No Middle Ground

by Jack Slater

  Lucy looked up, tears still streaming down her face. ‘Any of? How many have there been?’

  Jane squeezed her hand. ‘We don’t know. Maybe we never will. But the main thing is to make sure there aren’t anymore.’

  ‘By keeping him locked up,’ Pete said. ‘With your help and that of the people in that cottage out by Cowley bridge.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘You were right, boss. We should have put a watch on your place last night. CCTV from the Co-op round the corner shows that brown Discovery going past just before six and leaving again a bit after midnight.’

  The fear that would normally have sparked in Pete’s gut on behalf of his wife and daughter was replaced by anger – both at Steve Southam’s bare-faced audacity and at the clueless pillock who didn’t put a watch on an obvious target for a known fugitive. ‘So why the hell didn’t we?’ he demanded.

  Ben shrugged. ‘Above my pay-grade, boss. I know Jane suggested it. Don’t know why it wasn’t done.’

  Was this another swipe at him over the arrest and conviction of former colleague Frank Benton? If so, at least one head would roll for it. He’d make damn sure of that. ‘Right. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He marched up the length of the squad room towards Colin Underhill’s office, seeing the DCI in there, but barging in anyway.

  ‘Guvnor. Chief. I need a word.’

  ‘We’re having a private conversation, Detective Sergeant,’ Silverstone snapped.

  ‘And you’re welcome to continue it, sir. But first, DC Bennett asked for a watch to be put on my house last night for the fugitive Steven Southam. It wasn’t done, despite his being the most wanted man in the county at this point. And we have evidence that puts him exactly where DC Bennett said he would be. I want to know why it wasn’t done, sir, and whose decision it was.’

  The uniformed man had gone deathly pale, his thin lips almost disappearing as he pressed them together, dark eyes glittering as he stared at Pete.

  ‘What evidence?’ His voice was flat and quiet.

  ‘CCTV.’ And if he got close enough, there’ll be additional footage from home because I haven’t taken our cameras down yet, He thought. Thanks, Annie. Maybe I’m keener on urban foxes than I was, after all. ‘But that doesn’t answer the question of who made the decision to ignore Jane’s request.’

  Colin was sitting in his chair, fingers entwined on the desk, watching the exchange without saying a word.

  ‘It was me, Detective Sergeant,’ Silverstone said.

  ‘What?’ Pete stepped forward, getting right into Silverstone’s face, barely able to stop himself from grabbing the useless idiot by the throat and shaking him. ‘Why the hell would you even think of doing that? Sir? You knew the situation. You knew he killed Tommy and that he was an immediate threat to my wife and daughter. Why the fuck would you knowingly put their lives in danger?’

  ‘That’s enough, Detective Sergeant,’ Silverstone snapped.

  ‘No, it’s not. Not by a long shot. I will have an explanation. And not just an excuse but a full, formal, policy-led explanation in writing that’ll justify your actions not just to me but to Middlemoor. Because this is one step far too bloody far. And I want it by tonight. Sir.’ He turned on his heel and slammed out of the little office, glass rattling in the door as he slammed it, drawing every eye in the squad room as he stalked back towards his desk.

  ‘Where are we on Southam?’ he asked, sitting down and taking a gulp of his coffee.

  ‘He’s been off-grid since midnight, boss,’ Ben told him.

  ‘So, he didn’t come this way and he didn’t head for the industrial estates or the motorway. He must have stayed around the residential areas. Whipton, Polsoe, Newtown, Pennsylvania.’

  ‘What’s the odds the sick bastard parked up in the cemetery for the night?’ Dick suggested. ‘He certainly wouldn’t be seen there if he left before eight or so.’

  Pete grunted, calming down now that he had something to focus on. ‘Is it open overnight?’

  ‘Dunno, but it can’t be hard to find out.’ Dick lifted his phone and dialled.

  ‘If he left there before eight this morning, where’d he go?’ Pete asked, his gaze roving around the remainder of the team.

