A Bitter Feast(52)
Turning, he was shouting, “Slow the fuck do—” when the searing lights cut him off, blinding him.
The impact caught him by the side, threw him hard into the hedgerow, then into the road. He lay on his back, stunned. Looking up, he thought disjointedly how odd it was to see the falling rain from beneath, silvery in the light of the headlamps. The moisture was trickling down his neck, into his jacket. The car had stopped, but it was still running, he could hear the engine ticking over. A door creaked open. There was a swish of footsteps and a moment later a familiar voice said, “Oh my God. Are you all right?”
Jack tried to raise his head, tried to answer, but no sound came. He couldn’t feel his legs.
A torch glared suddenly in his face, pinning him to the tarmac. Then the beam swung wildly. He felt a crushing blow, and darkness descended.
Chapter Fourteen
The rain had stopped sometime in the early hours of the morning. Mary Thompson avoided the worst of the puddles in the farm’s yard. It was her turn on the altar guild rota at St. Mary’s in Lower Slaughter and that meant a very early start. There had been a cold snap with the rain, and it was her job to turn the heaters on in the church so that by the time anyone turned up for the service, the church would be warm enough that they wouldn’t shiver in their coats.
Her old four-by-four was cold as well. She huddled deeper into her fleece-lined jacket as she waited for the engine to catch. But it was a beautiful morning, she reminded herself, the first rays of the sun just catching the treetops, the clear sky a pale lemon yellow. Careful of the ruts at the end of the drive, she turned into the road and headed south towards the village. Water stood on the verges, and the foliage in the hedges drooped with the weight of moisture.
Mary settled into her seat as the car began to warm, enjoying the sense of being early abroad and owning the morning. The trees seemed to have turned overnight and when there was a gap in the hedges, she could see smudges of reds and golds in the distance.
She’d just switched Radio 4 to Radio 2 to fit her upbeat mood when she saw something at the side of the road. A deer, she thought with the first stab of dread. It happened. The deer darted out, and if whoever had hit this one hadn’t sustained serious damage, they were lucky. But she couldn’t bear wondering if the poor beast was still alive and should be put out of its misery. Worst case, she’d ring her husband and ask him to bring his hunting rifle. She glanced at the dashboard clock as she passed the huddled shape. It was still early—she could stop.
She pulled into the next layby and left the truck. The crisp air nipped at her lungs as she took a deep breath and started back up the road, walking fast, her boots squelching in the sodden fallen leaves. Something niggled at her. The shadows were still deep at ground level, but something about the shape hadn’t looked right. Her unease grew as she rounded the gentle curve. Now that she could see more clearly, the shape looked more like a bundle than a deer—perhaps she’d been mistaken and someone had thrown rubbish into the hedge. But as she drew closer, she made out what looked like legs, canted slightly towards the road. And there, almost under the hedge—was that the pale blur of a face? Her stomach lurched. Dear God. Her steps slowed, then she shamed herself for her fear and stumbled the last few yards.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, an invocation.
She didn’t need to touch the body that lay before her to know that he was dead. The man’s eyes stared heavenwards, sightless. And she knew him.
Colin Booth poured beaten eggs into the frying pan, adding a dash of cream and a few grinds of salt and pepper as he began gently stirring. The eggs would be cooked slowly, just the way his mum had taught him to make them. Bacon was draining on kitchen paper, the first lot of granary bread already in the toaster, coffee made, butter and jam ready. It was his Sunday routine, making breakfast for his wife and son. He’d been for a run, picking up a Sunday paper for Jessica on his way back. Humming along with something he vaguely recognized on Radio 2, he used his free hand to pull the plates from the warming oven. The eggs were almost there. He pressed the toaster lever.
“Lucas,” he called to his son, who was sprawled on the floor in front of the television in the sitting room. “Two minutes. Tell your mum. And TV off.”
“But, Dad, it’s Match of the Day—”
“I know you’re recording it. You can catch up after breakfast.”
“But it won’t be the same.”
Booth sighed. His son was football mad. The eggs had reached the perfect, silky texture. Spreading the plates on the work top, he divided the eggs and bacon among them. He was about to step into the sitting room when he heard his wife’s voice and then the television went blessedly silent.
Jess padded into the kitchen and slipped her arm round his waist. “Mmm. If you ever decide to give up policing, you can be my short-order cook.”
“I already am your short-order cook.” Kissing the top of her head, he handed her a plate, then nodded towards the sitting room.
“He’s coming. Let him sulk for a bit. It will be his own fault if his eggs are cold.” She put the hot toast in the toast rack and more bread slices in the slots while Booth poured the coffee.
“He’s still upset about yesterday?”
Jess shrugged. “He made two goals. Of course he was disappointed that you weren’t there.”