Murder in Mind (31 page)

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 him 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.

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 – 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 – 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 – even if it could be accomplished – 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 – to all intents and purposes – 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 moving.

'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.

The downfall of this plan would have been if Delafield had removed the keys, but the gods were with Matt on this occasion, and, with a low-voiced 'Yes!', he started the engine, flicked the lights on, and put the vehicle in reverse, familiar with the controls from his own, albeit older, Land Rover at home.

Flooring the accelerator, he backed, at speed, a little way up the track down which he had recently ridden, braked, and then drove forward, steering hard right to make the turn into the gravel track leading to the lane. Catching its nearside wheels in a pothole, the 4x4 tilted so violently that, for one heart-stopping moment, Matt thought it would roll, but somehow it recovered, settling comfortingly back onto four wheels, if somewhat skewed across the track. Matt stamped on the brakes, wrenching the wheel back the other way, and, as the Land Rover straightened out, he heard a thump from the passenger side. The inner light came on and, glancing across, he was in time to see the door swing open and Delafield start to pull himself inside, the knife held between his teeth.

Once again he steered hard right and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man jerked back, wildly off balance and forced to clutch at the doorframe, but, within the narrow confines of the track, Matt soon had to swerve back the other way. The rapid change of direction and the deeply pitted surface of the track combined to shake Delafield's grip loose and throw him bodily against the inside of the windscreen and then down onto the seat.

'Motherfucker!' he growled, and Matt's desperation at not having got rid of the man was tempered by the realisation that, to have articulated the words, Delafield must have dropped the knife.

A second attempt to throw him out by swerving was thwarted by the door having slammed shut. The Land Rover bumped and jolted down the track, becoming airborne more than once, and, after smacking his head on the front shelf a time or two, Delafield gave up trying to search for the weapon in the footwell and launched an attack with his fists, catching Matt with a stinging blow to the side of his head, which, in turn, resulted in him hitting the other side of his head on the window beside him. Seeing stars, Matt stamped savagely on the brakes and had the satisfaction of seeing Delafield impact heavily with the wind-screen for a second time.

It didn't improve his temper or his language.

Jamming the gear lever into first, Matt transferred his foot to the accelerator and the Land Rover leapt into the harness once more. Ahead, the lights picked out an apparently solid obstruction spanning the width of the track, and it took him a moment or two to realise that it was the hedge on the other side of the road. Within seconds they would be on the tarmac and he would have to make the choice of whether to go left or right – and what then? On the smooth, narrow lane, how long would it be before Delafield recovered the knife?

In the event, he found out even sooner than he'd feared, for, as the Land Rover bucketed over the last few yards of gravel, Delafield came upright again and this time he had the blade in his hand.

Matt made a snap decision. Applying the handbrake, he dragged the wheel round to the left, forcing the locked back wheels to describe a 180-degree arc around the front end. The vehicle crossed the lane travelling backwards with a deafening screech of tyres and hit the bank on the other side with a whip-cracking jolt.
The stunt had effectively pinned Delafield against the passenger door and Matt's intention, in the absence of any better ideas, had been to open the driver's door and take off on foot once more, but, before he could implement this part of the plan, the cab was filled with dazzling light and something hit the Land Rover, broadside on and very hard indeed.

When the chaos of noise and movement stopped, Matt found himself on Delafield's side of the vehicle, half-lying against the man, his eyes assaulted by a flashing blue light, and the hissing sound of escaping steam in his ears. Broken glass littered the seat and cascaded from his clothing as he cautiously sat up, whereupon he could see that Delafield's head was lolling out of the side window.

The driver's door was wrenched open and a uniformed policeman shone a torch in.

'You all right, sir?'

Matt nodded, hardly believing it. He felt a little light-headed and there were a few decidedly sore spots, but he'd had a lot worse.

'Yeah, I think so,' he said, beginning to edge towards the open door.

The policeman put a helping hand under Matt's elbow as he stepped down onto the road, wincing a little as his injured ankle took his weight, and a green-jacketed paramedic passed him en route to go to Delafield's aid. They made their way round to the other side of the Land Rover, where another paramedic was asking the unresponsive Delafield if he could hear him. Here, Matt discovered that the vehicle that had crashed into them was, in fact, a police car. Behind it, parked on the verge of the narrow lane, were a police Range Rover, a paramedic's car, and a dark-coloured saloon. Edging past them, blue lights still flashing, came an ambulance. It seemed that the cavalry had arrived, en masse.

'Well, Mr Shepherd, you've certainly been busy,' a familiar voice observed, and DI Bartholomew hove into view.

Matt would never have believed he could be pleased to see the detective, but the circumstances were indeed extreme.

'How did you know where to find us? Did someone call you?'

'You did,' Bartholomew stated dryly. 'You left your phone on and there seemed to be something major going on, so we took a fix on it, and here we are.'

'And just in time,' Matt remarked, wishing he could sit down.

'We aim to please. Wait a minute . . .' The DI put out a hand to move Matt's jacket front a little. 'Can we have a medic over here?' he asked, raising his voice.

'It probably looks worse than it is,' Matt told him. The knife wound had paled into insignificance in the frantic struggle for survival that had followed.

'Nevertheless . . . So, would you like to tell me what's been going on here?'

'Oh my God! Deacon!' Matt said, suddenly remembering.

Bartholomew nodded soberly.

'Yes, we found him.'

Matt didn't miss the significance of the tone. 'Is he . . . ?'

'I'm afraid he didn't make it.'

'I tried to call an ambulance . . .'

Bartholomew shook his head.

'From what the medic said, they wouldn't have been able to save him had they been here when it happened.'

'Poor bastard!' Matt said bitterly, and all at once the events of the evening seemed overwhelming and pointless. He looked up at Bartholomew, wanting to explain about Deacon's illness, about how Delafield had run him down by mistake, but somehow he couldn't focus on the big man's face. He frowned, blinking to try to clear his vision, and felt the road tilt under his feet.

Someone caught him as he fell and the last thing he heard before he passed out was Bartholomew shouting, 'Where's that bloody medic?'

It was a mellow late October day, and Matt was circling at the two-mile start on Henfield Racecourse, along with fifteen other jockeys. It was normal for the adrenalin to start pumping through his veins at this point, but today, deep inside, fizzed an extra excitement, for it was the day of the prestigious Henfield October Cup and he was riding Woodcutter. They had been circling for a minute or two already, because the seventeenth runner, Rollo's mount, had spread a plate, or lost a shoe, in layman's terms, and the farrier had been sent for.

Woodcutter was taking the delay well, as were the two runners from Rockfield: Inkster, ridden by Ray Landon; and Jamie's mount, Secundo.

Jamie caught Matt's eye as he passed.