Blanchard jammed his vehicle into reverse, gunned the engine and leaning over his shoulder guided the Volvo backwards at high speed up the narrow lane. The big car, a BMW X5, followed him, almost nose to nose. The first thirty yards were fine, then he sideswiped a parked car’s wing mirror. At the village green, he reversed straight onto the grass, intending to turn out on to the main road. The BMW blocked his forward route, so Blanchard continued to reverse, right over the steps of the war memorial, back down to the footpath, then turned sharp right, smashing down the memorial green rose bushes and into the lane which led down to the dual carriageway. He sped past the Anvil Arms at sixty, overtook a van on a blind corner, then headed for the slip road. The big BMW was right behind him. His heart was hammering, and he was taking risks he had never taken before. But he couldn’t let them catch him.

As he approached the dual carriageway he could see arc lights in the distance. Once on the slip road he realised why. There were major roadworks, traffic was stationary, and he was being fed right into the queue. He was still doing over sixty and had one second to make a decision. He flicked the Volvo to the right, crossing the slip road hatch marks. He was headed the wrong way along the dual carriageway exit lane. That sharply curved slip road, designed to slow down exiting traffic, caused his tyres to squeal. He was gambling his life on a single calculation: that this was such a minor turn-off there would be no vehicles coming the other way.

He was right. But everything changed the moment he was on the carriageway. A closing speed of 120 miles an hour to oncoming traffic. A large white van swerved out of the way into the fast lane, horn sounding. Blanchard too pressed his hand to the horn and kept as far to the right as possible, but this was the start of an overpass across the River Wey. There was no hard shoulder, just a one-yard strip to the crash barrier which guarded the drop to the water below. The next two vehicles gave him space as he crested the top of the overpass at sixty, but 300 yards away one articulated truck was overtaking another coming up the incline towards him, and there was literally nowhere to go. The railings ended in 150 yards to be replaced by an embankment and bushes, and he had to get to that spot before the two trucks closed off the gap. Blanchard accelerated, and saw the needle flick to eighty as he squeezed the Volvo to the right, one wheel on the grass and one on the edge of the tarmac. The vehicle seemed to leave the ground almost immediately afterwards, and Blanchard had one last glimpse in the mirror.

He wasn’t being followed any longer.

Chapter Three