Another short story from peerless master...

Who is pursuing Diana on a remote country road – and why?

IN THE second of our short stories from bestselling author Jeffrey Archer, single mother and City high-flier Diana sets out for a relaxing weekend in the country that turns out to be anything but … Read part one today and find out tomorrow what happens next.

Diana had been hoping to get away by five, so she could be at the farm in time for dinner. She tried not to show her true feelings when at 4.37 her deputy, Phil Haskins, presented her with a complex 12-page document that required the signature of a director before it could be sent out to the client.

Haskins didn’t hesitate to remind her that they had lost two similar contracts that week. it was always the same on a Friday. The phones would go quiet in the middle of the afternoon and then, just as she thought she could slip away, an authorisation would land on her desk.

One glance at this particular document and Diana knew there would be no chance of escaping before six.

The demands of being a single parent as well as a director of a small but thriving City company meant there were few moments left in any day to relax, so when it came to the one weekend in four that James and Caroline spent with her ex-husband, Diana would try to leave the office a little earlier than usual to avoid getting snarled up in the weekend traffic.

She read through the first page slowly and made a couple of emendations, aware that any mistake made hastily on a Friday night could be regretted in the weeks to come. She glanced at the clock on her desk as she signed the final page of the document. it was just flicking over to 5.51.

Diana gathered up her bag and walked purposefully towards the door, dropping the contract on Phil’s desk without bothering to suggest that he have a good weekend. She suspected that the paperwork had been on his desk since nine o’clock that morning, but that holding it until 4.37 was his only means of revenge now that she had been made head of department.

Once she was safely in the lift, she pressed the button for the basement car park, calculating that the delay would probably add an extra hour to her journey.

She stepped out of the lift, walked over to her audi estate, unlocked the door and threw her bag onto the back seat. When she drove up onto the street the stream of twilight traffic was just about keeping pace with the pinstriped pedestrians who, like worker ants, were hurrying towards the nearest hole in the ground.

She flicked on the six o’clock news. The chimes of Big Ben rang out, before spokesmen from each of the three main political parties gave their views on the European election results.

John Major was refusing to comment on his future. The Conservative Party’s explanation for its poor showing was that only 36 per cent of the country had bothered to go to the polls.

Diana felt guilty — she was among the 64 per cent who had failed to register their vote.

The newscaster moved on to say that the situation in Bosnia remained desperate, and that the Un was threatening dire consequences if radovan Karadzic and the Serbs didn’t come to an agreement with the other warring parties. Diana’s mind began to drift — such a threat was hardly news any longer. She suspected that if she turned on the radio in a year’s time they would probably be repeating it word for word.

as her car crawled round russell Square, she began to think about the weekend ahead. it had been over a year since John had told her that he had met another woman and wanted a divorce.

She still wondered why, after seven years of marriage, she hadn’t been more shocked — or at least angry — at his betrayal. Since her appointment as a director, she had to admit they had spent less and less time together.

and perhaps she had become anaesthetised by the fact that a third of the married couples in Britain were now divorced or separated. Her parents had been unable to hide their disappointment, but then they had been married for 42 years.

The divorce had been amicable enough, as John, who earned less than she did — one of their problems, perhaps — had given in to most of her demands. She had kept the flat in Putney, the audi estate and the children, to whom John was allowed access one weekend in four.

He would have picked them up from school earlier that afternoon, and, as usual, he’d return them to the flat in Putney around seven on

Sunday evening. Diana would go to almost any lengths to avoid being left on her own in Putney when they weren’t around, and although she regularly grumbled about being landed with the responsibility of bringing up two children without a father, she missed them desperately the moment they were out of sight.

She hadn’t taken a lover and she didn’t sleep around. none of the senior staff at the office had ever gone further than asking her out to lunch. Perhaps because only three of them were unmarried — and not without reason.

The one person she might have considered having a relationship with had made it abundantly clear that he only wanted to spend the night with her, not the days.

in any case, Diana had decided long ago that if she was to be taken seriously as the company’s first woman director, an office affair, however casual or short-lived, could only end in tears.

Men are so vain, she thought. a woman only had to make one mistake and she was immediately labelled as promiscuous.

Then every other man on the premises either smirks behind your back, or treats your thigh as an extension of the arm on his chair.

Diana groaned as she came to a halt at yet another red light. in 20 minutes she hadn’t covered more than a couple of miles.

She opened the glove box on the passenger side and fumbled in the dark for a cassette. She found one and pressed it into the slot, hoping it would be Pavarotti, only to be greeted by the strident tones of Gloria Gaynor assuring her ‘i will survive’. She smiled and thought about Daniel, as the light changed to green.

She and Daniel had read Economics at Bristol University in the early 1980s, friends but never lovers. Then Daniel met rachael, who had come up a year after them, and from that moment he had never looked at another woman.

They married the day he graduated, and after they returned from their honeymoon Daniel took over the management of his father’s farm in Bedfordshire.

Three children had followed in quick succession, and Diana had been proud when she was asked to be godmother to Sophie, the eldest. Daniel and rachael had now been married for 12 years, and Diana felt confident that they wouldn’t be disappointing their parents with any suggestion of a divorce.

although they were convinced she led an exciting and fulfilling life, Diana often envied their gentle and uncomplicated existence.

She was regularly asked to spend the weekend with them in the country, but for every two or three invitations Daniel issued, she only accepted one — not because she wouldn’t have liked to join them more often, but because since her divorce she had no desire to take advantage of their hospitality.

although she enjoyed her work, it had been a bloody week. Two contracts had fallen through, James had been dropped from the school football team, and Caroline

had never stopped telling her that her father didn’t mind her watching television when she ought to be doing her prep.

