"No problem. They're hanging back anyway."
"Good. They want to see where you go."
"Dave's asleep in the back, by the way."
"He'd better wake up when we need him."
"Hey, Stones, you know this van we've got?"
"Yeah?"
"What happens to it afterwards?"
"It vanishes along with you, Metal."
"Dump it and burn it?"
"That's right. You know the drill."
"Right. I was just wondering. Because there's a stereo in here, and some real good steel racking built into the back. I can find a good home for them."
"Look, once you've disappeared, Metal, I don't care. I just don't want to see it still sitting round in the workshop in a few days' time like that Citroen, get me?"
"Right, right. Can I tell Dave not to bend the racking then? Only he's lying on it, like."
"Tell him whatever you want, Metal. Have you still got that car in sight?"
"Oh yeah. Gotta go anyway now, Stones. The Budby junction's coming up. See you in a minute or two, eh?"
I nodded at Slow Kid and he started the Morris. We crept out from under the Parliament Oak and edged towards the road. I was watching for a white van coming over the brow of the hill.
"Okay, here they come. Let's go."
He let out the handbrake and we pulled across the road. He flattened the accelerator to get a bit of speed up and we were approaching the first bend by the time the van closed in behind us. Metal just managed to overtake us before we were into the bend, and we saw him turn sharp left. We followed him, and the blue saloon came up in the rear. They would have liked to get past us, but the lane was too narrow and there were hedges and ditches on either side. Slow Kid managed to deter them from overtaking by carelessly wavering across the road a couple of times just at the right moment, like a doddery old fool who was falling asleep at the wheel after a lunchtime steak and kidney pie and half a Mackeson. The blue car skimmed the right hand ditch a couple of times before pulling back over. In the wing mirror, I could see a lot of mouthing and gesturing going on back there. Some folk have no respect for their elders, do they? But in the end, the driver gave up and settled for third place when he realised that the van wasn't getting too far ahead.
This was the back road into Medensworth. There was a view across an enormous ploughed field towards the old pit site. The spoil heaps stood out, a range of low black hills against the grey sky. The houses that clustered beyond them were as grey as the sky. Away to our left were the eastern fringes of the heath.
A minute or two later, we emerged suddenly into the top end of the Forest, the hedges giving way to rickety fences and fancy breeze block walls. In a rush, the houses gathered round us as we entered their territory, the white van slowing to lead the way into Lime Avenue and right onto Birch Road. Sure enough, the Morris Traveller farted as Slow Kid throttled down to take the corner.
If the driver of the blue saloon thought he could get past the Morris now, he hadn't reckoned with our famous traffic calming measures. Even these can come in useful, sometimes. Every few yards on Birch Road there are bollards narrowing the carriageway to a car's width, and a fearsome hump to get over. Slow Kid braked to a crawl to take the humps, just like a careful driver would. Even between the humps he drove slowly, sticking to the middle of the road as if afraid the parked cars might reach out and grab him.
As we approached First Avenue, the van started to pull away from us. The blokes behind saw this and panicked. The driver began to sound his horn at us, but all he could see was the back of two heads and a pair of flat caps. We took no notice. There were cars parked on both sides, and a lot of kids in the street, with it being school out time. We were almost where we wanted to be, the exact spot on the map I'd chosen.
As we went over the last hump, the driver of the German car was so distracted by the sight of the van disappearing that he didn't notice we'd stopped. Just to help the moment along, Slow Kid slipped the Morris into reverse and the two cars met with a satisfying crunch. I had to wince as the bonnet of the German motor smashed into the rear end of the old car and bits of broken headlight tinkled onto the road.
Instantly, both cars were surrounded by kids. They were mostly young sprogs, but there were some teenagers among them, crowding round as if we were a scene from a TV cop show. They were staring at the drivers to see what they would do, perhaps hoping there'd be a fight.
