Outside, Harry’s BMW, still displaying a damaged windscreen, was parked on the dirt road just beyond the clubhouse’s forecourt, parked behind Tucker’s Passat. Harry frogmarched the prisoner over there, hitting the fob as he did, the BMW’s lights blinking.

‘I’ll put Mum in the front … then I’ll go in the back with him,’ Lucy said.

Harry nodded, bundling the still-cuffed prisoner into the rear seat, while Lucy eased Cora into the front. The woman was a deadweight on her arm.

‘I … I think I’m going to faint,’ she breathed.

‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ Lucy said, fastening her in. ‘But we’re fifteen minutes, tops, from the hospital. Think you can hang on?’

Cora tried to smile, but it barely creased her haggard features. ‘Not much choice …’

Lucy closed the door, and clambered into the backseat alongside Tucker. Harry jumped in behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life, the car skidding back and forth as it manoeuvred through a rapid three-point turn. Lucy saw Armstrong and his crowd spilling out of the clubhouse to watch, as they sped away along the rugged trail.

‘Thought you were a goner back there,’ Harry said.

‘I wasn’t in any real danger.’ Lucy glanced from the window. ‘When this is over, ask me nicely and I might tell you what my connection with the Low Riders actually is.’

She looked at the rear-view mirror, and saw his eyes briefly flicker her way, which was strange – almost as if he hadn’t been directing that question at her at all.

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Harry asked.

‘That we had a serious problem,’ Tucker replied, sounding groggy, but flexing his left hand, which apparently wasn’t cuffed behind his back after all. ‘A problem that needing fixing.’ Before Lucy could react, he’d produced the .38 Special, and jammed it into her side. ‘One way or another … and very bloody quickly.’

Chapter 43

‘You’re not seriously telling me you’re involved in this too, Harry?’ Lucy said. Despite everything, this was still one of the biggest revelations of the day. ‘Don’t tell me that, please.’

Harry chuckled as he drove. ‘Liked that little pantomime we put on, did you? About me not knowing these fellas … about me not being impressed by their results.’

‘You’re not that good an actor, pal … you genuinely weren’t impressed.’

‘Well … it’s true. I wasn’t. But ultimately, it’s not about liking people, it’s about picking the side that suits you best.’

The disbelief seeping through Lucy was now replaced by a sense of slow-building rage, mainly at herself; the level of betrayal today was off the scale, literally numbing, and it kept on going up, but perhaps, on reflection, it had been predictable too.

‘I’ve got to give it to you,’ she said. ‘I never thought you’d be able to misdirect me.’