Dead Man's Footsteps

I see, I’m driving straight over to the van and I’m going to give it one hard nudge over the edge. Are we clear?’
    ‘Yes. You will like what you see.’
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we won’t have a problem.’
    Without wanting to move her head too much, in case he was watching her through binoculars, Abby glanced as much as she could around her. But all she saw was bare, windblown grassland, a small, curved brick structure, an observation point of some kind, containing some empty benches, and a few solitary bushes, none big enough to conceal a human. Where were Detective Sergeant Branson’s people?
    After a couple of minutes, she heard Ricky again. ‘Get out of the car now and do what I told you.’
    She pushed open the door, but it was a struggle against the wind. ‘The door’s not going to stay open!’ she shouted back at the speaker, panicking.
    ‘Wedge it with something.’
    ‘With what?’
    ‘Jesus, you stupid woman, there must be something in the car. A handbook. A rental docket. I want to see you leave that door open. I’m watching you.’
    She pulled the envelope of rental documents out of the door pocket, pushed the door open and waved them in the air, so that he could see. Then she climbed out. The wind was so strong, a gust almost blew her over. It tore the door from her hand, slamming it. She yanked it open again, folded the envelope in two, making a thicker wedge, grabbed the Jiffy bag, then closed the door as far as it would go against the wedge.
    Then, with the wind tearing painfully at the roots of her hair, hurting her ears, ripping at her clothes, she walked twenty very unsteady paces towards the copse, eyes darting in every direction, her mouth dry, scared stiff but burning with anger. She could still see no one. Except Ricky now striding towards her.
    He held his hand out to take the bag with a grim smileof satisfaction. ‘About fucking time,’ he said, snatching it greedily from her.
    As he did so, with all her strength and all the pent-up venom she felt for him, she swung her right foot up as hard as she could between his legs. So hard it hurt her like hell.

119
OCTOBER 2007
    Air shot out of Ricky’s mouth. His eyes bulged in pain and shock as he doubled up. Then Abby slapped him across the face with so much force he fell over sideways. She launched another kick at his groin, but he grabbed her foot and twisted it sharply, agonizingly, bringing her crashing on to the wet grass.
    ‘You fucking—’
    Then he stopped as he heard the roar of an engine.
    They both heard it.
    In semi-disbelief, Ricky stared at the ice-cream van bumping up the track towards them. And a short distance behind it, six police officers in stab vests raced towards them from around the side of the hotel building.
    Ricky scrambled to his feet. ‘You bitch! We made a deal!’ he screeched.
    ‘Like the one you made with Dave?’ she screamed back.
    Clutching the stamps, he stumbled towards the Honda. Abby ran as fast as she could, ignoring the pain in her foot, towards the copse. Behind her she heard the roar of an engine. She glanced over her shoulder. It was the ice-cream van and she could see two men in it now. Then ahead, through the trunks and branches and leaves, she could see parts of a white van.
    Blinded by pain and fury, Ricky threw himself into the Honda, jammed it in gear and took the handbrake off even before he had closed the door. Teach that fucking bitch a lesson.
    He accelerated hard, picking up speed, steering straight at the copse. He didn’t care if he went over the edge, too, at this moment. Just so long as the bitch’s mother went. Just so long as Abby spent the rest of her fucking life regretting this.
    Then a blur of colour flashed in front of him.
    Ricky stamped on the brakes, locking the wheels, cursing. He jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, desperately trying to avoid the ice-cream vehicle, which had pulled up broadside across the copse, blocking his chance of ramming the van inside. The Honda slewed round in a wide arc, its tail striking the rear bumper of the ice-cream van, tearing it off.
    Then to his shock he saw two small cars that he’d also assumed belonged to staff at the hotel racing across the grass towards him, blue lights strobing behind their windscreens and radiator grilles, sirens wailing.
    He floored the accelerator again, disoriented for a moment, turning, turning. One of them pulled across his path. He swerved around the back of it, dropped