BOUND TO RUN: a gripping crime thriller full of action and suspense Read online

  BOUND TO RUN

  a gripping crime thriller full of action and suspense

  Robert McCracken

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2022

  © Robert McCracken

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  BOUND TO RUN is a standalone thriller by Robert McCracken, author of the bestselling crime series about the exploits of DI Tara Grogan. Details about the other books can be found at the back of this one.

  BOUND TO RUN was originally published as RUN by Crux Publishing in 2019.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part II

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part III

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Part IV

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Part V

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  More fiction by Robert McCracken

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  Part I

  Chapter 1

  The taxi pulled onto the sloping drive, pressing tracks into the fresh snow. It came to a halt on a flat piece of ground in front of the stone cottage. The driver left the engine running and, gazing at the front door, sounded the horn once. It was a solid wooden door, painted dark brown but weathered, faded and peeling. The brass knocker was badly tarnished and had probably never been cleaned.

  He knew that nowadays the place was merely a holiday home – no one had farmed the surrounding land for years. It was only good for grazing sheep. The true Cumbrian family who had once lived here for generations, had long since departed. Someone with a sharp eye on the property market had bought it, modernised it, and rented it to city folk who thought it twee to have a holiday home in the Lakes.

  The driver noticed a twitch of the lace curtain at the four-paned window to the right of the door. At least someone knew he was there. If his fare didn’t get a move on, they would struggle on the roads. After days of heavy rain the land was sodden and, in some areas, under water. Streams and rivers had burst their banks, and today the temperature had plummeted.

  Why the hell anyone would want to spend time here in late November, he had no idea. He could think of better places to be for a holiday and could certainly think of better places for him to be right now than sitting at the dead end of a mountain lane waiting to pick up a fare.

  The sky was grey, growing darker by the minute with the threat of snow. The slopes surrounding the cottage were already veiled in white, the dark lines of dry-stone walls and barbed wire fences resembling a charcoal sketch on virgin paper. He rubbed his hands together in front of the air vent.

  ‘Get a bloody move on,’ he mumbled, ‘or we’ll be stuck here all night.’

  He glanced again at the front door. Why did he always volunteer for the awkward runs? Right now, he could be home watching TV before dinner, snug and secure as the weather did its worst. But no, he had taken the last fare of the day, and now there was a chance he might not make it home at all.

  Suddenly, his horizon disappeared. He could no longer see the line of hills, nor the bottom of the valley, and his wipers were already battling the white flakes landing on his windscreen. His taxi was an ordinary car, nothing fancy – a Ford Mondeo. Not a four-wheel drive, no winter tyres. Just a car.

  He watched the front door of the cottage open with a stutter as its bottom edge rubbed on the step. Swollen in its frame from the damp, it needed rehanging. A woman in a black coat with a fur collar and black suede boots emerged, battling with a suitcase and a smaller overnight bag. She struggled to pull the door closed but, finally, it slammed into place. He jumped out of the car and opened the boot. She persisted in trailing the case, its wheels redundant, over the snow and gravel until she reached the car. He took the case from her.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Not the kind of weather for being out. Essential journeys only, they’re saying on the news.’ He lifted the suitcase into the boot, then reached for the smaller bag.

  ‘I’ll keep that,’ she said, her eyes locked on the black leather case.

  She had a tanned face. Her eyes were dark brown, and her full lips were coated in a purple lipstick. Her hair was a deep colour of rust, curled into her face. A bob, he believed it was called. He should know this, he thought to himself; his girlfriend was a hairdresser in Penrith.

  The woman climbed into the back of the car, and he closed the door behind her. He jumped into the driver’s seat, clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Penrith station, please.’

  All the while, he peered at her in his mirror. She returned his gaze only once as she answered his question, then turned her head and looked out of the window. He had to reverse out of the drive the way he’d come in, and the car slid the last foot in the snow and onto the lane. Before driving off, he couldn’t help another glance at his passenger. She was about his age, he decided. Thirty-four, or perhaps forty and looking great. He was useless at guessing a woman’s age. She was hot, though – of that he was a good judge. He adjusted his mirror so that it was filled by her stunning face. As the car moved slowly down the lane, he continued to steal frequent glances at her. She ignored him.

  Chapter 2

  ‘A weekend break, was it?’ he asked.

