Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  “So, what about this one?”

  “Well, I caught him trying to hitch a lift on the motorway a week or two back. He was on the slip road, and a motorist reported him as being suspicious.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “Well, he wasn’t technically doing anything wrong, just trying to get home to London. So, I simply took him back to the home and let them deal with him.”

  “Right, forget that tea, you’re taking me to Burridge House, let’s move.”

  The journey in the despised Marina took about fifteen minutes and, despite Ian’s constant questioning, Don kept his silence and said nothing. His head, however, was in a whirl. He knew that he shouldn’t be making enquiries without Johnson’s approval, and he knew there could be serious trouble but, damn it all, he was deeply involved in this case whatever CID had to say, and he had no intention of being marginalised and left out of things.

  The door to Burridge House was answered by a jovial man of middle years wearing a well-worn suit that just about fitted around his ample midriff. Ian introduced him to Don as Mr Hodge.

  “Please call me Gary,” said the man. “I think we know each other well enough by now, Ian.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk please, Gary?” asked Don. “It’s a bit confidential and possibly very important.”

  The small reception room at the front of the building led into a much larger living area where a number of teenage boys were watching a very loud television set that was playing an advert for Golden Wonder crisps. On seeing the officers, the boys gave a rousing cheer – but they remained seated and didn’t bother to get up from the armchairs and sofas that littered the room.

  Gary led the way through this area into a small office and closed the door behind them.

  “I’ll get straight to the point, if I may, Gary,” said Don. “Is this one of your boys?” He handed Gary the photo that Ian had picked out back in Brompton.

  “Yes, that’s Eric Mitchell,” said Gary, without hesitation. “Has he been up to something?”

  “I’d just like to have a word with him if I may,” said Don.

  “Not possible, I’m afraid.”

  “It could be very serious.”

  “Even so, I can’t help you. Eric has been taken back into the system in London since his last escapade. God knows where he is now, and I very much doubt that his social worker will want to be much help. It’s not the done thing any more, you know, to be taking sides with the law that is. You’ll probably need a court order to speak to him. Sorry.”

  “So, he got kicked out just for trying to get back to the Smoke?” asked Ian. “I mean, it’s not as though he gave me any trouble.”

  Gary looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Strictly off the record, you should have searched him, Ian. He had enough cocaine on him to seriously impress his old mates up the East End.”

  Ian turned bright red. “So where’s the coke now?” he asked.

  “Down the toilet, I’m afraid.”

  “Bloody Hell,” said Don, half to himself.

  “Don’t be too upset,” said Gary. “It’s only white powder until it’s been analysed. It could be anything. So, don’t worry, none of us can get into any trouble.”

  “It’s a bit more serious than that,” said Don. “What about this lad, another one of yours?” He showed Gary the photo of the other boy.

  “Yes, that’s Alan Stretch. He’s a shy, quiet lad, not tearaway material at all in my estimation. Mind you, we’ve had a lot of wet beds from him just lately – that’s usually a sign they’ve been up to something.”

  “Can I have a word with him?”

  “Well, it should be okay. But I’ll have to be present while you question him, and I’ll have to stop the interview if I feel Alan needs protecting. I have to take this loco parentis thing seriously you know.”

  “I’ve no intention of upsetting him,” said Don, “and, if I’m right, we may well be protecting him from harm rather than trying to harm him.”

  Gary disappeared into the building and returned a few minutes later accompanied by a thin, pale-faced youth with long lank hair. The boy was snivelling and immediately burst into tears when he saw the officers. Gary put a kindly, supporting arm around the young man’s shoulders.

  Don looked up at the boy and smiled. “There’s no need to be upset, Alan,” he said. “My name’s Don, and this is my friend Ian, we’re both here to help you. You know what this is about, don’t you?”

  The boy nodded miserably.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said. “It was Eric. He said he’d beat me up if I didn’t go with him. I didn’t even get any of the stuff they gave him.”

  “Who gave him the drugs, was it the couple at the house – the ones taking the pictures?”

  By now Gary and Ian were looking totally perplexed, but Alan didn’t seem to notice.

  “No, it was the two with the van,” Alan said. “They picked us up and took us to the house, then left us there.”

  “With the man and the lady?”

  “No, she came later and shouted at us. She called us names and made the man drive us back here in his Jag.”

  “What about the two men in the van, do you know who they are?”

  “No, but Eric knew them. I was never told their names.” He paused and screwed up his face, then: “Well, actually, one of them is probably called Alan, same as me. Eric called over to me one time, and the bloke answered thinking Eric was talking to him. I hardly saw the other one, I never spoke to him at all.”

  Don realised that it was time to contact Johnson.

  “Alan, I’m going to ask you to repeat all this to a friend of mine called Dave. He’s a detective, but he’s a really nice chap. You’ll like him.” Then to Gary, “Have you a phone I can use? I really need to call this in immediately. Oh, and we’ll need to stay with Alan until Dave gets here. Any chance of a cup of tea while we’re waiting?”

