The Reckoning (11 page)

NINETEEN

All three officers stopped in their tracks at
the sight of the toddler being held threateningly over the swiftly moving
river. The result was what Michael had been hoping for, but it still left him
with the dilemma of how to get past the officers and on to his destination.

“Let the boy go,” the most senior of the
three officers instructed in a firm voice. “This isn’t going to help your situation.
Come on, Son, just let the boy go and give yourself up,” he said when Michael
made no move to release the boy. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”

“Stay back!” Michael warned, his eyes darted
from one officer to the next, circling them rapidly as he tried to work out
what to do. “I said stay back,” he repeated when he saw the younger of the two
officers on his right edging toward him. “And you, you keep your hand away from
that baton,” he told the older of the pair, whose hand twitched toward the
extendable baton at his belt every few seconds.

Constantly turning his head from side to
side, Michael tried to keep all three officers in sight. It was an almost
impossible task, however, and all he succeeded in doing was make his neck hurt,
while the muscles in his arms ached with the effort of holding the boy up.

“Do you want me to drop him?” Michael
demanded when he saw that the younger officer on his right, as well as the
officer on his left, was still trying to get closer to him. “I told you to stay
the fuck back! One more step from either of you and I drop him!” he threatened.

A noise from behind him, a jingling of keys,
made Michael spin away from the railing and the river, the boy still held
before him. The noise hadn’t come from any of the officers, it had come instead
from a burly man who had been attempting to sneak up on him.

“Let the kid go,” the man rumbled in a deep
voice; the muscles in his powerful arms flexed and his hands clenched and
unclenched, as though he relished the thought of having to rescue the kid by
force.

Seeing the size of the man before him, and
the proximity of the three officers who were trying to close in on him, Michael
spun back to the railing. “You want the kid?” He threw the crying, wailing and
wriggling figure over the railing. “Go get him.”

As the child, whose inadvertent kidnapping
he’d taken advantage of, plummeted toward the river, Michael turned and raced
for the far side of the bridge.

For several long moments the three officers
and the burly civilian stood frozen where they were, stunned. Finally, they
recovered from their shock and moved.

The officer who had been on Michael’s tail
almost from the moment he stole the car raced to the railing, his eyes
searching the river below for some sign of the boy. When he saw nothing he
turned and raced across both lanes – thankfully, the traffic was stationary –
to lean over the railing, his eyes intent. He caught a flash of movement and
immediately climbed over the railing so he could leap into the river, in the
hope of rescuing the boy.

The senior of the two officers who had been
approaching Michael from his right also dove into the river after the boy. He
did so with more reluctance than his fellow officer, though, not being as
strong a swimmer as the younger man.

The third officer, along with the burly
civilian, remained on the bridge to give chase to Michael. The pair of them
pounded past the cars stopped by events, as the occupants looked on in shock
and, in the case of those too far away to have seen what Michael had done,
bemusement.

Over the sounds of the car engines, the river
below, and everything else, Michael could hear the thundering footsteps of his
pursuers. He spared a glance over his shoulder as he reached the three quarter
point of the bridge, and was both relieved and dismayed. The burly man who had
threatened him was falling further behind, he was clearly not fast enough to
catch up, but the police officer was gaining, at an alarming rate.

Though he did his best to increase his pace
and get away, Michael was still more than a dozen yards from the end of the
bridge when the officer caught up with him. He was brought to the ground with a
crash by a flying tackle; the officer let go of his legs and grabbed him
roughly by the shoulder to roll him over.

Michael’s fist came up as he was rolled onto
his back. Unerringly he caught the constable on the side of the jaw, rocking
his head back and to the right. He followed that with a shove to the man’s
chest, pushing him away; that gave him the time and space to scramble to his
feet.

He could see the civilian, the wannabe hero,
getting closer and hurriedly lashed out with a booted foot. He caught the
constable in the face as he was getting to his feet. The kick sent him flying
backward, blood spraying from his smashed nose, and Michael took off along the
bridge once more. He sprinted away like a rabbit being chased by greyhounds.

The moment he reached the end of the bridge,
he turned sharply to descend the steps to the riverbank. He took them two and
three at a time and then jumped the last half dozen. He stumbled as he landed
but recovered quickly and raced for the boat he had spotted.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the owner
demanded, steadying himself, when Michael jumped into the boat, making it rock.
“I said, what do you think you’re doing on my boat?”

Michael ignored the question as his eyes
darted around the boat. He spotted the keys in the ignition and, assured that
he could get the boat moving, lashed out. He drove his fist into the man’s
stomach, putting all of his strength into the punch. The blow doubled him up
and Michael grabbed him by the shoulders, shoving backward and over the side of
the boat.

Michael ignored the large splash, made when
the boat’s owner struck the water, as he hastened to complete his getaway. The
engine started on the first turn of the key, to his relief, and he moved away
from the wheel to the rope that secured the boat to the bank. Out the corner of
his eye he could see the constable who had tackled him on the bridge descending
the steps, and he hurried to untie the rope.