  She made no reply. Her attention was
focussed upon her phone and its lack of signal. He was neither a careful driver, nor a reckless one. He believed that he drove to suit the conditions, to suit the location. He knew most of the roads in this area well. He knew the Lakes; he knew Cumbria.

  ‘The weather is really closing in,’ he said, trying again to engage the woman. She did not reply.

  A voice sounded from his phone system as Jan, the taxi firm’s call operator, cut in.

  ‘Did you pick up from Dowthwaitehead?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way to the station, but it’s slow-going.’

  ‘The bridge is out at Dockray, so don’t take that road.’

  He noticed his passenger looking at him in his mirror when the bridge was mentioned. He thought he would wait for her to speak, to ask the question. When she didn’t, he plugged the gap.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We can take another road.’

  ‘I need to make the train for London.’ Her voice was soft, but her tone was blunt.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Three minutes past five.’

  He checked the clock on the dashboard.

  ‘Will we make it all right?’ she asked.

  He sucked air through his lips.

  ‘Hope so.’ He peered at the lane ahead, which was rapidly filling with snow. His wipers were only just coping with clearing the windscreen. The tyres struggled for grip. If she wanted to make the London train, he thought, she should have left much earlier.

  Chapter 3

  She felt the back end swing out as the car slithered towards an earthen bank at the side of the lane. Then it righted itself and motored onwards but, within seconds, it was back into a slide. She kept an eye on the driver by looking in his mirror. He was watching her, his eyes switching frequently from her to the road. She didn’t need his attention. She just wanted him to get her to the station on time to meet her train.

  The road was treacherous. She could never have driven it in her tiny Fiat that she’d left in London, nor even in a Land Rover if she had owned one. Why had she not realised that the snow was getting so bad? This was not London. Heavy traffic was not going to sweep the snow to the side of the road. Even from her brief stay here, she knew that cars did not come along such lanes very often. But she had no desire to spend another night in this place. She wanted – she needed – to get back to London.

  The engine whined, and she felt the wheels spinning as the car struggled to climb a slope in the lane. There was nothing to see ahead, nor to either side, but a blank white sheet. Surely they would not be stranded. Someone would come along to pull them out, and rush her to the station in time for her train. The driver wasn’t so chatty now – not since she’d told him of her schedule. But still he watched her in the mirror.

  It seemed as though they were cutting a channel through the Arctic rather than driving on an English country road. The snow swept into the windscreen in a gale of white powder that was quickly dispensed by the wipers but less efficiently by the tyres.

  There was a jolt as the car crabbed to the side, then a feeling of acceleration as it slid down a steep slope. She had to steady herself with her gloved hand on the door, the other gripping her seat. And the driver still had time to look at her in the mirror. She tried to appear unperturbed, but inside her heart thumped and her stomach lurched with every rise and fall and with each sideways skid as the wheels fought for grip.

  She prayed they would reach a proper road soon. And as her mind raced to desperate thoughts, and her fears rose, the front of the car dipped. A steep hill seemed to lie before them, although she could see nothing. How had the taxi driver ever managed to reach the cottage in the first place? There were moments when he was in control of his car, but suddenly everything ran free. The wheels had no purchase. The car, a heavy metal box, became a bobsleigh sliding down an icy track. His braking only added to her fear, as the car skidded wildly from side to side and continued to gather speed.

  ‘Slow down, please!’

  ‘Sorry, love, not much I can do on these hills.’

  She had no memory of such a sharp turn in the lane but, with gathering speed and less control of steering, the car ploughed straight on. A violent thud tossed her from her seat as the car came to a halt in deep snow. The back end of the car now sat higher than the front. Still, he was gazing at her in his mirror.

  Chapter 4

  She released her seatbelt and fumbled for the door handle.

  ‘No, love. Stay there.’

  Ignoring his plea, she pushed at the door. It opened, and she was struck by a rush of freezing air. She stepped from the car, and immediately fell three feet before sinking into the snow. She fell backwards onto what an hour earlier had been a grass bank. The driver, in his haste to reach her, jumped from the car and stomped his way around to where she was trying to clamber up the slippery bank while clutching her overnight bag.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted, but her panic fuelled her determination.

