bunched together, and to have landed amongst their pounding hooves would have been tantamount to suicide. Helpless to do anything but hold on grimly, Matt found himself carried back up to the top of the hill, but any hope that the horses would slow and stop by the feeder were dashed as they raced by, apparently still full of running, heading for the other side of the field.
For one awful moment, Matt thought he was going to have to endure a second circuit and quailed at the thought. The shire’s back might have been broad and well covered, but his withers were prominent and bony, and Matt feared they were doing untold damage to an extremely delicate area of his anatomy. Instead of swinging right-handed along the top hedge, however, the lead horse made for the very corner of the field, chivvied all the way by one of the others, mouth open and teeth bared.
As the five animals converged, funnelled into a rapidly decreasing space, Matt renewed his grip on the shire’s mane and prepared for a rough ride. There were slip rails in the corner, but Matt didn’t discover them until the first horse launched itself into the air and the second horse didn’t, smashing through the top pole and almost coming to its knees. Matt’s own mount made an ungainly leap over the remaining pole, throwing him forward onto its neck, and the next moment they were all streaming along the unploughed headland of the adjacent field, galloping hard. It occurred to Matt that there was now a certain purpose about their progress; they seemed to know where they were going. Regaining his seat, he saw, looming close, the dark bulk of the barns he’d seen earlier, and the next moment the five horses charged through the open yard gate and came to a slithering, bone-shaking halt in front of the stables.
Matt slid thankfully to the ground. Presumably, the horses were on occasion stabled in this yard, and had come here now, instinctively, in expectation of being fed. That being so, he had little hope of being able to persuade the somewhat stubborn shire to carry him any further, even if he had wanted to, but he had no intention of subjecting the horse to the danger of confronting Delafield and the Land Rover.
A shadow raced across the yard and, looking up, Matt saw a bank of cloud moving across the moon. In theory, he knew the darkness should benefit the hunted rather than the hunter but, even so, some age-old subconscious dread made him shiver and look around warily.
He wasn’t given long to suffer, and the danger â when it came, â came, not creeping stealthily, but with lights blazing, as the Land Rover appeared junketing down the short track from the lane, its headlights strafing vertically as it traversed the deep potholes.
Matt took one look and then ran for the nearest barn. It was a huge structure, boarded partway up each side and then open to the elements under the arched roof. Running in through the full-height opening that served as access, he found it three-quarters full of hay bales and began to climb, hoping against hope that Delafield had pulled in as part of his general search, and not because he’d witnessed Matt arriving with the horses.
The hay smelled warm and earthy, a familiar smell to Matt, and he climbed swiftly, feeling his way in the deeper darkness of the barn and expecting, any moment, to be picked out by Delafield’s torch. The Land Rover engine was silent now, and the only sounds from the yard were the horses’ hooves tramping restlessly in the gritty mud.
The first few layers of bales were stepped but, as Matt climbed higher, he came upon a sheer wall of hay that apparently spanned the width of the barn. Jamming his fingers and the toes of his shoes in between the bales, he was able to continue upward until, right at the top, he hit a very real problem. Just a few inches short of the metal cross-beams, the last layer of bales had no weight on top to hold them in place and, as Matt reached to haul himself up and over the edge, the bale under his hand tilted precariously and threatened to fall.
Hanging on with his other hand, Matt tried to push the loose bale back into its place, but it had tipped beyond the point of no return and, with a jolt of fear, he watched its inexorable slide towards him â fifty-odd pounds of dead weight destined to test his powers of adhesion to the limit. Pulling his body as close to the side of the stack as he could, Matt turned his head sideways and pressed his cheek to the bristly wall. Although it wasn’t a sheer drop to the barn floor, the thought of landing upon the stepped lower levels, after a fall of twenty-five feet or so, didn’t appeal overmuch.
Finally toppling, the heavy bale caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell, loosening the grip of one hand and swinging him away from the stack, before it dropped into the gloom, bouncing off the stepped bales below to land with a dull thud on the barn floor.
