Deadfall (48 page)

The tactics were successful. As he went down, the pressure eased and Linc was able to slide sideways and free himself. Looking up towards the light, he could make out the blue jeans and white tee-shirt of the man above him, and as he kicked for the surface, he angled away from him towards the millpond. By the time his head broke clear of the water, the buzzing in his ears had increased to a roar and his chest and lungs were cramping with air starvation.

Coughing and choking, Linc could do nothing except tread water at first, while at the top of the wall, the burly man lined up his wooden rail for a fresh onslaught.

All at once it came to Linc where he'd seen the
man before. Weeks ago, when he'd visited the doctor after his encounter with Beanie and his gang, he'd seen this man outside the health and fitness club with Nikki. Given that, he thought grimly, there seemed little doubt that this was her personal trainer; the man she'd known in London and for whom she'd subsequently provided a reference. The name Terry flashed into his mind: Terry Fagan.

Damn her! Linc thought. Damn Nikki!

In order to get within range, Fagan was forced to move forward to stand on the edge of the footpath; on the
very
edge, Linc noticed, an idea rapidly forming in his mind. Still wheezing, he concentrated on the end of the timber as it lanced out and, as it came within reach, caught it in both hands, twisted to one side and tugged it sharply down towards the water.

It worked, at least partially. Overstretched as he was, Fagan was pulled off-balance, let go of the wood and teetered on the brink of the millpond, arms swinging wildly. When he finally won his fight to stay on the bank, Linc wasn't sure whether to be glad or sorry. He'd love to have dragged Fagan into the pond, but on the other hand, the idea of having the big man next to him in the water wasn't quite so appealing.

One problem dealt with, at least temporarily, Linc looked round desperately for Josie but couldn't immediately see her. With only one good arm, she surely couldn't have got far.

Still treading water, he turned, sweeping his gaze over the surface of the pond, and then he saw her. Not, as he'd hoped, making for the jetty and ladder
at the other end of the mill, but swimming slowly in the direction of the boathouse, and with each stroke being pulled ever nearer to the deafening white water of the weir.

With no further hesitation, Linc struck out strongly on a course that he hoped would intercept Josie's drifting one. Although he was a good swimmer, he soon found he'd underestimated the power of the current above the stone steps. Because the surface was glassy smooth, it was easy to forget that, aside from the narrow millrace, this was the only exit point for the substantial flow that was pouring in from the valley above. Glancing to his right as he swam, Linc could see where the water slid over the sill to cascade down the four curving steps into the frothy confusion below.

He didn't even want to imagine how it would feel to be carried over that.

By the time he was halfway across the width of the weir he knew it would be touch and go whether he made it to the other side, let alone with enough strength to help Josie. He could see her, off to his left, still bravely fighting her losing battle with the pull of the water, and wanted to shout some encouragement but he knew, even if he'd had the breath, it would be futile with the constant noise of the cascade in their ears.

Ducking his head into the flow, he ploughed on, coming up for air only every fourth stroke, and inch by painful inch he began to gain, finally pulling through the funnelling current at the side of the weir and catching hold of the corroded metal post that was part of the original sluice gear.

His body was swept sideways as soon as he
stopped swimming but his hold was good, and looking round for Josie he found that, for once, luck was with them both. Patently exhausted, she was barely going through the motions of swimming now as she was drawn backwards at an ever-increasing speed, but Linc could see that she would pass within a couple of feet of where he waited.

Retaining his hold on the sluice gearing with his right hand and timing his lunge carefully, he surged through the current, wrapped his left arm round Josie's waist, and hung on grimly as the pull of the water on their combined body-mass threatened to dislocate his right shoulder.

He had her again – but for how long? Seeming only semi-conscious, she was a dead-weight, her head lolling against his shoulder, and he knew it was vital to get her back to his anchorage pretty damned quickly, while he still could.

If
he still could . . .

As Linc struggled desperately to keep Josie away from the lip of the weir, a shadow fell across them, but he didn't even look up.