We got out of the Traveller and shut the doors. The other car was trying to pull itself away from our boot, and a bit of bumper came away with a ripping sound. But there were too many kids in the way, and behind them were some mums too, shouting at the driver to watch what the hell he was doing, banging on the roof and calling him rude names. The driver looked around desperately for a way out, but he'd lost his chance. The crowd was getting thicker.
An argument seemed to be going on in the blue car. Finally, the driver got out and walked forward towards Slow Kid, his voice unnaturally ingratiating.
"I don't suppose there's any harm done. These things happen, don't they? Bloody road humps, that's what it is."
As he came up the bloke saw Slow Kid more closely, and started to look puzzled. I took off my flat cap. Then he turned and recognised me.
"Shit," he said.
"Hello, Rawlings."
"Shit," he said again, failing the conversational challenge. Rawlings began to back off, bumping into the kids milling about behind him.
"Don't you want to exchange names and addresses?"
One of the kids laughed at this. "He don't live around here, that's for sure."
"Maniac driver," said another.
"A bit old to be a joyrider, aren't you, mister?"
"Come back tonight and we'll give you a race on the rec."
"Piss off out of it, you lot."
Rawlings was taking the wrong attitude. He was likely to start a riot going on like that. Some of the mums didn't take kindly to their kids being spoken to that way, and they were a fearsome lot, these mothers. A lot of coppers would tell you they were the worst thing they had to deal with during the miners' strike by far.
"Two hundred thousand miles this thing's done, with a careful owner," I said. "Now you come along and rip the bumper off. That's not nice, Rawlings. You'll have to pay for it."
The passenger door had opened now. Josh Lee stood leaning against the door, apparently unaware of the crowd milling about him. He was staring at me, and his hand was creeping slowly up towards the pocket of his jacket, like a snake slithering towards a toad. I started to wonder where Doncaster Dave was. Metal should have dropped him off just round the corner. Okay, so he was probably still asleep in the back of the van at that point, and he had to walk a few yards. But it was about time he was here, wasn't it?
"Well, what do you say, guys? Are we going to exchange details, or do we have to phone the police?"
The word 'police' seemed to rouse the figure in the back of the blue saloon. He leaned forward to rap on the window, and gestured angrily to Rawlings. I don't think he wanted to exchange details or call the police. What an irresponsible citizen.
"Later, McClure," said Rawlings. Lee didn't speak, but his face said it all. He stopped leaning on the door and got back in the car.
One of the older lads had a German hub cap in his hand, but Rawlings just pushed him out of the way and climbed back into the car. There was another argument inside, and some foul language from Rawlings that seemed to include my name. Then he leaned on the horn and the car began to inch backwards. Some of the kids banged on the panels or sat on the bonnet, grinning through the windscreen. But Rawlings gritted his teeth and kept going, so gradually the kids dropped off until the road was clear. Then the engine roared, Rawlings swung the steering wheel to the right and the German car accelerated away, narrowly missing Slow Kid as it went round the Morris.
A youth of about sixteen on the far side of the car gave me a thumbs-up sign and waved a wheel brace at me. We all stood and watch
ed as the blue saloon got up into second gear and accelerated to take the bend into First Avenue, trying to catch the van. It had almost made it round the corner when one of its back wheels fell off.
There was an interesting spray of sparks as the axle slid across the road and the car slewed to an undignified halt. There were more curses, louder this time. Rawlings got out again, looked at the wheel, then back at me, as if somehow it might have been my fault. Then the first police car came round the corner.
Rawlings bolted up the street, while Lee jumped out of the car and backed away, knife in hand. A shape loomed up behind him, and in the next second Lee was on the floor with Doncaster Dave standing over him. The knife was in the gutter.
But it wasn't Rawlings or Lee I wanted. I was interested in the bloke in the overcoat who came out of the rear passenger door and legged it towards the garden of the nearest house. He was quicker on his feet than Rawlings, and if he got among the back gardens and into the Crescents he might just get away.