  “I’d better make it for you myself,” said Gary with a grin. “Unless you like it with worms in it…”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Routine Enquiries

  Don was on duty at ten the following morning and, as he opened the dispatches that had been dropped off at his office by the Area Car, he reflected on the previous evening’s events.

  To Don’s great relief, Dave Johnson had been delighted with the way the two uniformed officers had handled enquiries at Burridge House. On receiving the phone call, the detective had sped out to the children’s home and an hour later was in possession of a comprehensive statement from young Alan Mitchell. Dave had then arranged a full medical examination and agreed with Gary that the boy should be given support and supervision – as well as sorting out some counselling for the lad.

  Don and Ian were, by now, chomping at the bit to race round to the Churcher’s cottage and bring the two brothers in for questioning. Johnson had to restrain their enthusiasm.

  “Look, lads,” he said, “you’ve both done a great job until now, let’s not spoil it by charging like a bull at a gate and risk screwing it all up. The superintendent will need to be brought up to speed, for one thing. Calm decisions will need to be taken. We’ll need to get warrants organised, line up a search team, get forensics on board, photographer, all sorts of things. So, bugger off now and get your pocketbooks made up. Oh, and…”

  “I know,” said Don, “keep our gobs shut.”

  “You’re learning.”

  Well, he may well have been learning, but that didn’t help with Don’s excitement and impatience. As he sorted through the pile of enquiries on the desk, his mind was racing as he contemplated what was going to happen next. He liked and trusted Johnson, but it wouldn’t be the first time that the credit due to the uniformed officers was pinched by CID – and he wasn’t about to let his and Ian’s involvement be relegated to a footnote on the murder file.

  He needed some fresh air. He picked up a handful of summonses from his “In” tray and decided to go out and serve them. It wasn’t a
job he liked. Finding people at home was bad enough, but even when he did catch them in, the recipients usually made it clear that they didn’t particularly enjoy having their day ruined.

  For once, Don’s van was running like a dream, and he gave it a quick clean before taking it out. He slid behind the wheel and slackened his seat belt so that he could reach across to the handset on his VHF radio. Lower performance police vehicles had yet to be equipped with the new inertia reel style of seatbelt, so the strap lay slack on Don’s lap.

  His first call was to a remote farmhouse near the village of Allworth. The summons was for a minor speeding offence, and the farmer harangued Don for ten minutes about the inconvenience of having to go to court, and why couldn’t Don just take the fine from him now?

  Don finally got away and was still chuckling as he drove down the dirt track that led to the country lane. The lane connected with a twisty, narrow road that weaved through isolated countryside towards the village of Compton. There was one car approaching from the left, and Don stopped at the end of the track to let it go by.

  Don didn’t immediately recognise the blue Jaguar XJ6 as it sped past him, but there was no mistaking the identity of the driver who stared at him, open-mouthed, from the side window of the vehicle.

  Don pulled out to give chase and, as he did so, he flicked the switch that activated the rotating blue light on the roof of the van. He accelerated in pursuit, and both vehicles were soon travelling at speeds well over 60 mph – and it was obvious that the Churcher brother at the wheel of the XJ6 had no intention of stopping.

  On the face of it, there should have been no contest. The Jaguar XJ6, with its superb 4.2-litre V6 engine, was capable of propelling the car to speeds of well over 120 mph. The rest of the car’s engineering fully supported this power – and the vehicle’s road-holding and braking capabilities were comparable with the very best that the top European car brands had to offer.

  Against this, Don was driving a light, commercial Ford van. The van was capable, flat out, of around 75 mph and held equipment such as cones and road signs that were loosely stored in the back. However, the Mark 1 Escort was a tough little vehicle with a robust 1100 cc engine. The gears had been configured to maximise the vehicle’s load-carrying ability, but it also gave it plenty of torque and good acceleration when the van was lightly loaded.

  However, it was a classic tortoise-versus-hare scenario and, had they been travelling on a wide main road, the performance saloon car would have been easily enough to have seen off its pursuer.

  But, they weren’t on a main road.

  They were hurtling along a twisting, winding little country lane – and Don was a police-trained and highly proficient advanced driver.

  Nonetheless, from the outset, the Jag rapidly pulled away from the police vehicle.

  Don picked up his radio handset. “Foxtrot Golf Five Zero for HT. I’m in pursuit of a vehicle that has failed to stop on the Aldworth to Compton road about one mile north of Aldworth village.” He reeled off the index number of the Jag and advised the controller that the car was believed to be subject of crime.

  “Sorry, Five Zero, there are no units showing in your vicinity. I’ll try on another channel to get a Traffic mobile to assist you. Please keep the commentary coming. You have priority.”

  By the time they reached the first set of sharp bends, the saloon car was already a good 200 yards ahead of Don. But, looking ahead, he could see that the Jag was going far too fast on its approach to the first element, a sharp left-hander. Don wasn’t surprised at all when he saw the brake lights showing angrily – and he could see the car rapidly losing speed as it hit the apex of the bend. The momentum of the heavy saloon car caused it to lurch violently over to the wrong side of the road and, as it exited the bend, it was out of position to negotiate the sharp right-hand curve that was now looming in front of it.