What did it matter if Fagan had returned? There was nothing Linc could do about it. His most immediate battle was with the water, and as the seconds ground torturously past it became clear that he was losing it. With his back to dry land, stretched between the metal post and the drag of the current on Josie's body, he was forced to come to terms with the shattering realisation that he simply wasn't strong enough to win through. Sometime soon his burning muscles would give out, and he and Josie would be swept helplessly away.

Linc alternately groaned and swore as the water
surged against and over them both, making breathing a hit-and-miss affair, and the whole of his upper body began shuddering under the strain.

‘Linc! Let go, man! Let go!'

A voice, shouting over the roar of the cascading water, finally penetrated his despair and he tipped back his head to see.

It was Crispin.

Standing just off the end of the bridge that spanned the weir, he had one hand clamped on the wooden upright while the other reached down to hold Josie's wrist.

‘Let go, Linc! I've got her. I won't let her go. Trust me.'

For a fraction of a second, Linc hesitated. Could he? Where did Crispin fit into all this?

Searching his brother's face for an answer, all he could see was anxiety and earnest entreaty. He had always considered Cris easy to read. Praying that he was right, Linc slowly uncurled the cold, cramped muscles of his left arm and let Josie go.

In the heart-stopping seconds before Crispin took up the strain, her weakly struggling body was swept to the brink of the weir. Then in one long smooth pull Crispin hauled her on to the bank and out of danger, her legs scrambling for a foothold and water running off her clothes in silvery rivulets.

Even relieved of his burden, Linc found he could do nothing to help himself. His right hand remained locked to the metal post whilst a spell of black dizziness came and went, then suddenly Crispin was close behind him and a hand closed on Linc's right wrist.

‘Linc! Grab my hand!' he shouted urgently.

He lifted his left arm obediently, Crispin grasped it, and all at once he was slithering up and over the retaining wall to lie on the gravel path, shivering in the sunshine and being enthusiastically washed by an ecstatic Tiger.

‘Are you all right?' Crispin was bending over him.

Linc nodded, gulping in air. ‘I will be . . . Just give me a minute.'

‘What the hell's going on?' As he spoke, Crispin was peeling his ruffled white shirt off over his head.

‘It's a long story.' With an effort, Linc sat up, pushing the dog away. ‘That's enough. Good lad.'

‘He
is
a good lad. He was standing here barking like a maniac. He showed me exactly where you were.' Crispin moved across to where Josie sat leaning back against the bridge support, cradling her left arm with her right. Her long dark hair straggled over her shoulders and her face was pale with pain and exhaustion.

‘Has he gone?' she asked, looking anxiously from one to the other. ‘He won't come back, will he?'

Abruptly, Linc remembered that the cause of their present troubles was still at large.

‘Where's Fagan?' he asked Crispin sharply. ‘Did you see him?'

‘Who?' Crispin was clearly nonplussed. Using the cotton shirt, he began to fashion a crude sling to support Josie's damaged arm, tying the sleeves carefully behind her neck.

‘Fagan. Big bloke, white tee-shirt, blue headscarf . . .' Linc prompted. ‘Did you see anyone at all when you got here?'

Crispin shook his head. ‘No. I yelled into the mill for you, then heard Tiger barking and came on
round. Didn't see a soul. Is that better?' he inquired of Josie.

She nodded, her teeth chattering. ‘Yes, thanks, much better. It's painful . . . but I can still move my fingers . . . so I don't think it's broken.'

Linc got shakily to his feet and looked away down the path to the boathouse. The area appeared deserted.

‘He's either still here somewhere or he's trying to make a run for it up the valley. He'll have his work cut out if he is. It's boggy at the best of times, and after all that rain . . .'

‘Who will?' Crispin still hadn't quite caught up.

‘Fagan!' Linc snapped, anxiety and fatigue taking their toll on his temper. ‘The bastard who did all this! If you didn't pass him, he must have gone up the valley.'

‘I didn't see anyone,' Crispin repeated. ‘Who is this Fagan?'