  ‘Well, we know what his primary objective is,’ Jane pointed out. ‘It’s not far from there to New North Road.’ She opened a drawer in her desk and tossed a blister-pack of tablets to Pete. ‘Here. Take a couple of these, boss. They’ll ease that shoulder a bit.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Pete glanced down at the tablets. They were Ibuprophen. He popped a couple out and swallowed them dry before returning the pack.

  ‘He can’t seriously expect to get away with that, though, can he?’ Dick said, one hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. ‘He knows we know about it.’

  ‘And you don’t reckon he’s got the brass balls to try anyway?’ asked Jill.

  Pete grunted. Actually, he did.

  ‘He knows there’ll be an increased police presence,’ Ben said.

  ‘So maybe he’ll try to take them by surprise,’ Jane suggested. ‘Hit the van before it even leaves the car park.’

  Pete checked his watch. ‘What time’s Adrian’s hearing?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘They’ll want him there nice and early. Let him stew a bit before it starts. I’ll give them a call and warn them.’

  He picked up his phone as Dick put his down.

  ‘The cemetery doesn’t get locked,’ the grey-haired man said as Pete began to dial.

  ‘That’s your likeliest answer then,’ Jane said.

  ‘Exeter prison,’ a voice said brusquely when the connection was made.

  ‘DS Gayle, Heavitree Road CID. We’ve got credible intel that Adrian Southam’s brother’s going to try to break him out of custody as he leaves for the Combined Court House.’

  ‘He’s on the way out as we speak.’

  ‘Damn it. Stop that van.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s too late. I can see the gates from here. The van’s… Bloody hell!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A brown four-by-four just broadsided it like a bull at a gate. There’s a bloke jumping out of it and…’

  Pete dropped the phone before the man could continue his commentary. ‘Move. Everyone.’ He was out of his seat before he finished speaking and running for the door. As he hurtled down the concrete stairs, his neck and shoulder jarring painfully at every step, he heard feet slapping and clacking behind him. He made the bottom in four big leaps, good hand supporting the bad arm, snatched out his ID card to slap in on the door release. It took only a second to open but it was five seconds too long for Pete. He slammed through and ran down the corridor, past the custody desk, slapping the door release button and the door beyond as he headed as fast as he could for his car.

  Jumping in, he saw Jane, Jill, Dick and Ben all running for theirs. He started the engine, not waiting for them to follow before hitting the lights and sirens and peeling out of the car park and down the hill towards the ring-road.

  With scant consideration for other road users, he made it to the prison in record time, but was still too late. He jumped out of the car at a scene of mechanical carnage. The prison transport van was a wreck, its whole left side crushed in, every door open and uniformed men milling around it in seeming chaos. The brown four-by-four that Steven Southam had been driving the day before sat at the far side of the van, its front end, crushed by the impact, a good four feet from the side of the van where it had rebounded on impact.

  How had they got away?

  He grabbed a police constable. ‘What did they drive off in?’

  The man seemed to be in a daze. ‘Huh? A pale blue Nissan.’

  ‘Did anyone get the plate?’

  ‘I dunno, Sarge.’

  Pete turned away from him, looked around the scene but could see no-one in obvious charge. He raised his voice and shouted. ‘Did anyone get make, model and registration on the getaway vehicle?’

  ‘Stand
by,’ Jill said into her chest-worn radio, standing at his side.

  ‘Nissan Primera,’ someone shouted.

  Jill passed the information on.

  ‘Foxtrot Golf six four,’ someone shouted. ‘Didn’t get the rest.’

  Again, Jill passed the message along. ‘Alert’s out, boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Jill.’

  There was no telling which direction they would have taken from here so no point leaving until they had a clue from the cameras or road traffic cars. But Pete was chafing at the bit as he paced up and down the little car park, trying to find order in the chaos. Eventually, he could stand it no longer. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  There was no response.

  And no point in calling forensics. They knew who they were dealing with. He turned to the nearest man in uniform. ‘Get the owner of that Discovery identified and informed. We need to photograph the scene and get things moved out of the way.’