There was nothing else for it. I set off after the bloke from the blue saloon, thanking God for the jogging, because without it I wouldn't have made fifty yards.
We ran through one set of gardens and over a fence at the back into Lime Avenue. There was a ginnel here that led between houses to lock-up garages in a back lane. But the bloke ran past the garages, came out onto the corner and went through the gardens on the opposite side. I could hear sirens and wheels screeching somewhere as the police picked up Rawlings, him being the easiest target, of course. But to get to my man the cops would have to go round the end of First Avenue and back down Oak Lane. Long before that, he'd be over the next fence and up the black slope of the slag heap rearing ahead of him beyond the gardens.
He wasn't dressed for mountaineering, but he went up the slope well, only slipping a bit when he got near the top, sending some of the slag sliding back down towards the bottom. I had my boots on, so I was better equipped. But I was starting to get breathless, despite the exercise, and I was wishing the coppers would get out of their cars and come and give me a bit of a hand here.
Over the top of the heap the landscape changed completely. We were on the pit site now, looking at the plateau of rubble and coal dust. The runner was legging it as fast as he could across the site. He probably didn't realise it was only me behind him yet, but in a minute he would, when I got into the open.
At this end, the demolition teams had left a couple of bulldozers and a JCB to give the impression that work was still going on. The bloke ran straight past them, kicking up the dust like a company of cavalry. This just went to show that he didn't recognise an asset when he saw it, and he probably wouldn't know how to nick a bit of machinery anyway. Me, though, I had a pretty good idea about both these things. I also knew that if we kept up this Linford Christie bit much longer I'd be chucking my ring, and the overcoat would get away. I'm not Slow Kid Thompson or Metal Jacket when it comes to nicking a motor, but I'm not Mary Poppins either.
I chose the JCB, being as how it's a bit nippier and has better torque to make cornering easier. There was no stereo and the upholstery was kind of basic, but I wasn't intending to be in it all day. It took me a few seconds to get at the right wires before the engine rumbled into life. I looked through the windscreen and saw the overcoat making ground through a valley between the hills of rubble and debris. I needed to cut him off before he vanished past the engine house and was lost. If I could delay him for a few minutes, I reckoned the cops would eventually catch on and come over the hill.
The JCB bucked and bounced over the rough ground. I jammed the accelerator down as hard as it would go, which wasn't far. Just now, I'd even have been glad of the Morris Traveller. It could have farted as much as it liked, as long as it got me across the next few hundred yards.
Even as I careered across the pit site in my own personal cloud of dust, I thought I could see figures appearing over the slope to my left. This looked like being a fair cop, as they say.
But in the next minute the whole thing fell apart. The figure in the overcoat stopped and turned to face the JCB. As I got nearer, he could see who I was. And Michael Cavendish and I stared at each other with mutual loathing. It was inherent, that hatred. A product of hundreds of years of playing at lords and peasants, and the peasants always losing. Until now, Mr Cavendish.
Or so I thought. But the other side always has extra resources to bring against you. And this time it just wasn't tennis. Cavendish drew aside his overcoat and pulled a handgun from the pocket of his suit. He gripped it in both hands as he aimed it straight at the JCB.
Before I could react, a bullet crashed through the windscreen, showering me with bits of broken glass and setting my ears ringing with the bang as it embedded itself in the roof. I ducked, swerved and ploughed the machine through a mouldering heap of concrete and twisted metal into the steel fence around the engine house. The steel ripped with a painful screech and collapsed as the JCB ground to a juddering halt. A second shot ricocheted off the bucket, and a burning pain seared through my arm as a bullet tore a gash in my leather jacket.
So it was game, set and match. I clung to the torn plastic seat of the JCB, and waited for Cavendish to finish me off.
24
The rain was dripping down my collar from the roof of the shed. I'd already been feeling cold and tired and on edge, and right now I was really irritated. Ahead of me, in the dark, was a house, and somewhere inside were the blokes we'd been chasing for weeks. My partner was round the corner, covering the back door. The suspects were armed and dangerous, like they say on the telly. But no worries - all we had to do was wait for the back-up to arrive.
