It was him. The man who had been with Kinnear.

‘Dear God!’ Marcus put his foot down and his car surged forward. The small red hatchback behind kept pace and then gained. It was so close now that Marcus could see the man clearly in his rear-view mirror. Foot flat to the floor now, Marcus knew he could not escape.

He felt the bump as the red hatchback hit his rear bumper. It was so gentle, so cautious that at first Marcus wasn’t sure it had been deliberate, then he realized that the driver of the red car was just testing out his own skill and nerve. He rammed him then, red car crunching into Marcus, pushing him faster than the accelerator would go. Marcus tried to twist away, wrenching the steering wheel and momentarily freeing himself from his pursuer.

Marcus screamed. A car in the oncoming lane sounded its horn. He glimpsed a pale and terrified face as he wrenched the wheel the other way, could feel the rear tyres stepping out of line before he steered back into the embryonic skid and straightened his line.

How far was Fallowfields. How far?

Marcus realized that it was closer than he’d thought. He could see that wide, sweeping bend coming up and after that would come the sudden left turn into Fallowfields’ drive. He had to make it there. He had to make that turn.

Pure willpower seemed to propel his car forward so that it inched away from his pursuer. Marcus found that he was praying. He took the bend wide, pleading that nothing would be coming the other way, then swung across, and dived into the opening in the hedge that spelt safety. Sheer momentum carried the red car forward and Marcus was convinced he would be broadsided. Instead, the unexpectedness of his actions had gained him just enough time. He slithered messily into the gravel drive, the red hatchback clipping his back end and sending him even further out of shape. Dragging on the wheel he straightened out of a second potential skid, the drag of the gravel helping to slow down his sideways slide. Then foot down and spraying small stones skyward he made it to the house, braking just in time.

For what seemed like an eternity he sat quite still, engine still running, front wheel wedged against the ornate porch. He clutched the steering wheel so hard Alec had to prize his fingers free.

Twenty-Nine

The flat that Rupert still owned up until the time he died was on the top floor of an Edwardian house. The area had been on the rise for the past few years and, although this street was still shabby, the neighbouring area had already benefited from the redevelopment grants and the spreading out of people from the more fashionable areas a couple of miles down the road.

Small cafes and restaurants had sprung up and, although the bars had not entirely overtaken the more traditional pubs in popularity, there were signs of gradual encroachment about which Billy Pierce had mixed feelings.

Pierce had spent the morning doing his research. The land registry told him that Rupert Friedman owned the flat. 23c Oban Road. A chat to the neighbours told him that it was rented out and had been for years. To the same woman.

Billy Pierce had examined the mail laid out in open pigeon holes in the ground floor lobby and that confirmed what he already knew.

‘Well, well, Rupert Friedman,’ he said. ‘Weren’t you the sly fox.’

There was no one home when he knocked, so he crossed the road again and went into a small café he’d spotted earlier. Sitting in the window, he could watch the length of the road and had the house in view. He had a good idea who he’d be looking for. It was just a case of playing the waiting game.

Pierce sipped his tea and smiled wryly to himself. It felt good to be useful but one thing he had not missed was the mind numbing monotony of surveillance. He had settled in the café just after three and it was almost five when she came home.

Billy Pierce knew it was her. It could, of course, have been one of the other two women – one a wife, one a singleton, who lived in the same house, but he doubted it. This woman was the right age, right height, right from what he remembered, though it was many years since he had last seen her.

He gave her a chance to get inside and then left his seat, aware that the woman who ran the café stared after him as he walked down the street.

At the house, he pressed the buzzer for the top floor.

‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice was light. She sounded happy, friendly, Billy thought.

‘Is that Elaine Ritchie?’ he asked, though he knew it was. ‘I’ve come to talk about Rupert Friedman.’

Marcus allowed himself to be taken into the house. He was shaking so badly he could hardly stand, and although he could hear the words coming out of his mouth, he knew they were making no sense. They didn’t even make sense to him.

Harry handed him brandy and he swallowed in between convulsions, feeling the heat in his throat which warmed him to the core.

‘Is brandy really the thing for shock?’ Naomi’s voice, anxious and uncertain.

Marcus didn’t think he cared. The spirit seemed to steady him, at least for the moment, and he extended his glass, hoping for more. Someone obliged and he swallowed again, then leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes.

He was crying, Marcus realized in horror. Weeping like a child but he couldn’t seem to stop. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Not sure if he was apologizing for his tears or for something else.

The driver’s side front wing had been wedged tight against the brickwork of the porch by the impact of the crash. Harry inspected it for signs of structural damage but, apart from a few scaled bricks, the porch seemed to have won. The heavy columns on either side were, Harry noted, what was really keeping the porch roof up and the brickwork had only a secondary role.

‘It looks all right,’ he told Patrick. He glanced anxiously down the drive, expecting at any moment to see Kinnear, or whoever had been chasing Marcus, come charging up. In Harry’s imagination, Kinnear would be in a tank or at the very least an armoured car.

‘Something red hit the back end,’ Patrick said. He stood back from the vehicle, careful not to touch. He’d been around Naomi and Alec long enough to know about preservation of evidence. ‘Dad, I think someone rammed him from behind and then hit the rear wing, maybe when he turned into the driveway. Whatever it was hit hard. There’s a bloody great dent.’

Harry nodded. Behind him in the hallway he could hear Alec on the phone, calling the police and presumably trying to get hold of DS Fine.

‘I suppose we ought to check the end of the drive,’ he fretted. ‘If the other car hit as hard as you think the driver might have been hurt.’

Patrick cast him a speculative look. ‘Do you really want to go down there?’

‘No, not really.’

‘The police will be here before we know it.’

‘We might need an ambulance.’

Patrick sighed. ‘OK, we’ll take a look. You’re not going on your own. Just hold on.’

He slipped back into the house and returned with a heavy iron poker he had taken from the living-room fireplace.

‘Isn’t that called going equipped?’ Alec asked as he came out into the hallway.

‘No, I think it’s making like a boy scout and being prepared. Dad thinks we should see if anyone’s hurt. He’s not going on his own and you’re not leaving Naomi. Marcus is no use at the moment and Kinnear might try and come here.’

‘You’re giving the orders now, are you?’

‘Not making a habit of it, but …’

Alec nodded. ‘OK. But Patrick, you take a quick look and get straight back here. I’d suggest you drive, but both Harry’s car and mine seem to be wedged in.’ He frowned at Marcus’s impromptu parking. If the porch hadn’t stopped him he would have ploughed straight into Alec’s vehicle. As it was they’d have to shift Marcus’s car before either of them could get theirs out.