Matt grabbed wildly at another handhold to save himself and then clung tightly for a few seconds, before making use of the gap left by the dislodged bale to complete his climb. In the darkness under the corrugated roof, he laid spreadeagled, face down, while he waited for his rocketing pulse to steady and his breathing to slow. Somewhere in the darkness of the roof space, he heard the anxious fluttering of a number of birds, but his stillness apparently reassured them and they settled once more. Matt drew in a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly, but he would have been far happier if he could have been sure that the falling bale hadn’t alerted Delafield.
He waited in silence for what seemed an age, the barbed-wire gash on his leg smarting and his ears straining to hear any small sound that might denote the other man’s presence down below. Such was his level of tension that, when he did hear the hollow thunk of a footfall on a loose plank, it was almost a relief. Then, without warning, a strong beam of light played along and over the edge of the stack, partially illuminating the arched roof above Matt and, caught unawares, he shrank backwards, unsure if he’d been seen.
Whether or not he had, he was never to know, for his quick movement was the last straw for the roosting pigeons, and they erupted into noisy flight, their wings sounding like a salvo of pistol shots in the silence.
When the pandemonium had died down, Matt held his breath, praying that Delafield would ascribe their panic to reaction to his torchlight, but it seemed not.
‘Ah, so you are up there, Shepherd.’
Matt didn’t answer. He could be bluffing.
After a moment or two, there was a low chuckle and a slow handclap.
‘Absolutely right. Don’t give away your position. Well, I guess I’ll just have to come and get you.’
Matt’s heart rate leapt up a few notches. Was the man mad? Surely no one with half a brain would start to climb, knowing that the person who waited above could start throwing bales down at any time. Or perhaps Delafield didn’t believe that Matt had the stomach for such potentially lethal tactics. If that was the case, Matt thought grimly, he was going to find that he had been sadly mistaken. In his eyes, the ex-army man had forfeited any right to mercy when he’d run Deacon down and, although Matt was in no way a violent man, he had a healthy desire to look after his own interests.
As tense seconds multiplied and no further sound came from the floor of the barn, Matt realised that the drawback of his position was that, while Delafield had no clear idea of where he was hidden, the same was true in reverse, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. Was he still in the barn, or had he perhaps started to scale one of the outer walls of the stack?
Matt edged forward and hitched an eye warily over the rim.
Niall Delafield was over halfway up the hay wall, less than fifteen feet below Matt and climbing fast, his torch in his waistband.
Not giving himself time to waver, Matt got to his knees, took hold of the outermost bale by its string, and rolled it off the edge.
Delafield was lucky. The bale wasn’t directly above him and only brushed him in passing. It was enough to make hi
m hesitate, however, and whilst he clung there, looking up, Matt tipped another over.
This time it did the job. Landing squarely on the climber’s head and upper arms, the weight of it loosened his precarious hold and both he and the bale plummeted to the bottom of the stack, bouncing and rolling over the stepped section on the way.
Matt stifled a decidedly unphilanthropic urge to cheer. As far as he could see in the poor light, Delafield was lying face down and still. Matt watched intently for half a minute or so, but could detect no movement at all, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the open-sided building and the odd restive hoofbeat from the horses outside.
Still he waited. He didn’t trust Delafield. It had been a nasty-looking fall, but the floor of the barn was carpeted with the fallen chaff of many seasons, and the bales that had broken the man’s fall were essentially soft. How incapacitated he was would depend on whether he’d fallen awkwardly, and Matt just wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he’d have to take his eyes off Delafield as soon as he started the descent, and that would make him horribly vulnerable.
He thought hard, trying to second-guess Delafield. If he were faking injury, would he really have waited that long for Matt to come down? Considering what he’d done, Matt was astonished that the man had stayed in the vicinity this long. How long had it been since he had run Deacon down? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? His determination to silence Matt seemed out of proportion to the extra getaway time it would gain him. If Delafield had made no attempt at all to catch him, it would still have taken Matt a good ten minutes to reach the main road and flag down a car. This way he risked discovery at any moment. Surely he didn’t think he could fool the police with some elaborate cover story?