  Jill’s radio sparked. ‘Information on the light blue Nissan Primera. Two up, headed north on Cowley Bridge Road.’

  ‘Received.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Pete said quickly, running for his car, ignoring the pain in his shoulder.

  They could have gone south from here and doubled back, hoping to throw off pursuit, or headed straight out. Either way, when they got to the bridge over the Exe they’d have a couple of options. If they even went that far. They could turn off before that, cut across past Jonas Hanson’s house and head up to the north of the city to lay low until the heat of the pursuit wore off. There was no way of knowing and no cameras to pick them up again for a good distance in any of the directions they might opt for.

  He hit the radio transmit as he sped up the New North Road, heading for Cowley Bridge. ‘All available units, suspect vehicle headed north out of the city. Blanket coverage needed ASAP but approach with caution. Occupants to be considered armed and dangerous.’

  ‘Armed with what, Sarge?’

  ‘They’re bound to have weapons of some kind but, if not, they’re both karate experts and willing to use any means necessary to evade capture so Tasers set to max.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Is the helicopter available to assist?’ Pete’s lights and sirens were blaring as he joined the Cowley Bridge Road. The old road was narrow and restricted, but traffic parted somehow in front of him.

  ‘Negative,’ the response came over the radio. ‘Helicopter occupied at Launceston.’

  Damn! Why did a force covering the area of Devon and Cornwall only have one bloody helicopter?

  He’d just got to the point where the road widened, more modern houses and business premises lining either side, when the radio squawked again.

  ‘Contact, contact. Target vehicle spotted in Cowley. In pursuit.’

  That was that decided then. They were heading up towards Crediton.

  ‘Temporary loss. Repeat, temporary loss. Target no longer in sight.’ He could hear sirens in the background.

  What? They must have been facing the wrong way, had to turn around.

  ‘Continuing pursuit.’

  I should bloody think so!

  As he hit the bridge and started up the Crediton Road, another message came though. ‘Smallbrook. It’s a loss, loss, loss.’

  ‘Bugger.’ A thought struck Pete. There were lanes winding south across the countryside towards Whitestone and Holcomb Burnell, where Malcolm Burton’s father had had his farm. They wouldn’t, would they?

  He reached for the transmit button. ‘Continue on Crediton Road,’ he said. ‘Dick and Jill, take the lanes to the north. Jane, Ben and I’ll go south.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’ came Dick’s response.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Surely, it’s too obvious.’

  ‘They might think it’s appropriate. Or ironic. There’s no point counting our chickens, but it’s got to be checked.’ It hadn’t worked out last time, but they’d want to do something different, just in case.

  He was getting uncomfortably close to the town of Crediton when he reached the turn he was looking for and swung left, sirens echoing off the trees around him. A few yards later, the woodland faded from his left side, leaving views across open fields. With the road twisting and turning, seemingly at random, he kept the sirens and blue lights on, mindful of the possibility of meeting other traffic on a lane that was rarely wide enough to pass on with, in places, grass and weeds up the middle. But he couldn’t afford to slow down – to give the brothers the chance to escape if, indeed, they were ahead of him.

  He kept his foot down hard, his only slight advantage over the Southams being his local knowledge. They might have known about the road – would probably have been told of it as a potential escape route in case of unexpected police presence at the barn – but they wouldn’t know its twists and turns, nor where to expect villages and junctions.

  Tight turns, sweeping curves, junctions, farms and hamlets, woods and fields to either side led him in minutes to the edge of Pathfinder, the only village before the A30. The road skirted the village, letting him keep his speed up. A solar farm flashed past on his left, a few houses on his right and he reached another junction. A quick left and right and he was passing over the main road towards the village he’d been heading for all along.

