Chapter 3
Nikki’s groaned as she came round. She felt like shit and
her head was aching. The last time she had felt so bad was the morning after
the Oscar’s ceremony, three years ago. Her adaptation of one of her books had
earned her a nomination for Best Screenplay. She hadn’t won but she and Trish
had consoled themselves at the party afterwards with several glasses – it may
even have run into bottles – of champagne!
She struggled to a sitting position and ran probing
fingers across her forehead. There was a bump that hurt like hell but she
didn’t think there was any blood. She stood up groggily. The van was tilted at
a slight angle, obviously nose down. She hammered on the door and yelled
loudly. “Is anybody out there?” She screwed up her face as the noise
reverberated around her head. “Shit, Wade! You always did have a big gob!” she
mumbled to herself. She heard a noise and the door was opened by one of the two
guards who were accompanying her.
“Are you alright?” he enquired.
“Just a bump on the head. What the bloody hell
happened?” she demanded as she stepped out of the van.
“We had a blow-out and nose-dived into a ditch. Bloody
good job it didn’t happen on the motorway or we’d all be gonners.” He staggered
and leant against the side of the van for support.
“You OK?” she asked with concern.
He took a few deep breaths before replying. “Just felt
a bit groggy but can you have a look at Ken, my mate? I managed to get him out
of the cab but I don’t think he’s breathing.”
She ran round to the side and saw the driver lying
prone on the ground. She knelt down and felt at his neck, concentrating hard,
but she couldn’t feel a pulse.
“How is he?” the guard asked as he knelt down beside
her.
She shook her head regretfully. “I think he’s dead.”
“But he can’t be. He’s got three kids. Can’t you do
something?”
“Who do you think I am? Florence ‘bleedin’’
Nightingale!” she snapped, then regretted her sharpness. The guard was
obviously distressed. She shrugged then placed her palms on Ken’s chest and
pumped her arms a couple of times.
“Will that do any good?”
“How the hell should I know? I saw it in a film once.”
She repeated the action then nipped his nose and breathed into his mouth. “Have
you radioed in?” she demanded as she continued pumping Ken’s chest. “Sorry,
don’t know your name.”
“It’s Bill and help’s on its way.” He grabbed her arm
excitedly. “I think he’s breathing. You’ve only gone and bloody done it!”
Nikki felt at Ken’s neck again. There was a faint
pulse. She sat back on her haunches and gave a relieved smile.
“Nice one, girl!” Bill slapped her soundly on the
shoulder causing her to wobble precariously.
Her face broke into a huge grin as she struggled to
regain her balance. “Well, don’t you go telling anyone you’ve seen me snogging
a bloke,” she joked.
They both stood up as they heard the wail of a siren
in the distance.
“That’s the ambulance. Can you stay with Ken and make
sure he’s alright?”
Nikki watched as Bill set off at a trot down the road.
He had obviously forgotten she was a prisoner in transit because he hadn’t even
handcuffed her. She looked down at Ken. His breathing seemed to be stronger.
“Sorry, pal, you’re on your own!” she muttered as she grabbed her bag of
belongings from the van. She looked around her. There was a wood a few hundred
yards down the road. If she could get to that without the other guard seeing
her…
Her heart was in her mouth as she set off running,
with each step she took expecting Bill to come after her. As she crashed into
the wood she took a few seconds to catch her breath and look back the way she
had come. She could see the ambulance lights flashing beside the prison van
then Bill start to run down the road towards her. She had obviously been
missed! He had only gone a few yards before he gave up and walked back. She
smiled momentarily then her face became serious. Now what? She didn’t even know
where the bloody hell she was!
Helen Stewart swore softly as the telephone shrilled
waking her from a deep sleep. She
fumbled for the receiver and held it against her ear. “This had better be good,
Lofty!” she exclaimed irritably.
"How did you know it was me?" the voice at
the other end of the line demanded.
"Because you're the only one with enough gall to
get me out of bed when I've just done a fifteen hour stint," she replied
sleepily.
"Fancy a trip to Cornwall?" he went on
ignoring her sarcasm.
"No! Not
at this time of night!" she retorted, her Scottish accent becoming more
pronounced.
"Nikki Wade escaped whilst she was being
transferred to another prison," he said simply.
