The Borough

CHAPTER FORTY

  The first feeble light of day was breaking along the eastern horizon.

  Winner was beginning to think he had made a serious mistake in assuming that Cavendish had been at the house when he had returned. It was even possible that Cavendish had driven away in the night. Winner couldn't be sure that he hadn't dozed off for a few minutes, though he had struggled against it.

  Half past seven, and he had just emerged from a quick trip into a nearby hedge to relieve himself, when he heard a car coming up the hill. He dashed back to the driving seat and was behind the wheel when a grey Jaguar cruised up past the end of the cul-de-sac. There was no guarantee that it was heading for Cedar Park, but Winner thought he would start his engine and get it warmed up, just in case something was about to happen.

  Less than a minute later, Cavendish's Mercedes appeared coming down the hill. Winner put his car into gear and pulled away. He had just reached the white line that marked the end of the cul-de-sac when the grey Jaguar went past, following Cavendish. The engine of Winner's Ford Escort was still cold and not yet pulling very well, so that by the time he had turned and was rolling down the hill the back end of the Jaguar was disappearing round a bend lower down the road.

  Winner willed his car to go as fast as possible, then had to break hard before going into the bend. Round the curves and down another level, he kept getting a brief glimpse of the speeding Jaguar. He pushed on as fast as he dared, conscious that his tyres were not gripping well on the slightly icy surface. Just before they left the River Heights estate, he almost managed to catch up with the Jaguar when it paused before pulling out onto the main road that led to the estuary bridge. The gap widened again as the Jaguar accelerated away, its driver apparently unconcerned about the forty miles an hour speed limit.

  The three cars crossed the bridge in a spread out procession. In the distance, the cross-roads traffic lights changed to green as Cavendish overtook a slow moving truck just before the road narrowed. Shortly afterwards the Jaguar overtook where the road was already too narrow, almost driving the oncoming traffic up onto the verge. Winner was too far behind and could only sit helplessly behind the truck as the light changed to red and a solid stream of cars filled the on-coming carriageway.

  By the time he got moving again, The Mercedes and the Jaguar were out of sight. Cavendish had definitely been heading into Sharmouth, but it was a matter of guesswork to decide where he might have gone. The Crescent offices seemed the most obvious choice, so Winner took the turn that led to the town centre. The roads were getting busier now, frustrating any attempts to hurry.

  Standing in the unlit living room of Winner's flat, Sally was watching the dawn break. She had been up and dressed for over an hour, after an almost sleepless night. The only phone call had been from a desperate Lorraine who told her she would be going to the police if there was no word from Winner by nine o'clock. It was incredibly frustrating. There had been nothing from Winner, no way of knowing if he had achieved anything.

  She paced up and down, at every turn looking down into the road for a first glimpse of Winner's car. As she paced, she began to wonder whether she should go to the police herself. After all, Toby's abduction could easily be attributed to their attempt to foul up Cavendish's illegal business deals, without any need to raise the subject of the money.

  She turned again and her new line of thought was abruptly dropped as she saw a dark Mercedes coming into the road. Cavendish.

  Common sense told her that there was no way she could defend herself against him, especially if he had brought along help. Some of the sleepless hours in the night had been spent thinking about what to do if Cavendish turned up, and the only real solution seemed to be to just keep out of his way. She kept watching, to be sure that it was him, and as he pulled up in front of the flats, she saw the Jaguar, which stopped on the far side of the road. Cavendish had got out of his car and was coming into the building.

  Sally grabbed her coat and keys and ran out of the flat, pulling the front door shut behind her. She went across the landing and through the fire door to the rear stairs. Cavendish was coming up the front stairs fast, his heavy tread audible even behind the fire door. There was a loud thumping as he hammered on the door to the flat, then Sally winced at the sound of splintering wood. She opened the door a crack and could see a deranged Cavendish battering at the front door with the heavy red fire extinguisher.

  She softly closed the fire door and set off down the back stairs. What had happened to Winner? He was supposed to be following Cavendish, but there had been no sign of him, unless of course he had stolen a grey Jaguar. At the bottom of the stairs she listened for any sound of pursuit before pushing open the door into the back alley.

  From the corner of the side road, she looked across through the thin hedging towards the parked Jaguar. A man was sitting in it, watching the front entrance to the flats. The light was too poor to see clearly, but it wasn't Winner. Several minutes went by, and Sally was beginning to wonder what the flat would look like when she went back to it.

  Finally she heard the front door of the block of flats swing open. At the same moment, the driver of the Jaguar opened his door and got out. Sally recognised him as Farrier, from a photograph that she had seen in his company's report.

  "I want to talk to you," Farrier shouted at Cavendish.

  "Not now," Cavendish shouted back, already breaking into a run towards his car.

  "I want my money now."

  "I'm in a hurry, it'll have to wait," Cavendish called, already climbing into his car.

  "You stop and talk to me. I'll not be brushed aside, I could lose everything."

  Farrier was a split second too late getting to the Mercedes. The lock snapped down just as his hand reached the door handle. Cavendish started the engine and Farrier, realising the futility of trying to stop the car, let go and ran back across the road towards his Jaguar. Cavendish had barely reached the turn in the road before Farrier made a tyre burning departure in pursuit.