  Holcomb Burnell was a small settlement with pretty stone and white-rendered cottages, its pub festooned with bright hanging baskets and its little church standing proudly on a rise, stone spire glowing in the sunshine. Pete didn’t bother with the left and right that would have taken him past Burton’s aunt’s cottage. Instead, switching off his lights and sirens, he turned right then left, towards the farm and the barn that Malcolm had retained when he rented out the rest of it.

  He’d still caught no sight of the pale blue car that he hoped and prayed was somewhere in front of him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Pete swept past the big old farmhouse that Malcolm Burton had grown up in. He would no doubt be seeing the occupants again soon, at Burton’s new trial, he thought, picturing them in his mind.

  Faintly, he caught a twinkle of red through the leaves and branches at the next bend.

  Was it?

  Hope flared and he put his foot down hard. Could he catch them before they reached the dirt track that led off through the narrow stretch of woodland to the little meadow with its ancient stone barn?

  It didn’t really matter so long as he caught sight of them before they did or before he passed the entrance to the track. Pete didn’t care where he caught them. He just cared that he did. The symbolism of place was irrelevant.

  Rounding a curve, he saw the car ahead clearly for the first time. He couldn’t tell the model, but it was certainly pale blue. It had to be them.

  He pushed the Ford harder still, blue lights back on as he closed the gap between them. He needed them to see him behind them. If they tried for the track and the car got stuck, they’d decamp and he’d lose at least one of them. He couldn’t have that.

  They spotted him and, instead of slowing, accelerated.

  It was definitely them.

  Yes! I’ll have you, you bastards. Rage burned fiercely inside him as he pushed the car to its limits, uncaring of the consequences. They flashed past the obscure turn on the left.

  Had they remembered the junction by the little ginger-bread cottage?

  He’d soon know.

  Tyres squealed, brake lights glaring as the blue car slowed abruptly, swinging left at the narrow T-junction. There was a thump as the offside wheels hit the verge. Pete saw the car tip dangerously towards the high hedge. Metal scraped sickeningly on the cut ends of twigs and branches, gouging the car’s paintwork. A bang like a grenade going off and the crunch of shattering safety glass sounded as the top corner of the windscreen hit a tree trunk and the back end of the car kicked up, whipping round like a stallion in a rodeo before hitting the ground again, bouncing violently.

  Pete hit the brakes in a cont
rolled emergency stop and was out of his seat in an instant, running for the driver’s side of the blue Nissan when its stalled engine fired and roared, gearbox whining as it shot backwards down the road.

  ‘Shit.’

  He stopped, switched direction and jumped back into his Ford as the sound of the other car’s windscreen being kicked out came from behind him.

  How the hell they’d survived that unscathed, he’d never know, he thought as he set off after them again, swerving around the shattered windscreen.

  They must have spotted the gateway a short distance down on the left before they hit the tree. They swung quickly into it, tyres squealing, and surged out forwards, heading towards the city.

  Pete keyed the radio. ‘Contact, contact. Suspect vehicle about to join Dunsford Road at the Holcomb Burnell junction. Any available units to intercept urgently.’

  He’d lost about four hundred yards on them but had begun to claw back a little by the time they reached the main road. They swung out without slowing, Pete heard the blare of a horn and the screech of tyres over the sound of his own engine. He flicked on the blues and twos, made the junction and swung out around a car the brothers must have narrowly avoided. There was more traffic here. A lorry was trundling up the hill towards him, a couple of cars behind it. He could see the fast-moving car in the near distance, another vehicle already between them and him. As he watched, they overtook again, this time on a blind bend.

  ‘Jesus! You’ll kill your bloody selves like that,’ he muttered. Not that he cared if they did, but he didn’t want an innocent member of the public getting caught up in it. Should he ease off, kill the lights and siren, let them think he’d given up the pursuit?

  If he did, he’d lose the ability to gain ground on them with the other vehicles blocking his path and they’d still see him behind them if they looked. He decided against it for now. He keyed the radio again. ‘DS Gayle. Any units able to assist with intercept on Dunsford Road, heading inbound to the city, please acknowledge. Suspect vehicle, pale blue Nissan Primera, now without windscreen.’