Helen sat bolt upright, immediately wide awake and
flung the duvet from her. "I'm on my way."
"Thought you might be," he said smugly.
Twenty minutes later wearing jeans and a leather
jacket Helen pounded down the corridors of the Yorkshire newspaper where she
worked and rapped smartly on a door marked 'Editor' before entering.
Daniel Lofthouse looked up from his desk at the
intrusion. "You didn't waste any time."
"This story's mine, Lofty,” she said vehemently.
“I didn't want you giving it to anyone else."
"What is it with you and this Wade woman?"
he demanded, looking up at her as she perched on the edge of his desk.
"I don't know what you mean," she said
innocently.
"Ever since her trial you've devoured every scrap
of newsprint about her and get your backside off my desk."
"Sorry," she replied absently, as she stood
up and moved to a leather office chair. "Nikki Wade was, and is, news and
I'm not passing up the chance of another instalment of her story. She protested
her innocence so strongly, I almost believed her."
Lofthouse looked at her keenly. He had known her for
almost ten years, ever since she had come down from Scotland and joined the
newspaper as a junior reporter. During that time he had watched her grow from a
gawky teenager into a beautiful woman. On top of which she was also one of his
best reporters. If only she didn't get so involved!
He picked up a buff-coloured folder from his desk and
handed it to her. "You'll find everything you need in there but you
probably know the case backwards anyway."
"Do you really think Wade will go back to the
scene of the crime?" she asked as she flicked through the file, pausing
momentarily to study a black and white photo of Nikki Wade. Not that she was
unfamiliar with the face. She had been in court when Wade was sentenced. There
had been one point where she had looked at the defendant and found brown eyes
staring into her green ones mockingly. At the time she’d shrugged it off. It
was a crowded press box and Wade could have been looking at any one of them but
she had never forgotten those eyes!
Lofthouse shrugged. "I don't know, but don't you
go looking for trouble."
"I can take care of myself, Lofty. I went to judo
classes. Remember?"
"You went once. You hurt your back.
Remember?" he sneered.
She pulled a face at him.
"Now go," he waved her away. As she left the
office he called after her, "Keep in touch and don't spend too much of my
money."
"As if I would," she called back. “I’m a
Scot, remember?”
The first few flakes of snow began falling as Helen
pulled away from the parking space in front of her flat. As she drove her
thoughts drifted back to the trial that she had covered for the newspaper.
Twelve months ago, famous author Nikki Wade had been
accused of killing her girlfriend, Trisha, who had been three months pregnant
when she had been found dead at the bottom of a cliff. A post mortem revealed
traces of skin, from scratches on Nikki Wade’s cheek, had been found under
Trisha’s fingernails caused, or so the prosecution would have the jury believe,
when she was trying to stop herself being pushed from the cliff. Throughout the
trial Nikki Wade had protested her innocence but she had a motive – Trisha was
pregnant because of an affair – and she didn’t have an alibi. She admitted the
scratches had been caused during an argument but inside the house. Trisha had
then stormed out and she had drunk herself into a stupor and passed out.
'You were in a drunken stupor, you say,' the
prosecutor had said contemptuously. 'But what really happened, Ms Wade, was
that you followed your girlfriend from the house to the cliff top where, in
cold-blood, you pushed her onto the rocks below!'
'I did not kill Trish,' Wade had almost spelled out
the words but the jury hadn't believed her and she had been sentenced to life
imprisonment.
The snow had begun falling heavily as she had driven
down the motorway so that when she reached the Bodmin Moors there was a thick
white carpet covering the area. However, she had every confidence in her
Peugeot 306 if she drove carefully. What she didn't bargain for was a maniac in
a Range Rover shooting out from a side road straight into her path. "You
stupid bastard!" she yelled as she, momentarily forgetting the weather
conditions, slammed on her brakes. The driver of the Range Rover carried on his
oblivious way whilst she did a Torvill and Dean along the road before coming to
an ungainly halt against the gated entrance of a field.
She switched off the engine and sat with her head
resting on the steering wheel, silently cursing the driver of the Range Rover.
The sound of an engine approaching brought Helen
upright and the same Range Rover pulled up in front of her. She saw a man climb
out then realised her mistake. It was a woman with short, cropped hair. Her
hand flew to her mouth in horror as recognition dawned. It was Nikki Wade!