The moment he had the rope free of the post
it had been secured to he returned to the wheel. He shoved the throttle
forward, and spun the wheel, making the boat leap away from the bank.

The thought had just entered his mind that he
was safe when there was a loud crash from behind him, and the boat rocked
alarmingly. With one hand still on the wheel, Michael turned to find out what
had happened. The constable, his pursuer, his attacker, was clinging to the side
of the boat. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe the constable had
caught up to him when he’d thought he had succeeded in getting away.

Abandoning the wheel, Michael darted to where
the constable was struggling to pull himself into the boat and leaned down to
grab him by the shoulders. His intention was to shove him off the boat. Before
he could do that, however, his left arm was seized by the constable, who yanked
him down and then let go of his arm to take him by the hair. He tried to pull
away, but only succeeded in helping the man hanging onto his hair into the
boat.

His hair released, Michael stumbled backward;
while he struggled to regain his balance the constable surged to his feet and
leaped for him. He knocked Michael off his feet, landing on him with all his
weight.

Michael cried out as he hit his back on the
side of the boat; his breath exploded out of him as the constable crushed his
lungs. He lay there, unable to move, for several long moments, with the
constable, breathing heavily, on top of him.

It was the constable who recovered first and
he reached for the handcuffs at his belt, so he could secure the teen beneath
him. The sight of the handcuffs galvanised Michael; he grabbed at the
constable’s wrist to keep the handcuffs away and bucked and writhed as he tried
to throw the man off him.

With his other hand Michael reached up,
grasping for the throat of the man looming over him. Though the uniformed
officer tried to fend him off, Michael succeeded in closing his hand around the
man’s throat to choke him.

Michael squeezed with all of his strength.
His hand wasn’t quite big enough to do the job properly but he was able to
weaken the man, which enabled him to buck him off and roll them both over so
that he was the one on top. He then trapped the constable’s arms with his
knees, pressing them into the bottom of the boat; that freed his other hand,
which he immediately clamped around his throat.

He was so intent on strangling the man
beneath him that he gave no thought to the fact that the boat was racing
upstream, with no-one controlling it. It was only when loud shouts reached him
that he realised he might be in trouble. Releasing the constable Michael drove
his fist into the man’s stomach, and then pushed himself to his feet.

A second shout drew his attention to the
river ahead of the boat, where he saw a houseboat bearing down on him. The
houseboat was moving slowly, it wasn’t doing much more than drifting along with
the current, but the powerboat was racing upriver, closing the gap between the
two of them with alarming rapidity.

Michael hastily spun the wheel to turn the
powerboat away from the impending collision. He had to let go of the wheel
almost immediately so he could return his attention to the constable, whom he
could hear struggling to get to his feet. He lashed out with a foot, kicking
the constable in the face; the kick knocked the man’s head back and it struck
the side of the boat with an audible crack.

While the constable was too stunned to move,
Michael grabbed him and heaved him up so he could throw him overboard. It took
a bit of an effort, for the constable was easily a match for him in size, but
he managed it after a struggle. The moment he saw the constable hit the water
he forgot about him.

He straightened and rubbed his back as he
turned to scan the river behind him, looking for pursuers. To his relief there
were none, but before he could relax he was forced to grab hastily for the side
of the boat to avoid being thrown overboard as the boat collided noisily with
something. The boat tipped alarmingly as it rapidly changed direction, and
Michael staggered to the wheel so he could try and get it under control.

TWENTY

Ignoring his fellow constable, who was still
struggling toward the bank, Constable Turner hauled himself out of the river.
It wasn’t an easy task, since he was encumbered by the immobile form of the
young boy thrown from the bridge by Michael Davis, but by dint of sheer
willpower he managed it.

When he finally succeeded in getting both
himself and the boy onto the bank, he set the child he had rescued down and
began giving him mouth to mouth. As he did so, he fervently and silently prayed
that he could save the boy; at the same time he hoped that his efforts wouldn’t
end up causing the boy harm. He had only ever performed mouth to mouth on
adults before.

It was to his enormous relief that after
almost a minute the boy gave a great cough, expelling a significant amount of
water, and began to breathe again. Turner immediately offered up a prayer of
thanks, before reaching for his radio.

“Control, this is two-one-seven, over.
Two-one-seven to control, over.” He tried several times to get through before
finally giving up and accepting that the radio was dead. He wasn’t able to get
so much as a crackle out of it.

He was just reaching a hand into his pocket
for his mobile phone, in the vain hope that it might somehow still be working,
when a noise behind him made him turn away from the boy. It was his fellow
constable, finally pulling himself from the river; he looked utterly exhausted.
Turner supposed that wasn’t a surprise; Mackenzie was a lot older than him, and
the effort of searching for the boy and then swimming for the bank against the
current had worn him out, so he could imagine how tiring it must have been for
the older man.