‘Terry Fagan. Nikki's fitness trainer,' Linc told him, dreading the inevitable questions that must follow. How was he supposed to tell his brother that he was pretty sure his wife had conspired with the man to kill both Josie and himself?

‘Nikki's trainer? I've never met him. How do
you
know him?'

‘I don't, I just saw them together once.'

‘But why on earth would he be here? I don't understand . . .'

‘No. I'm not sure I do completely,' Linc admitted. ‘But it looks as though he's gone anyway. Come on. We'd better get Josie to a doctor. We can talk about this later.'

Crispin understandably looked as though he
wanted at least
some
answers straightaway but he acknowledged Josie's need, and helped Linc draw her to her feet.

‘Oh God, my legs feel like jelly!' she groaned, and Crispin invited her to put an arm round his shoulders.

‘I think I'm a better bet than Linc, just at the moment,' he suggested.

With Linc and Tiger following behind, they made their way slowly back over the wooden footbridge towards the mill, Linc's clothes stiffening as they began to dry in the warm breeze.

‘But
I
don't understand either,' Josie said after a moment. ‘Where's Pierre? And why on earth did that man attack me? I've never seen him before in my life. Is he mad?'

‘Pierre couldn't make it,' Linc told her. ‘He did send a message but it never reached you. You left your phone at home.'

They had turned along the path at the end of the mill, where the waterwheel was still rhythmically turning. God only knew what damage it was doing to the stones with no grain to mill, Linc thought, gloomily. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Saul talking about such friction causing fires.

‘What's that ringing noise?' Crispin asked. From inside the building they could hear the constant, if muffled, ting-ting-ting of a bell.

‘It's the alarm – to say that there's no grain in the hopper and the stones are running dry. We ought to stop that wheel,' Linc commented, cravenly glad to be able to avoid the question of Fagan's involvement for a few minutes more.

Crispin looked over his shoulder. ‘I would offer but I don't know how.'

‘It's all right, I'll do it,' Linc said as they crossed the second bridge. ‘It won't take a moment.'

He'd reached the open door and was just about to go in when Tiger shot past them all, raced along to the far corner of the building and disappeared round it, barking furiously.

Linc and Crispin exchanged glances and Linc hurried forward to peer round the end of the mill, keeping well out from the stonework in case Fagan should be waiting to pounce.

There was no one in sight, just a gravel path and beyond it the pond with its striven-for jetty. He was, however, just in time to see the door near the back of the building slam shut in Tiger's indignant face. It seemed that Fagan had managed to cross the millstream further up the valley and had come back round the lane side of the millpond, perhaps hoping to make it to his car and away before anyone saw him. It might have worked, too, if he'd been just a bit quicker.

‘I think he's in the mill,' Linc told the others as they caught up. ‘The side door was unlocked.'

‘Yes, I opened it while I was waiting,' Josie admitted.

‘The question is, what do we do now? I don't much fancy going in after him.'

‘Well, Josie can't drive, obviously, but can't one of us go for help while the other one stays here to keep an eye on this Fagan character?'

Linc shook his head. ‘You haven't seen this guy! He's big. He'd just walk straight through either one of us. Damn! It's so frustrating that Manston's just
up the road and we can't get word to him. Your mobile won't be any good down here but my radio would've been, if it wasn't absolutely saturated.'

‘It's no good locking him in, he'd just climb out the window,' Crispin stated.

‘Well, can't we disable his car?' Josie suggested. ‘Take off the distributor cap or whatever modern cars have.'

‘She's not just a pretty face, is she?' Crispin declared. ‘It would certainly slow him down.'

‘Okay. I guess it's the best we can do. But I still need to do something about that wheel. I'll be damned if I'm going to stand by and see the place burn down after all the work we've done on it!'

‘Linc, can't you leave it? Please?' Josie looked uneasy.

‘I'll be all right. The sluice control is just inside. I'll be in and out before he knows I'm there. Besides, I don't think he'll try anything now. He'll just want to get away.' Linc gave her a bright, reassuring smile and moved off before she could say anything more.