  Stung into action by the sudden departure, Sally ran towards her parked Citroen and hurried to get it started. It was hopeless, really, trying to chase two powerful cars in her modest little Citroen, but at least she would be able to save some time catching up by taking the shorter route. She set off in the opposite direction, reasoning that there was only one way that they were likely to leave the town. Sure enough, five minutes later she arrived at a junction just in time to see Cavendish and Farrier flash past.

  In the lead car, Cavendish was struggling to operate his mobile phone as he weaved about to stop Farrier from passing.

  "Have you filled up yet," he spat out, when Riggs answered.

  "Just finished. Are you on your way?"

  "Listen. I've got that lunatic Farrier following me. I can't give him the slip in Sharmouth, so I'm going to try and lose him along the coast. You set sail immediately and meet me at nine o'clock prompt at Greycliffe jetty. You're to be ready to leave as soon as I join you."

  Sally was three cars behind now, but Cavendish and Farrier were held back by the traffic, so that they were still in view when they took the turning before the River Heights access that led onto the old coast road. Thirty seconds later she turned off the main road to follow them, only to see them disappear round the first bend. There was no way she could catch up with them. This could well be how Winner had lost them, simply outclassed by the power and speed of the Mercedes. It hardly seemed worth going on, but there were no turnings off the road and they might get stuck behind some slow traffic in the double white line sections. She decided to press on as fast as possible, just in case.

  Three bends further on, Cavendish was beginning to wonder if he had made a serious mistake. Farrier's grey Jaguar was filling his rear-view mirror and it was proving to be extremely difficult to get away from him. It might have been more sensible to have stopped and spoken to the man outside Winner's flat. He might have been able to calm him down and convince him that everything was
all right, but it was too late now.

  Through the tight right-hand hairpin the Jaguar had stayed ten feet from his rear bumper, and now that they were onto a series of faster bends, the gap was closing all the time. The man must be a lunatic. What was he trying to do, ram the back of the Mercedes? Cavendish pushed his foot harder towards the floor, unsure of the cornering capabilities of the car, which he had never before tested to the limit. A tight left hand bend came up fast, and Cavendish knew he would have to brake hard. His foot changed pedals and he felt the seat belt strain against his chest as the powerful brakes bit. There was a small bump as Farrier touched him gently from behind, pushing him to the wrong side of the road. The rear end broke away, but was bounced back by the low earth bank.

  Cavendish wrestled with the steering wheel to regain control of the sliding car, then switched his foot back to the accelerator as he came out of the bend. The tyres screamed as they tore at the tarmac on the long open curve that followed. He kept accelerating, as the bend opened out to reveal the long open straight leading to the viewpoint car park. There was just the back of a solitary van a couple of hundred yards in the distance.

  The speedometer needle swung round steadily as they raced down the straight. Farrier's car had slightly more acceleration and he started to pull out round the Mercedes. At the last moment, Cavendish saw what he was doing and swung across to cut him off. There was a jarring and a grating noise as the two cars made contact again. The needle flickered over a hundred and ten miles an hour as they tore past the van, whose driver narrowly avoided driving into the hedge from the sudden shock.

  Cavendish left it as long as he dared before braking for the end of the straight. Farrier was driving like a madman. He would have gone past the Mercedes when Cavendish finally slowed down, but was stopped at the last moment by a car coming the other way. He was forced to stand on his brakes and swerve in behind Cavendish, leaving a black curved smear of rubber along the surface of the road.

  Three or four more tyre-screaming bends and Farrier had lost all sense of personal safety, repeatedly ramming the Mercedes, forcing Cavendish nearer and nearer the limit.

  Cavendish glanced in his mirror and saw Farrier's face, an expressionless mask with wide staring eyes.

  Farrier hardly knew the road and was relying on Cavendish braking to warn him of the coming turns. The land deal was exposed, his car was wrecked. His job would be gone and he wouldn't even have the money he had been expecting. This man Cavendish was to blame. He rammed his foot hard down on the accelerator, determined to force Cavendish into the bank and stop him from getting away. The Jaguar was locked on to the back of the Mercedes now, bumper grinding against bumper as they screeched round the bends.

  Cavendish saw the dangerous hairpin bend coming up fast and spun the wheel, his brakes overheated and fading from trying to stop the weight of two heavy cars. The steering would not respond, the force of the Jaguar was pushing them both in a straight line. Cavendish jerked his left arm up in front of his eyes as they raced straight into the safety barrier.

  A row of startled seagulls flapped into the air just in time to avoid the sudden explosive tearing of metal and concrete. Despite the newness of the barrier, the combined momentum of the two cars brushed it aside. First the Mercedes and then the Jaguar shot out from the cliff edge and rolled through the air to a shattering impact on the rocks below.

  Sally reached the hairpin bend about three minutes later. The van and two cars coming from Greycliffe had already stopped, temporarily blocking the road. She pulled up behind the van, wondering what could be holding up the traffic on this section of the road. Winding down her window, she heard people shouting about an accident. She got out and walked round the back of the van, seeing at once the hole ripped in the barrier. A man stepped in front of her as she broke into a run to get to the cliff edge.

  "You don't want to look, Miss," he shouted, but she ran past him to the same spot where she had looked down on the scene of Nigel's death.

  A thick pall of smoke spiralled up from one of the mangled but recognisable cars.

  Nigel's death was now paid for in full.