Coming to a decision, Matt moved back from the edge of the stack, turned round, and wriggled under the cross-beam into the next bay. With his back to the yard, he moved cautiously across the bales to where the corrugated roof curved down to within inches of the hay. Turning round, Matt sat back and pushed hard with his feet until he dislodged the outermost bale, sending it tumbling away into the darkness. Moments later he heard the soft thump of its landing and eased himself under the edge of the roof, sincerely hoping that fate didn’t have something similar in store for him.
Because the stack had been constructed properly, with interlocking layers, the top bales were the only unstable ones, and Matt was able to begin his climb from the gap he had made with no fear that the first bale would topple under his weight. The hay on this exposed edge was damp and musty smelling, and some of the seed had germinated, sprouting soft grass. Months of rain and wind had started to decay the bales and finding secure hand-and footholds was nowhere near as easy as it had been inside. The bitter wind buffeted Matt, cutting through his clothing as if it were lace, and he was truly thankful when his feet found the top of the boarding, a third of the way down. From there, clinging on for dear life, he let himself down to the full extent of his trembling arms and, praying that he didn’t land on some item of farm machinery hidden in the long grass at the base of the boards, he let go.
Dropping some six feet or so, Matt landed on his feet and fell sideways. His first discovery was that the long grass wasn’t, in fact, grass at all, but nettles, and his second was that his recently injured ankle wasn’t really up to such stunts.
Picking himself up, rubbing at his smarting hands, he set off in a limping run towards the end of the barn, his mind on the Land Rover parked on the other side. Climbing over a rusting metal gate that spanned the gap between two barns, Matt moved cautiously to the corner nearest the yard and peered round.
An unseen hand grasped the front of his jacket and jerked him forward so that his face connected painfully with the metal upright. In the next instant his feet were swept from under him and he went sprawling in the mud.
16
Many years of experience in the art of falling ensured that Matt didn’t stay down and helpless for very long. No sooner had he hit the ground than he was rolling, legs and arms drawn in, and coming to his feet once more.
In this instance the manoeuvre quite possibly saved his life, for, as he stood upright and backed away, the moonlight gleamed on a wicked-looking five-or six-inch blade in Delafield’s hand.
Matt’s chest constricted in fear. The muscular ex-army man would be a daunting opponent at any time but â armed with a knife? He stood slightly crouched, holding it almost casually, blade pointing to the sky, and, with his other hand, he beckoned. As Matt took another step backwards, he saw Delafield’s lips draw back in a thoroughly unpleasant smile.
‘I’ve hunted down guerrilla fighters in Bosnia and South America, you didn’t really think you were going to get away, did you?’ he asked, and, in that query, Matt found the answer to the question that had been nagging him. Pride had kept Niall Delafield from cutting and running. A veteran of the Special Forces, he couldn’t bear the thought of being bested by a mere civilian.
Matt cleared his throat.
‘Bartholomew’s on his way,’ he said, wishing with all his heart that it were true. ‘The police know what happened with Sophie Bradford.’
Delafield shook his head.
‘I have an alibi, remember?’
‘Not any more. I was talking to Joe earlier.’
That had shaken him, Matt observed with satisfaction, as he saw the other man straighten up and pause.
‘Joe doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘You underestimate him. He’s not stupid, and he’s very, very angry. Seems you broke one date too many.’
‘He wouldn’t talk to the police,’ Delafield asserted.
‘He already has,’ Matt lied.
Distracted by the conversation, Delafield’s next move caught Matt off guard and he had to jump back so hastily to try and avoid the slashing blade that he caught his heel and almost fell again, stumbling into the nearest of the horses, which, in turn, jostled the others. They shifted warily, their ironshod feet churning the dirt.