Wearily, Turner pushed himself to his feet.
“Look after the boy, Mac, he’s breathing; I’m going to get help.”

A nod was the most the older constable could
manage as he crawled to where the boy lay. He couldn’t find the energy to say a
word.

TWENTY-ONE

“Thank you, Mrs Dean, I’ll be over to speak
to you just as soon as I can,” Donna promised before hanging up the phone.

She would have liked to see Claire Dean right
then, so she could get could on with trying to find out who was responsible for
the graffiti and vandalism at the stables and stud farm. That wasn’t possible,
though, she was still waiting for Detective Sergeant Worth to collect Michael’s
mobile phone and the list of Michael’s friends she had compiled; until he did
she had to stay at the station.

She hoped the sergeant was going to arrive
soon, so she could get on with investigating the vandalism. She wanted to
resolve that situation as quickly as she could. As the only officer currently
working in the village, it would be a feather in her cap if she showed she
could handle things under such a trying situation. It would also look very good
for her when she was in a position to apply for promotion.

*****

Donna pushed open the door and entered the
office at the Dean Stables. “Good afternoon, Mrs Dean.”

“Constable,” Claire Dean returned the
greeting. “Can we do this quickly, I’ve got a lesson in twenty minutes.”

“Of course.” Donna took out her notepad and
pen. “I imagine you are aware of the vandalism that took place here during the
night.” The lady before her nodded. “Good; your husband told me that you
recently had to sack one of your stable boys.”

“That’s right, Joe Proud,” Claire said.

“Why did you sack him?” Donna asked,
scribbling the name in her notepad.

Claire sighed, as if reluctant to answer the
question, though she did so without hesitation. “There was a series of thefts
from the riding stables; some money went missing from petty cash, and several
of my students lost personal possessions. Joe was found with a mobile phone
that belonged to a student. He claimed that he’d found it, and was bringing it
to the office; there was no real proof against him, but I couldn’t afford to
take the chance,” she said briskly.

“Was he angry about it?” Donna couldn’t imagine
how the stable boy wasn’t angry; being sacked for theft when there was no proof
would piss off even the most mild-mannered of people, though whether they would
do anything about it was a different matter.

“Yes.” Claire nodded. “He told me I’d be
sorry. I didn’t think much of it, I figured it was an empty threat, just his
anger talking, until Leonard told me what had been done to the stables’
vehicles.”

“Do you have an address for Mr Proud?” Donna
asked, her pen poised.

“Yes, I’ll just get it for you.” Getting to
her feet Claire crossed to a filing cabinet in the corner of the office. She
pulled open a drawer and began searching through the files inside; it didn’t
take her long to find what she was looking for, and then she returned to her
desk.

“Joe lives at seventeen Privet Road,” Claire
read from the file. “Do you want his phone number?”

“Please, and a description if you don’t
mind.” The stable boy lived just outside the village, off the road that led to
town. Donna knew where the address was but had never had occasion to go there.
“Thank you, that’s even better.” She accepted the photograph that Claire passed
across the desk. “He seems like a nice enough guy,” she remarked after
examining the young man in it for a moment.

Claire smiled. “He can be very charming, and
was popular with many of my students, and their mothers,” she said, giving
Donna a meaningful look. “I had to warn him a couple of times about being too
familiar with the students. There was an incident between him and one of the
other stable hands as well.”

“What sort of incident?” Donna asked,
wondering if it had any bearing on the vandalism.

“It was suggested that he sabotaged the
riding tackle of one of the other stable boys during an event. Mickey Porter
fell and ended up with a broken arm and leg, and Joe won the race. It was quite
a nasty incident, and the boy was lucky to get away with the injuries he did,
but we could find no evidence of tampering by anyone, let alone by Joe.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“Like I said, there was no proof that either
the saddle or the tackle had been tampered with,” Claire said with an uncertain
shrug. “We did conduct a full investigation into the incident and concluded
that it was a nasty accident, nothing more. The suspicion was there though;
there was bad feeling between the two, though I don’t know why.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about
him?” Donna asked after a moment, when she had absorbed what the other woman
had said.

“Other than that he rides a green motorbike,
no,” Claire answered with a shake of her head. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, you’ve given me enough to be
getting on with. I’d best go see if I can find Mr Proud, and find out what he
has to say about what happened to your vehicles.” Donna rose from the chair she
had taken. “I’ll let you know what I find out,” she promised before leaving the
office.

As she crossed the yard to her car, a
four-wheel drive drove through the gates and came to a stop in front of the
office. Donna assumed it was the pupil Claire Dean had been waiting for. She
couldn’t help wondering how much the lessons cost; she was sure it was more
than she could afford, given the house the Deans’ owned, the fact that they
both drove expensive cars, and the stables’ reputation as the best in the
county.