Mulling it all over and finding no answer, she was jolted back to reality as she saw something in her rear-view mirror. A silver-grey Porsche was coming up fast behind her. Damn, she knew that car. She put her foot down harder on the accelerator. The last thing she wanted was to chat to Harlan Stone. She’d never liked the fact that her dad worked for his dad. And now she knew the trade they were in, she realized that Harlan had to be involved too. Harlan was on the manor a lot now, getting into it all. He wouldn’t give a single shit that his high life was paid for in blood and misery.

He was inching closer in the rear-view, matching Belle’s speed. He was flashing his lights. She could see him grinning back there, edging up closer and closer.

Fucker, thought Belle.

The Porsche was right on the BMW’s tail now, and then . . . no, he wouldn’t do it. Would he?

He would.

The Porsche thumped, jarringly, into the back of her car.

‘Hey!’ shouted Belle, jolting forward at the impact, the wind whipping her words away in an instant. ‘Harlan, you bastard!’

Belle accelerated harder. But Harlan was there, right there on her tail.

Crumpppp!!!!

Again the Porsche hit the back of the BMW.

‘You, Harlan Stone, are an arsehole!’ yelled Belle. Dad would throw a fit if there was any damage, she knew. He’d bought her the BMW for her last birthday. But Charlie Stone would say, ah, the boy was only playing, where was the harm? It was only money, it was only a car, it was easily fixed.

Yeah – with drugs money, right?

Belle put her foot down harder and the speed dial crept up past seventy. Then she rounded a sharp bend and her heart leapt into her mouth. A tractor was pulling out from a field. She stamped on the brake and the BMW skidded to a halt. The Porsche, following right behind, slewed sideways and came to a standstill mere inches away.

That silly bastard could have pulverized her.

‘Jesus!’ said Belle and slapped the wheel in fright and rage.

Harlan was grinning across at her as if it was all one great big joke. The bearded tractor driver gave them both a long cold look, then went, unconcerned, on his way.

‘You fucking idiot,’ she snapped, full volume.

Belle was unfastening her seat belt, throwing the door open and storming round to the back of the car, peering at the BMW’s rear end to check for damage. There was a deep scratch above the number plate, nothing else. But damn – he’d scared her half to death. When she’d come round that bend at full speed and seen the tractor blocking the road, she’d nearly pissed herself.

‘What’s the problem, Belle?’ Harlan was saying, getting out of the Porsche and coming to stand nearby.