Another traffic light changed to red. It took Diana nearly an hour to travel the seven miles out of the city, and when she reached the first dual carriageway, she glanced up at the A1 sign, more out of habit than to seek guidance, because she knew every yard of the road from her office to the farm. She tried to increase her speed, but it was quite impossible, as both lanes remained obstinately crowded.

‘Damn.’ She had forgotten to get them a present, even a decent bottle of claret. ‘Damn,’ she repeated:

Daniel and Rachael always did the giving. She began to wonder if she could pick something up on the way, then remembered there was nothing but service stations between here and the farm. She couldn’t turn up with yet another box of chocolates they’d never eat.

When she reached the roundabout that led onto the A1, she managed to push the car over 50 for the first time. She began to relax, allowing her mind to drift with the music.

There was no warning. Although she immediately slammed her foot on the brakes, it was already too late. There was a dull thump from the front bumper, and a slight shudder rocked the car. A small black creature had shot across her path, and despite her quick reactions, she hadn’t been able to avoid hitting it. Diana swung onto the hard shoulder and screeched to a halt, wondering if the animal could possibly have survived.

She reversed slowly back to the spot where she thought she had hit it as the traffic roared past her.

And then she saw it, lying on the grass verge — a cat that had crossed the road for the tenth time. She stepped out of the car, and walked towards the lifeless body.

Suddenly Diana felt sick. She had two cats of her own, and she knew she would never be able to tell the children what she had done. She picked up the dead animal and laid it gently in the roadside ditch.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, feeling a little silly. She gave it one last look before walking back to her car. Ironically, she had chosen the Audi for its safety features.

She climbed back into the car and

The high-beam lights were blinding her. If anything, they were closer than before

switched on the ignition to find Gloria Gaynor was still belting out her opinion of men. She turned her off, and tried to stop thinking about the cat as she waited for a gap in the traffic large enough to allow her to ease her way back into the slow lane. She eventually succeeded, but was still unable to erase the dead cat from her mind.

Diana had accelerated up to 50 again when she suddenly became aware of a pair of headlights shining through her rear windscreen. She put up her arm and waved in her rear-view mirror, but the lights continued to dazzle her.

She slowed to allow the vehicle to pass, but the driver showed no interest in doing so. Diana began to wonder if there was something wrong with her car. Was one of her lights not working? Was the exhaust billowing smoke? Was...

She decided to speed up and put some distance between herself and the vehicle behind, but it remained within a few yards of her bumper. She tried to snatch a look at the driver in her rear-view mirror, but it was hard to see much in the harshness of the lights.

As her eyes became more accustomed to the glare, she could make out the silhouette of a large black van bearing down on her, and what looked like a young man behind the wheel. he seemed to be waving at her.

Diana slowed down again as she approached the next roundabout, giving him every chance to overtake her on the outside lane, but once again he didn’t take the opportunity, and just sat on her bumper, his lights still undimmed.

She waited for a small gap in the traffic coming from her right. When one appeared she slammed her foot on the accelerator, shot across the roundabout and sped on up the A1.

She was rid of him at last. She was just beginning to relax and to think about Sophie, who always waited up so that she could read to her, when suddenly those highbeam headlights were glaring through her rear windscreen and blinding her once again.

If anything, they were even closer to her than before.

She slowed down, he slowed down. She accelerated, he accelerated. She tried to think what she could do next, and began waving frantically at passing motorists as they sped by, but they remained oblivious to her predicament.

She tried to think of other ways she might alert someone, and suddenly recalled that when she had joined the board of the company they had suggested she have a car phone fitted. Diana had decided it could wait until the car went in for its next service, which should have been a fortnight ago.

She brushed her hand across her forehead and removed a film of perspiration, thought for a moment, then manoeuvred her car into the fast lane. The van swung across after her, and hovered so close to her bumper that she became fearful that if she so much as touched her brakes she might unwittingly cause an enormous pile-up.

Diana took the car up to 90, but the van wouldn’t be shaken off. She pushed her foot further down on the accelerator and touched a 100, but it still remained less than a car’s length behind.

She flicked her headlights onto high-beam, turned on her hazard lights and blasted her horn at anyone who dared to remain in her path. She could only hope that the police might see her, wave her onto the hard shoulder and book her for speeding.

A fine would be infinitely preferable to a crash with a young tearaway, she thought, as the Audi estate passed 110 for the first time in its life. But the black van couldn’t be shaken off.

Without warning, she swerved back into the middle lane and took her foot off the accelerator, causing the van to draw level with her, which gave her a chance to look at the driver for the first time. he was wearing a black leather jacket and pointing menacingly at her.

She shook her fist at him and accelerated away, but he simply swung across behind her like an Olympic runner determined not to allow his rival to break clear.

And then she remembered, and felt sick for a second time that night. ‘Oh my God,’ she shouted aloud in terror. In a flood, the details of the murder that had taken place on the same road a few months before came rushing back to her. A woman had been raped before having her throat cut with a knife with a serrated edge and dumped in a ditch.

For weeks there had been signs posted on the A1 appealing to passing motorists to phone a certain number if they had any information that might assist the police with their enquiries.

The signs had now disappeared, but the police were still searching for the killer. Diana began to tremble as she remembered their warning to all woman drivers: ‘Never stop on the motorway . . .’

Never Stop on the Motorway is taken from the short story collection twelve red herrings by Jeffrey archer published by pan, £8.99. © Jeffrey archer 1994.