‘Not quite quick enough, eh? Mister hotshot jockey.’
Matt had felt nothing more than a tug at the front of his sweatshirt, but even as the meaning of Delafield’s words registered, so did a fiery streak of pain across his ribs. Without taking his eyes off the other man, he put an exploratory hand through the unzipped front of his jacket and encountered a gaping slash in the fabric. It felt wet to the touch and his fingers came away bloody. Clearly, the blade of Delafield’s knife was razor sharp, and Matt was in big trouble.
Suddenly, behind him, there was a commotion amongst the horses and one of them burst away from the group in a flurry of stomping hooves. Matt took little notice; he had more important things on his mind and it was doubtless just a little rank-pulling, but his interest sharpened as he saw the reaction of the man facing him.
Niall Delafield, ex-minder, ex-Special Forces, was unmistakably terrified of the horses. Seeing his wide-eyed apprehension, Matt recalled Deacon’s comment at the races one day: ‘If I wanted to lose him, I’d just go down to the stables. Niall won’t go near the horses â he’s allergic’
Was he was allergic to horses or just plain scared? A bogus allergy would be one way to save face, Matt thought, and, empowered by the discovery that his super-tough adversary had an Achilles heel, he searched for a way to use this weakness to save himself. Getting back on board the shire â even if it could be accomplished â might save his skin, but would only return the situation to stalemate. What Matt needed was the Land Rover and, to get to it, he had to get past Delafield.
The horses had settled again, but Matt knew it would take very little to set them off, and he intended to provide a lot. He glanced over Delafield’s shoulder to check the position of the Land Rover, and saw that it was â to all intents and purposes â blocking the exit from the yard. It was also pointing the wrong way for the ideal getaway vehicle, but that couldn’t be helped.
Delafield noticed his glance and smirked, happier now the horses had stopped mo
ving.
‘Fancy your chances, do you?’ he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the gate. He moved a step closer and Matt’s heart rate accelerated off the scale. He’d survived the first lunge, but he was pretty sure that it hadn’t been meant as a killing blow. Something told him that, when Delafield attacked again, it would be with the intent of finishing the business. Just how he would deliver the fatal cut Matt didn’t know, and wasn’t especially keen to find out; he did know that he hadn’t a hope in hell of stopping him.
‘It wasn’t me that killed that tart,’ Delafield said. ‘The boy did it.’
Aware that he’d used conversation as a distraction the last time he’d struck, Matt didn’t answer.
‘Fuckin’ idiot had been drinking. He knows he’s not allowed. If that woman had crooked her finger, he’d have gone with her like a shot. Had to live like a bloody monk, the way the old man kept tabs on him. Not surprising he flipped, if she led him on. Did she fall or did he push her? He doesn’t remember, but, whatever happened, she smacked her head on the stone wall. He was sitting beside her trying to wake her up when I got there,’ Delafield added with contempt.
‘So you dumped her body over the edge, took her credit cards, and planted them in Jamie’s car,’ Matt said, drawn in, in spite of himself. ‘And I suppose it was you who beat Jamie up and stole his car that night in Bournemouth.’
‘Well, I had to make sure the cops found the evidence, didn’t I?’
‘And the two thugs you sent after me?’ Matt asked, and, playing Delafield at his own game, leapt back and sideways, mid-sentence, to plunge into the midst of the horses.
‘Go-arn!’ he shouted, waving his arms in the faces of the nearest ones and slapping the rump of another.
The horses threw up their heads and split into two groups, stampeding away from Matt in momentary panic. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Delafield shrink back, gazing wildly around as the startled animals shot past him on either side. Finding the exit blocked, the horses bunched together and milled round before setting off with one accord to circumnavigate the yard once more. Once Matt could see which way they were going to run, he ran to meet them, spreading his arms and shouting to throw them into even more confusion, and, under cover of this, he made it to the driver’s side of the Land Rover, opened the door, and slid behind the wheel.
Murder in Mind Page 31