  By the time he reached her, she had twice attempted to climb up the earthen bank without success. She lay on the snow, copious flakes already landing on her dark clothing. He stood over her, reaching out his hand to help her get to her feet. She ignored the offer, pushing herself up to a seated position.

  ‘We need to stay in the car, love,’ he said. ‘It’s not a good idea to start walking in this weather. We wouldn’t get far.’

  ‘But I have a train to catch.’

  ‘I doubt if the trains are even running in this snow. We need to stay in the car until help arrives.’

  The driver examined his vehicle. He saw no easy way to get it back on the lane. It was well and truly stranded. He reached down once again to help her to her feet, but she ignored his offer for a second time and instead raised herself upwards with one hand, using her bag to keep her steady. For a moment they stood face to face. He was tall and fit-looking, she thought. His shoulders were broad. His fair hair was short, and he was clean shaven. He wore a navy-blue fleece jacket with the logo of the taxi company on the left breast: Valley Cabs was embroidered in yellow beneath an image of a car on a mountain peak. His dark blue jeans were a slim fit, and the hems were pulled down over the top of a pair of sturdy walking boots.

  She took her time deciding whether or not to heed his advice. She really needed to make that train. Surely she still had time. If she could make it to the end of the lane then maybe a passing car or a lorry would stop. She looked into the driver’s eyes – they were a strong blue and deep-set. In the short time they had been together in the cab, she had seen those eyes staring at her in the mirror. Would she be safe remaining here, with him? The wind blew more snow into her face and the faux fur of her collar had turned white as if dusted with icing sugar.

  ‘Let’s get back inside,’ he said, ‘and I’ll call for help on the mobile. Maybe they can get a farmer to come and pull us out of here.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long. I’ve told you I have a train to catch. If you can’t drive me there then I’ll walk down to the main road.’

  ‘It’s nearly two miles to the main road. You won’t make it in this weather. I’m sorry about the train, but you’d be safer staying here until we get rescued. Come on, I’ll call for help. Get back in the car, at least until I’ve done that.’

  He gestured to the open door from which she’d jumped a minute earlier. Before taking a step, she studied his face. He sounded genuine – helpful, concerned even. But she couldn’t help feeling unnerved by the way he’d been staring at her in his mirror. Now he had a thin smile on his face. A smile, perhaps of genuine patience, or maybe a smile of a struggle for tolerance. She glanced around her. The trail they had driven had almost disappeared into a murky whiteness. The car had breached the verge at the side of the lane and now rested with its front end in a field and its rear end grounded on the hump of earth that only a few moments ago, she had tried to conquer. Frightened of what may happen if they were stranded, and also terrified that the driver might turn out to be some pervert who cou
ld try to take advantage of her, she felt there was little choice but to climb back into the car. He closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Hey, Jan, are you there?’ said the driver into his hands-free phone.

  She heard nothing and wondered how he had any signal on his mobile when she had none.

  ‘C’mon, Jan love?’ Nothing. ‘I’ll bet she’s on another fag break.’

  She watched him fiddle with the mobile, held in a cradle attached to the dashboard.

  ‘Are you getting a signal?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s never great in this area. We’re in the shadow of two mountains, one either side of this lane. The nearest mast is closer to Penrith.’

  Nevertheless, he lifted his phone from its holder on the dash and called a number. To her surprise, in a few seconds he was speaking cheerfully.

  ‘Hi, darling. I’m stuck on the moor up beyond Dowthwaitehead… yeah. Snow’s really deep and drifting. The car went over a verge… yeah, halfway into a field. Any chance of getting someone out here to pull us out? Hello? Hello? Shoot.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’ll try again in a few minutes. Don’t worry, we’ll not be here all night.’

  She attempted a weak smile to show a little appreciation for his efforts, but all she could think about was what would happen if she missed her train. The idea of being stranded all night sent shivers coursing through her body.

  He saw her checking her watch – her Cartier La Dona watch. It read four thirty-five.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ll make your train,’ he said.

  He turned around and pressed a button on the console. Radio 2 came on. Steve Wright in the Afternoon. She fumed and tried to look out the window, but it was beginning to mist over – besides, the light was fading fast. The sound of an old song played. It was familiar to her, although she could not recall the name of the artist. She sat with her arms folded, uncomfortable on the seat because the car sat at an awkward angle. She had to rest her feet against the front seat to prevent herself from sliding forwards.