James Duggan was scared. Scared for his family and scared for himself. Randall was not a man who liked to be crossed and Duggan knew he should never have let himself be persuaded into his schemes. It had already cost him a son; Duggan had a premonition it was going to cost him much, much more.
He’d go to Mac, get taken into protective custody or whatever it was the police did. He’d already called home again and told his wife and son to pack a bag and get out. Just drive. Get far away where no one knew who they were. He’d wanted to get security from one of his clubs to look after them but after Edward Parker he didn’t know who he could trust. Not anymore. Could he trust Mac? He had looked closely at the man, his past, his record, his problems after that child had been killed and there was nothing to make him think that he could not. But what did that mean?
‘Too late now. No options left. What a bloody mess. Oh god, Joy, Patrick, I’m so sorry, so sorry.’
Tears threatened to blind him and he wiped them away, trying to focus on the traffic on the busy Honiton road, a stretch of dual carriageway he had driven many times in the past few days.
There was a long downhill stretch with a brace of odd and unexpected little junctions without proper slip roads and he’d been nearly caught out a couple of times when cars had appeared from nowhere and pulled on to the main drag with a confidence and lack of observation born of familiarity.
His attention to the side roads meant that he saw the car and his knowledge of Randall’s methods meant that he knew who the men were even before they pulled on to the main road and slipped into place close behind him, bare inches from his rear bumper.
‘How did he find me? How did he pick me up so bloody fast?’
Angrily he thumped the steering wheel, sheer frustration gripping him. At the back of his mind, he had acknowledged that Randall would be furious; be determined that Duggan not carry out his threat, but he’d thought he’d have a bit more time before Randall’s men caught up with him. His turn-off was soon, a right turn at the bottom of the hill towards Lyme Regis and then on to Frantham but that road was narrow, twisting. Abruptly, he veered off, pulling into the other lane. A car horn warning him at the last minute of a vehicle speeding down the inside. He glanced in his rear view. The driver was swearing, waving a hand, demanding he pull over and calling him all kinds of idiot. Duggan put his foot down, raced ahead, his pursuers tucked in behind, cutting up the other car for a second time. Duggan could hear the blasts on the horn, but he didn’t think his pursuers would care. Closer now, they touched his bumper and he felt the back end bump and then kick out as they drew back. Then again, harder this time, nudging, bumping, clipping him so he swerved dangerously close to the central barrier.
It crossed his mind to wonder what the driver of the other car now thought. If he would call the police and report two lunatic drivers. The thought delivered momentary hope but his turn was coming up and Duggan knew that he would take it. That beyond all reason he would hope to outrun them, reach Frantham, meet Mac at the hotel. Be safe.
Ahead, he could see his turn, the gap seeming too small and coming up too quickly. No time to brake. He could see the lorry on the other carriageway, picking up speed on the flat, preparing for the hill. Praying that his car was fast enough, he swerved, dived through the gap.
‘He never looked, never even tried to stop,’ the lorry driver would tell the police and the eyewitnesses would support his story.
The car Randall had sent, mission accomplished, drove on.