Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

Maybe, with his warped mind, he would value that even more than getting his stamps back.

Where was Detective Sergeant Branson and his team? They must be close. He had assured her they would be. They were well concealed all right, she thought. She couldn’t see a soul.

Which meant, hopefully, that Ricky couldn’t either.

But they were listening. They would have heard him. Heard his threat. They wouldn’t rush the copse and try to grab him, would they? They couldn’t risk him letting his van go over the edge.

Not for a few fucking stamps, surely?

His voice came back on the line. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Can I take her now, please, Ricky. I have the stamps.’

‘This is what you do, Abby. Listen carefully, I’m only saying it once. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘You leave your engine running and you leave your phone on like this, in the car, so I can hear the motor. You get out of the car and you leave the door wide open. You bring the stamps and you walk twenty steps towards me and then you stop. I’m going to walk towards you. I’m going to take the stamps and then I’m going to get into your car. You are going to get into the van. Your mother is in the van and she’s fine. Now this is where you have to be very careful. Are you taking this in?’

‘Yes.’

‘By the time you get to the van I will have looked at the stamps. If I don’t like what I see, I’m driving straight over to the van and I’m going to give it one hard nudge over the edge. Are we clear?’

‘Yes. You will like what you see.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we won’t have a problem.’

Without wanting to move her head too much, in case he was watching her through binoculars, Abby glanced as much as she could around her. But all she saw was bare, windblown grassland, a small, curved brick structure, an observation point of some kind, containing some empty benches, and a few solitary bushes, none big enough to conceal a human. Where were Detective Sergeant Branson’s people?

After a couple of minutes, she heard Ricky again. ‘Get out of the car now and do what I told you.’

She pushed open the door, but it was a struggle against the wind. ‘The door’s not going to stay open!’ she shouted back at the speaker, panicking.

‘Wedge it with something.’

‘With what?’

‘Jesus, you stupid woman, there must be something in the car. A handbook. A rental docket. I want to see you leave that door open. I’m watching you.’

She pulled the envelope of rental documents out of the door pocket, pushed the door open and waved them in the air, so that he could see. Then she climbed out. The wind was so strong, a gust almost blew her over. It tore the door from her hand, slamming it. She yanked it open again, folded the envelope in two, making a thicker wedge, grabbed the Jiffy bag, then closed the door as far as it would go against the wedge.

Then, with the wind tearing painfully at the roots of her hair, hurting her ears, ripping at her clothes, she walked twenty very unsteady paces towards the copse, eyes darting in every direction, her mouth dry, scared stiff but burning with anger. She could still see no one. Except Ricky now striding towards her.

He held his hand out to take the bag with a grim smile of satisfaction. ‘About fucking time,’ he said, snatching it greedily from her.

As he did so, with all her strength and all the pent-up venom she felt for him, she swung her right foot up as hard as she could between his legs. So hard it hurt her like hell.

Air shot out of Ricky’s mouth. His eyes bulged in pain and shock as he doubled up. Then Abby slapped him across the face with so much force he fell over sideways. She launched another kick at his groin, but he grabbed her foot and twisted it sharply, agonizingly, bringing her crashing on to the wet grass.

‘You fucking-’

Then he stopped as he heard the roar of an engine.

They both heard it.

In semi-disbelief, Ricky stared at the ice-cream van bumping up the track towards them. And a short distance behind it, six police officers in stab vests raced towards them from around the side of the hotel building.

Ricky scrambled to his feet. ‘You bitch! We made a deal!’ he screeched.

‘Like the one you made with Dave?’ she screamed back.

Clutching the stamps, he stumbled towards the Honda. Abby ran as fast as she could, ignoring the pain in her foot, towards the copse. Behind her she heard the roar of an engine. She glanced over her shoulder. It was the ice-cream van and she could see two men in it now. Then ahead, through the trunks and branches and leaves, she could see parts of a white van.

Blinded by pain and fury, Ricky threw himself into the Honda, jammed it in gear and took the handbrake off even before he had closed the door. Teach that fucking bitch a lesson.

He accelerated hard, picking up speed, steering straight at the copse. He didn’t care if he went over the edge, too, at this moment. Just so long as the bitch’s mother went. Just so long as Abby spent the rest of her fucking life regretting this.

Then a blur of colour flashed in front of him.

Ricky stamped on the brakes, locking the wheels, cursing. He jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, desperately trying to avoid the ice-cream vehicle, which had pulled up broadside across the copse, blocking his chance of ramming the van inside. The Honda slewed round in a wide arc, its tail striking the rear bumper of the ice-cream van, tearing it off.

Then to his shock he saw two small cars that he’d also assumed belonged to staff at the hotel racing across the grass towards him, blue lights strobing behind their windscreens and radiator grilles, sirens wailing.

He floored the accelerator again, disoriented for a moment, turning, turning. One of them pulled across his path. He swerved around the back of it, dropped down a steep embankment, lurched through a ditch and up the far side, on to the firm tarmac of the road.

Then, to his dismay, he saw he saw blue lights racing down towards him from the right.

‘Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit.’

Totally gripped with panic, he swung the wheel left and tramped the accelerator.

The only door on the old rusty van which was not obstructed by branches and shrubbery was the driver’s side. Abby pulled it open anxiously, carefully, heeding the warning about how close the van was to the edge.

Her nose wrinkling at the rank smell inside of faeces and tobacco and unwashed people, she called out, ‘Mum? Mum?’

There was no answer. With a stab of panic, she put her foot on the step and hauled herself up on to the front seat. For a terrible moment, staring into the gloomy rear, she thought her mother was not there. All she could see was some electrical equipment, bedding and a spare wheel. It felt as cold as a fridge. The van rocked in the wind and there was a drumming resonance inside.

Then, over it, she heard a faint, timid, ‘Abby? Is that you?’

They were, without doubt, the sweetest words she had ever heard in her life. ‘Mum!’ she cried out. ‘Where are you?’

There was a faint, ‘Here.’ Her mother sounded surprised, as if to say, Where else should I be?

Then Abby craned her neck over the rear of the seat and saw her mother, rolled up in the carpet, just her head poking out, lying on the floor right behind her.

She climbed over, the van resonating as her feet struck the bare metal floor, knelt and kissed her mother’s moist cheek.

‘Are you OK? Are you OK, Mum? I’ve got your medication. I’m going to get you to hospital.’

She felt her mother’s forehead. It was hot and clammy.