• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Clouds scurried across the sky, their outlines lined in white, and brought with them brief squalls of rain. Despite his injuries his footing was secure and he moved quickly along the increasingly narrow strip of level ground.

But he was wearying and after he had covered about five hundred ells he left the ridge and descended into the next valley. Something tore into his front and gouged the flesh on his legs. He tripped and rolled but regained his feet immediately and continued running. Casting a glance up to the top of the slope he saw that there was no one in pursuit.

That moment of retrospection was his downfall. The ground suddenly vanished from beneath his feet and he fell, flailing his legs, searching for some purchase. There was a snap as he impacted on the ground and he collapsed, panting.

He struggled up, but his leg gave beneath him. He already knew that it was broken but he reached back and probed at the offending limb with his fingertips; they came away bloody and he had felt spicules of bone sticking through the skin. Now he felt a chill touch on his flesh and he realized that he had fallen into a gully cut into the hillside by the stream which ran at its bottom. He was partially hidden from above, but not enough so he groped into the shadows for something which would give him a handhold into their concealment. There was nothing.

A light drizzle had started and the white not-sun was obscured by clouds, but this only aided the water in leeching the warmth from his body. He gave a kick with his good legs, pitching himself into the dark of the overhang, and then as if to help his hiding, the heavens opened, sending down impenetrable sheets of rain. He began to feel almost safe from the eyes his pursuers. But though they might not kill him, he could not be sure that the cold would not do the job as effectively. He felt weak and dizzy as his blood seeped and mixed with the stream water. Slowly a total darkness descended on his mind...

Inspector Anderson brought his car to a halt, took his hat off the passenger seat and slipped out into the drizzle. He tugged the hat firmly into place and buttoned his jacket up tight against the rain.

Red light washed the scene of destruction before him. The coach had gone straight through the central barrier, careered across the northbound lane and then plunged down the banking, coming to rest on its side in the midst of the luridly lit field of oilseed rape. The last of the ambulances was pulling away as he walked along the hard shoulder to examine the wreckage.

The coach didn't have the name of a firm emblazoned along its side as most did - it probably didn't belong to a line of coaches. It was an infrequent sight, an anonymous coach, but it wasn't entirely unusual.

Anderson stood at the top of the banking for a couple of seconds before he decided to tackle its treacherously muddy slope. He slithered down it, one hand behind him to ward off a potentially embarrassing slide. One of the constables strolled towards him, his fluorescent yellow jacket merging with the flowerheads behind him.

'Morning,. sir,' the man said and Anderson momentarily glanced at his watch. It really was morning -

just gone one o'clock in fact. We thought we'd better call you out sir because of this accident.'

'It's all right, constable, erm,' Anderson peered at the man's badge 'Constable Parker.' Anderson didn't really mind being called away from his lovely warm sofa; at least it got him away from her. 'What's the difficulty?'

Well, sir, if you'd just come over here ... ' Parker led him round the side, rather the bottom, of the bus to where a number of rather squashed-looking suitcases were piled on the bent, wet stalks. 'There are more of these inside.'

'The passengers' luggage, surely?'

'Yes, but ... ' Parker opened one of the cases and motioned for Anderson to look inside.

'Good lord, how much?'

'Fifty thousand in that one, sir. And all the others are the same. Maybe not