And then I was distracted by a noise to the left, coming from a brick lean-to extension near the garden shed. Something like an outside toilet or a coal house. Yes, that noise could have been pieces of coal rattling. A cat or a rat maybe. Or maybe not.
I opened the coal house door carefully and felt along the wall. There was a light switch, but it didn't seem to work. Somewhere in there, I thought I could hear breathing, but I couldn't be sure. With my foot I felt a rough stone step down into darkness as I pulled my torch from my pocket. It was the blackest place I'd ever seen, without a chink of light penetrating from the outside or even from the open door.
I flicked on my torch and did a quick sweep. I registered a few roles of mouldy carpet, a pair of staring eyes, and about half a ton of coal heaped against the far wall. The coal hadn't been used for a long time and was growing mould like the carpets. The eyes were as bright as an animal's, glittering with fear.
The figure back there in the darkness made a dash for it, slithering across the coal towards the door. He was never going to make it, and I had him up against the wall by the arm in a second. I dragged him out into the light, and he dropped a sports bag with a clatter of steel. We knew who we might expect to find in the house, but the individual I was looking at now wasn't any of them. This was a nobody, a lad off one of the estates, just like a thousand others.
I actually knew this one, too. I'd nicked young Dean before, several times. But he was nineteen now - and that meant he'd go down for this one. It was tough. Dean had two kids already, one of them two years old and the other no more than a couple of months. Unlike a lot of lads his age, he was sticking by the mother and trying to support the family. That wouldn't stop him going down.
Dean had nothing to do with the job we were there for, surely? He was a petty thief, not a heroin dealer. He wasn't exactly the Archbishop of Canterbury, but he knew where to draw the line. Dean never carried a weapon either. Once, when he'd been disturbed by a householder, he'd almost fainted with fright.
We looked at each other for a minute. Dean's shoulders slumped as soon as he recognised me. With one hand on his arm, I opened the zipper of the bag. Inside were a few tools, an old radio, a roll of copper wire, even a plastic bottle of motor oil - pathetic bits and pieces nicked from the garden shed. Was this all Dean's life was worth - half a litre of Duckham's multig
rade?
"You've picked the wrong house this time, son," I said.
He didn't answer. I wondered how much he'd hoped to get for the stuff he'd nicked, and how it could possibly justify risking a spell inside. The whole lot couldn't have been worth a tenner.
I didn't have much time to make my mind up. My partner was round the corner, covering the back door. Any second now, our back-up would arrive - a senior officer to take charge, a Special Operations team issued with firearms and trained to use them. And that would be curtains for Dean.
"Go on, clear off out of it."
"What?"
Dean stared at me, amazed. Then slowly he began to walk away.
"Take the bleedin' bag with you. I don't want it."
He grabbed the bag and began to run. But his footsteps and the clanking of the tools in the bag reached the ears of my partner, who came thundering round the side of the house and spotted the figure legging it for the road.
"Stop! Armed police!"
"Frank, you daft bastard, leave it!"
Sergeant Frank Moxon skidded to a halt and glared from me to the vanishing Dean.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Stop shouting, for God's sake, Frank. You'll wake the whole bloody street."
"Stones, you've just let that bloke get away, haven't you?"
An upstairs window in the house banged open and there was a movement between the curtains as an arm poked through it.
"Shit. Get down!"
I dragged Moxon with me and we rolled behind the wall of the shed as the first bullet from a handgun dug a hole in the lawn.
"Jesus. Now you've done it, Frank. The lad was nothing to do with it."
"Oh yeah? How do you know? Have you been conducting a full interrogation out here? Got the tapes of the interview for the record, have you?"
I pushed Moxon off me and used my radio to call the control room and tell them we'd bollocksed the operation. A bullet bounced off the garden wall to emphasise the point.
"Believe me, he wasn't worth it, Frank."
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