  Meanwhile, Don had correctly read the road ahead, and he’d eased off his accelerator in good time before reaching the end of the straight. This allowed him to double de-clutch and perform a smooth change down into third gear without losing too much speed. He was now able to maintain his position and balance through the challenging, twisty stretch of road. Unlike the Jag, his vehicle was under full control. Don seized the opportunity and began to close the gap between them.

  The van was only equipped with a rather feeble blue light, and it didn’t have any audible signalling instruments, such as two-tone horns or a siren. So, he flashed his headlamps and thumped the horn button in an effort to get the Churchers to pull over.

  Frank Churcher was having none of it. He managed to regain sufficient control of his vehicle to survive the series of bends. As the road opened up ahead of him, he once again used the power of the Jaguar to pull away from his pursuer.

  Back on a straight stretch of road, and with his quarry getting away, Don picked up his radio handset and updated his control room.

  “Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, am still in pursuit of the stolen Jag on the Compton road out of Aldworth. The driver has repeatedly failed to stop. We are currently passing the Bull Public House, speed in excess of six-zero mph. Jag approaching another series of bends. I can see the target vehicle braking in front of me. The driver does not appear to have full control, over.”

  “Five Zero, from the Control Room Inspector, do not, repeat, do not make any further attempts to stop the vehicle. Maintain observation from a safe distance for as long as you safely can. Is that understood, over?”

  “You’re breaking badly, HT, please repeat, over,” said Don, not wishing to acknowledge an instruction he had no intention of obeying.

  As they came up to the next series of sharp bends, Don could see another vehicle approaching them on the other side of the road. Churcher had either not seen this vehicle or, more likely, decided to ignore it. He swung the Jag wildly over to the right in an attempt to go wide into the left-hand bend now in front of him. However, this inadvertently placed his vehicle directly into the path of the oncoming car, putting them both in danger.

  At the last moment, the other driver panicked and swerved his car to his nearside in an attempt to avoid a head-on collision. His car mounted the grass verge then fishtailed on the dry grass before bouncing and slipping back onto the carriageway.

  Don, as he flew past, was relieved to see that the car and its occupants appeared undamaged by their near-miss. He took another quick look in his rear-view mirror and was reassured to see that there was no urgent need for him to stop and give any assistance.

  The journey through the next series of bends was almost a repeat performance of the one that had gone before. Once more, the powerful, but heavy, Jaguar lurched terrifyingly from side to side, and again Don’s little van was able to close in on its quarry.

  “HT for Foxtrot Gold Five Zero, you are to abandon, repeat, abandon this pursuit. Did you copy, over.” The controller’s voice was becoming more urgent.

  “You’re still breaking badly, HT. Say again, over.”

  The line between advanced driving and dangerous driving is, at best, a slim one. The main difference is that the advanced driver should, at all times, be in full control of his vehicle. This includes always being able to stop within the distance he can see to be clear ahead of him.

  And it was now that Don made his fatal mistake.

  As the road again opened up into a long straight, Don was determined to keep the distance between him and the Jaguar as short as possible. So, as both vehicles exited from of the last of the bends, Don was right up behind the Jag – but his little van dangerously inside its own braking distance.

  Without warning, Churcher fully applied the Jag’s brakes, and the big car screeched to a sudden halt in the middle of the road with smoke billowing from its tyres.

  Don felt panic rising as he realised a collision was inevitable, but he only had a split second to brace himself.

  He stood as hard as he could on his footbrake. There was a squeal as the tyres on the light van lost traction with t
he road almost immediately. The police vehicle slid along the tarmac and continued its forward motion at an alarming rate.

  It was as though everything went into slow motion, and the crunching sound of the coming together of the two vehicles was something Don would remember in his dreams for years to come.

  The impact crumpled the front of the van like paper as it slammed into the much more substantial saloon car. Unfortunately, the slack in his seat belt failed to keep Don secure, and he was thrown violently forward, causing him to hit his head on the steering wheel.

  There was no sensation of pain, but everything went black as he passed out.

  Don had no idea how long he’d been out – and pain wasn’t far away as he fought back to consciousness. He now experienced the worst headache he had ever known.

  As he regained full consciousness, he slowly realised that he was lying across the back seat of a moving car.

  Without warning, he was violently sick.

  “You dirty bastard!” came a voice from beside him. “That went all over my new jeans.”

  Don opened his eyes to a blurred and misty world, he started to sit up but was told, “You stay right there, mate.” He compliantly lay back on the seat, but very soon he was feeling decidedly nauseous.

  He had no choice. He had to get upright. Thankfully, nobody prevented him sitting up.

  As his senses slowly returned, he made out that he was in the back of Jaguar. The car was being driven by Frank Churcher, whose brother, Alan, was in the back seat, sitting next to Don.

  Alan was holding the family’s .410 shotgun across his lap – with his hand across the trigger guard.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kidnapped

  Don’s head was throbbing with pain, but he could feel his strength slowly returning as his vision cleared.