Murder in Mind (30 page)

Spotting a gap low down in the hedge to his right, Matt stopped, threw himself to his stomach, and began to wriggle under the bottom strand of wire. A knobbly root made the manoeuvre extremely uncomfortable, but that was forgotten when, halfway under, Matt felt his jacket snag securely on one of the barbs. His attempt to tear his way free was unsuccessful – the thick leather withstood all the force he could bring to bear from his restricted position and all he succeeded in doing was to gouge a painful furrow in the skin of his back. Neither did it seem possible to shrug the garment off, his arms necessarily being in front, in order to help pull him through the narrow gap.

Directing a stream of invective at whomever it was who had invented barbed wire, Matt fought back panic and tried to think rationally, an attempt that was routed when he heard the roar of the Land Rover, plainly back on the road and bearing down on the spot where he lay.

Shit!
Would Delafield see him? What portion of his legs still protruded from the untidy line of blackthorn? Should he throw everything at the struggle to get under the wire or should he lie still and hope that he wouldn't be seen in the shadow of the hedge? In spite of the risk, Matt chose the latter, aware that nothing draws the eye like movement. Even so, it was as much as he could do to lie perfectly motionless as Delafield drove closer, and he found himself imagining the agony of having the 4x4 run up on the verge and over his outstretched legs. He'd had brutal evidence that the deed was well within the ex-army man's capability and it would be a sure-fire way of ensuring that Matt ran no further.

By the time the Land Rover thundered past, Matt was shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle. He let out the lungful of breath he'd been holding, but there was no time to celebrate his narrow escape for, seeing the empty road ahead, Delafield would soon realise that he had overshot the mark and almost certainly return, no doubt driving more slowly and searching the banks and hedges for any sign of Matt.

Reaching awkwardly behind with one hand, he managed to locate the part of his jacket that had caught on the wire and, by dint of wriggling backwards an inch or two, unhook it. Even as he started to crawl forward once more, he heard a screech of tyres as the Land Rover's brakes were savagely applied further down the lane.

Moments later, Matt was out the other side of the hedge and getting to his feet. With relief, he found he was in a different field. This one was laid to pasture, if the short-cropped turf could be called that, and, in the pale light of the moon, he could see a number of irregularly shaped dark objects a little way off. At first he thought they might be cows, but, as he stood up, the movement attracted their attention and he could see by their size and the length of their necks that they were, in fact, horses – carthorses, to be exact – feeding from a big circular hay rack.

As the Land Rover began its return journey, Matt walked calmly towards the group of horses, talking in soothing tones as he went. The equine giants watched him with interest but no apparent alarm, jaws still winding in long streamers of hay, and one of them even fluttering its nostrils and uttering a low whickering sound.

'Hello, lads,' he said, reaching a hand up to caress the nearest lowered nose. He thought they were probably shires. A good two hands, or eight inches, taller than the thoroughbreds he was used to, these draught horses were bigger in every way – long roman-nosed heads set on massively crested necks, barrel-shaped bodies, stout legs feathered with a mass of long hair, and hooves ten or twelve inches across.

Matt counted five horses in total as they gathered round him in anticipation of possible titbits. Glancing in the direction of the lane, he could see the lights of the Land Rover approaching the field gate. He dropped to a crouch as the beams swung towards him, illuminating the galvanised metal feeder behind which he hid, and haloing the horses, who blinked uncomfortably.
Confident that he couldn't be seen, Matt stayed still and, after a minute or so, heard the vehicle back away and continue up the lane.

Letting out his breath in a shaky sigh, Matt considered his position. Fairly safe for the moment, he could conceivably stay where he was all night, if necessary, or at least until Delafield gave up the search. However, it wasn't only himself he had to think of – although in a bad way, Deacon had been alive when Matt had last seen him, and he couldn't square it with his conscience not to do everything possible to get him some help.

Thinking about the option of returning to the lane once more, and not liking it at all, Matt stroked the neck of the nearest horse and noticed – for the first time – that three of them were wearing headcollars. He continued to stroke the animal, thoughtfully. If one was contemplating riding, a headcollar wasn't much use without a rope, but was he
really
contemplating it?

He rather felt he was. On the back of a horse, he could move a good deal faster and would feel a lot less vulnerable than on foot.

Looking around him, he saw that the hay the horses were pulling at was in the form of three or four bales, which the farmer had dumped into the feeder wholesale, binder twine and all, probably earlier that day. At any other time, Matt would have deplored such carelessness, worried for the safety of the feeding animals, just now, though, he sent a blessing winging in the man's direction. A length of orange twine, whilst not ideal, could be fashioned into a makeshift rein that might just provide the means for his getaway.

It proved necessary to climb into the feeder to retrieve the string, but, even so, in less than two minutes he had attached a piece to either side of the headcollar of his chosen horse and was preparing to climb onto its broad back. This he did with the help of the feeder, talking quietly all the while, and trying not to allow his tension to communicate itself to the animal who, for all he knew, might never have been ridden before.

In the event, it wasn't an adverse reaction he had to worry about as much as no reaction at all. Beyond turning an ear in his direction, the horse took no notice whatsoever of Matt's presence and continued to eat hay unperturbed.

It took a fair amount of unattractive kicking and hauling to coax the animal away from his feed, but, eventually, Matt managed it, and even succeeded in bullying the animal into a reluctant trot. His plan – if plan it could be called – was to ride the horse down the field in the hope of finding a way out at the bottom. Failing that, then at least he would be close enough to make his way to Rockfield on foot.

For twenty or thirty yards or so, the animal trotted, head up and showing a strong inclination to turn back to his companions if Matt would let him, but then fate, in the shape of the other four horses, took a deciding hand.

Matt didn't realise they were following until one of them kicked up its heels and cantered past, causing his mount to veer sideways. Slipping a little, Matt grabbed a handful of rough mane to steady himself. The shire's back felt acres wide compared with the lean thoroughbreds he rode everyday, and his legs didn't reach far enough round its girth to grip effectively. Being herd animals, the sight of one of their number running got them all going, and soon the other horses joined in the fun, running alongside Matt's horse, bucking and snaking their heads.

Matt cursed. Steering a horse with string attached to its headcollar was never going to be a very precise art and relied a good deal on the willing co-operation of the animal; with five horses on the run in a ten-acre field on a windy night, he might just as well have tried to convey his wishes by Morse code for all the notice the shire took of them. Caught up with the exhilaration of this wild charge, the five heavy horses got faster and faster, thundering down the field towards the boundary fence in the valley like massive warhorses going into battle.

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 – when it came, – 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 – 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.