Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

He knew where he was going. Earlier that afternoon, during daylight hours, he had combed the area around the reservoir at Rivington. It was not as though he knew for definite that he would have to kill Turner, but the omens were not good, and he liked to be prepared. He had been informed of the plans for the evening and knew he might need somewhere suitable to dispose of a body. He found what he thought would be the ideal location.

He knew that the meeting would be taking place between Turner and the Spaniard at a restaurant just off the M61 near to Horwich. So he had spent his time driving around the area, checking out locations. He thought the thickly wooded environs of Rivington were a fairly good place. There were lots of tracks running off the road into the forest, which was dark, quiet and, he assumed, would be somewhere he would be unlikely to be interrupted late in the evening. He even picked the forest track and the place he would dig. If it came to it.

It did — and that was where he was headed.

Jo and O’Brien hit the motorway junction fast. O’Brien tore around the roundabout, tyres screeching as he held on tight to the steering wheel, looping round and back in the direction of the 4x4. By the time he reached the next roundabout — right towards Bolton, left towards Horwich — there was no sign of it.

‘Bugger!’ he said. ‘Which way?’ He turned to Jo for some inspiration.

She shrugged helplessly. ‘Eeni-meeni-minie-mo,’ she began, index finger flicking from left to right as she applied the scientific approach to solving the problem. ‘That way,’ she declared, pointing left.

‘Back to where we came from?’

‘Well, go that fucking way, then,’ she growled.

‘No, no, no,’ O’Brien said. There was a queue of cars behind them, all becoming annoyed. ‘We’ll go your way,’ he said, resigned, ‘but I’ll bet it’s the wrong way.’

‘If you keep this up it won’t matter which way he’s gone, will it?’

Shaking his head, O’Brien pointed the car back towards Horwich. He just knew they were travelling in the wrong direction.

It was not particularly late, but Bill Gordon, who had been drinking heavily, was now rat-arsed. As he staggered out of the pub door and lurched to his car on the pub car park, the cool night air hit him slap-bang in the face and almost floored him. Nevertheless he regained his composure, pulled himself upright as only a drunk can, and slewed to his car.

If anyone had asked him, Bill Gordon would have said that he was pretty much okay. Yesh, okay. Maybe he’d been drinking steadily since noon, but that was the key — steady. And that is how after more than ten pints of bitter and several wee chasers, and four packets of crisps to soak it all up, he knew he was more than capable of driving safely home.

The door key slid in, no problem. So did the ignition key. He even fitted his seat belt. And home was less than a mile away. If he had been over the limit, he would have walked. He belched loudly and edged the car lumpily towards the car-park exit.

O’Brien sped along the A673 to Horwich. It was a narrow road through a built-up area, but he took no notice of the speed limits because he knew he would soon be doing an about-turn to Bolton. As he reached a set of traffic lights, they changed to red and he slowed reluctantly.

He cursed.

‘I think that’s him,’ cried Jo.

Beyond the junction, several cars were heading towards the centre of Horwich.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I can’t, but it looks like it.’ She pointed excitedly.

The lights changed to green.

Bill Gordon — drunk, middle aged, no convictions, in full employment all his adult life, a man who had successfully negotiated his way home in his car whilst drunk literally hundreds of times — waited patiently at the car-park exit for traffic to clear. His judgement was sound as a pound.

He hummed a happy tune as he revved the engine of his Vauxhall Vectra, whilst holding the car stationary on the clutch.

At court later, he strenuously denied he was to blame for the accident.

The fact he was holding the steering wheel, was sitting in the driver’s seat, in control of the car, did not in any way make him feel inclined to plead guilty to the charges laid before him.

This stance did not prevent him being convicted. He lost his licence for five years, was fined over a thousand pounds and was sent to prison for three months.

No, he felt he was not to blame for his foot slipping off the clutch and the car hurtling into the stream of traffic passing from left to right in front of him.

He did not hit Verner’s four-wheel-drive monster, but slammed into the car behind it, smashing into the passenger side and forcing the vehicle into the path of a Transit van coming the opposite way.

Verner saw the accident in his rear-view mirror. Obviously he did not stop as a witness, kept going.

At first it was all confusion, chaos and cars in front. O’Brien came to a sudden halt and stopped only inches away from the car in front.

‘Been a bump ahead,’ Jo said, craning her neck.

‘Shit.’ O’Brien punched the wheel.

Jo jumped out and sprinted towards the scene of the accident. It looked a bad one. Three vehicles, two head-on by the looks. No one in any of them appeared to be moving. She was torn momentarily between her duty to save life and to find out what Andy Turner was up to.

‘Job for the traffic department,’ she decided and jogged past the carnage.

About 200 metres down the road, she saw the 4x4 in the outside lane of the road, signalling to turn right towards Rivington. Then it turned.

She doubled back, passing the scene of the accident again, feeling bad about it, but not bad enough to stop and offer assistance.

‘He’s gone towards Rivington,’ she gasped to O’Brien. ‘Do you know a way round?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘In that case go on the pavement.’

He eyed her in amazement. She shrugged. ‘It’s your decision, but we’ll lose him if we don’t do something.’

‘OK,’ he said meekly. He reversed away from the car in front, stopping just a hair’s thickness short of the one behind, yanked the wheel down and mounted the kerb.

‘Not good,’ he decided as they bounced along.

Jo hung on to the hand rail above the door. ‘You’re the guy at the wheel. No one’s held a gun to your head. If you kill a pedestrian, it’ll be down to you, not me.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ he responded, misery in his voice. ‘Shit.’ Ahead, a group of people had already gathered to gawk at the accident. O’Brien flashed his lights and pipped his horn. A look of startled disbelief filled the faces of several people. They stepped or jumped out of the way and O’Brien drove through the gap. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the route ahead, not daring to look at anyone. He emerged on the far side without having added to the mayhem too much.

‘I don’t believe what I just did,’ he said.

‘You better had — now put your foot down.’

‘He’s done a disappearing trick,’ O’Brien said with disappointment. He sniffed. ‘Eeh, smell that engine.’

They were almost back in Chorley town centre after hurtling through the country roads around Rivington, then combing and re-combing them without success. He had floored the accelerator and spent most of the chase in first or second gear, screwing the car to its limits to catch the 4x4, which seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. Hence the reek of the engine.

‘He must’ve gone like shit off a shovel,’ O’Brien moaned and the bitter engine fumes wafted into the cab. ‘We shoulda caught him. I drove like a maniac.’

White-faced, dithery and clinging to the door handle, Jo had to agree. She swallowed, feeling slightly poorly. O’Brien had flung the car around the roads like a rally driver, but unlike her, seemed to be in total control of the machine. Even so, she had hoped they did not meet up with another — or the same — suicidal deer.