That’s what they’re like, see: an eye for an eye. Take down a copper and it becomes a death race when you’re on the run. I have to go. I start the car up, inch slowly around the policewoman’s lifeless body, lights off, and drive to the exit of the car park.
Lights on.
Where now?
I have to get out of town as fast as I can.
5.19pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
“What’s that noise . . . what the hell is it?” The young woman was first to her feet and across to the window, pulling back the curtains to look out.
“My God!” she said. “God, Rick, it’s Orrey. Look, it’s Orrey.”
The young man was at the door, snatching at the latch to open it.
“Dad, Dad. How do I . . .?” He pulled at the latch and swung the door open so he could see outside.
The policewoman down, spread out across the ground.
Her radio crackling.
The blue car moving away to the car park entrance.
The young woman pushed by him, running barefoot after the car.
“Nat, Nat, wait . . . hold on,” cried the young man. “You’ll never catch him on foot. We’ll use the car. Where are the keys?”
He turned to the older couple coming up behind him, gesturing towards the policewoman on the ground in front of them.
“Quickly, Mum . . . Dad, help her. I need to find my car keys.”
He ran back into the cottage as the old man bent over the policewoman’s body.
“Help me . . . help me get her head up.” The old man lifted the policewoman’s head, looking at the old woman for support. “Your cardigan, let me have your cardigan.”
He leaned close to the policewoman’s face, her head to one side, trying to tell if she were breathing. He moved his head as close as he could to her mouth.
“Feel for her pulse . . . here.” The old woman reached for the policewoman’s wrist. She shook her head. “I’ll get a mirror, from my handbag, you can use that to see if she’s breathing.”
A blur of confusion.
The young man coming back out, without his misplaced keys but with a mobile phone, gesturing towards the older man to take it and use it. Then running after his wife.
The old woman behind the old man, holding a mirror.
The old man looking down at the lifeless body of the policewoman – dead, surely.
Then the angry cry from the young woman from the far side of the car park.
“Rick, oh God, it’s him, Orrey. I saw him. I can’t see if Will is with him, but it’s definitely him. Your car keys are in my bag somewhere. We have to go after him . . . before he disappears . . .”
They turned together towards the cottage.
5.20pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I’ve got to get away.
Out of town, and quickly.
No need to pretend any more.
I am at the exit. No one to be seen nor any cars driving on the road. I can turn right, up and out of town. Probably the fastest route; but most likely to have a police presence?
Or I can turn left, the road running along the seashore, up to the side roads half a mile or so on and then beyond that into a maze of lanes. Longer but safer, less likely to be coppers there?
I choose the fastest option – right, no time for delay. I turn and smile down at William next to me. “Here we go, little fellow, here we go – to Disneyland!”
I accelerate the car to 20, 30, 40 miles per hour down the high street. I daren’t look back, don’t need to. The policewoman’s lying there. I have to go, be gone, before she’s found.
By the fish and chip shop.
By the cinema.
Left, and up the hill.
A mini-roundabout some way ahead. Two or three coppers stopping cars as they come in and out. I pull over to the side. Have they seen me? I don’t think so. There’s a car coming into town and another that pulled out ahead of me that’s going out of town. These cars have the coppers’ full attention. I swing the car round.
Stop.
Three-point turn.
Go.
I leave the lights on – daren’t dim them in case that attracts attention. Would look odd. A tell-tale sign. The coppers are behind me now and I glance in the rear-view mirror – don’t want to risk turning around in case they see me. It’s dark and still a little misty but a sharp-eyed copper might well see me watching, what with the street lights along here.
No one seems to have noticed.
Back to the seafront.
Straight across to turn left and away along the beach road towards Thorpeness and a mass of hidden lanes beyond.
Fields to the left of me, the beach and sea to my right. It’s darker here. Easier to disappear into the night. Again, 100, 200 yards distant, I see coppers. Two of them on either side of the road. There to check cars going out and coming in.
My luck still holds. The coppers are distracted again.
It looks like they are in conversation with a group of youths who want to walk along the road out of town but are being turned back, from what I can make out.
No way past for me then.
Once more, I pull over.
Start to do a three-point turn.
William makes a noise, a sudden rush of breath. Seems to be coming to. No time for that now. I hush him, watching the coppers and youths in the distance. I keep the lights on again, to avoid suspicion – and reverse the car back so I am side-on now to the coppers.
William makes a gagging noise again. I push him to make sure he stays down and out of sight but then let go, hoping he won’t sit up. I can’t keep holding him. It will be near-impossible for me to complete the turn and drive away using only one hand.
Jesus help me now.
I need you.
Have to take my chance.
Back into first gear, I edge the car forward, turning it away from the police as I do so. It’s all I can do to stay calm and not rev the engine, which would surely have the coppers looking up and over.
Easy does it, oh-so-slowly we go.
There. At last.
It seemed to take an age, but I’ve done it.
The car is facing away from the coppers. William is below the height of the headrest; no chance of being spotted. I know I should drive away nice and steady. But I can’t help myself, can’t help but stop for a moment and take a look in the rear-view mirror.
One of the coppers is still talking to the youths. He’s facing me but doesn’t seem to have looked across, absorbed in what the youths, almost dancing around him now, are saying. Some sort of argument, for sure.
The other copper is a woman. She’s not looking at the youths. No, not at all. She is gazing up and along the road at me. Stopping and turning must have caught her eye. She has her head crooked at a funny angle.
I can see what she is doing.
She is talking, saying something about the car, into a radio resting on her shoulder, as I pull away.
Has she seen the number plate?
I don’t think so, not from that distance. I think she will just alert other coppers – who and where? – telling those on the roads out of town to keep watch for this type and colour of car.
No choice now. Have to go right the way back along the seafront.
Make my way into those lanes at the far end.
Have to see how far they will take me out of town.
Back I drive, nice and steady, the same way that I came. By the bookshop. By the cinema. By the fish and chip shop. The town is still quiet and lifeless. Hardly anyone about. No cars on the move. One or two pedestrians, that’s all. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe those lanes are the best place for us, after all.
Get as far as we can out of sight. Then dump the car in a barn or a field behind a spread of trees.
See what we can do from there and where we go.
I’m approaching the car park now, where I left the policewoman for dead. I can see lights on at the cottage and one or two of the houses. I slow fu
rther, edging by the car park. I guess one of the neighbours must have discovered the policewoman, alerted others.
I stop the car a little way up the road just by the exit to the car park. Looking across, I can see a small crowd – three, four people – standing around the body. Dead? Alive?
I see it before I hear it.
Glancing in my rear-view mirror.
The police car, coming like the wind towards me, all lights flashing.
5.33pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
The old woman, kneeling by the side of the policewoman, made a huffing noise as she looked up at the sight of flashing lights. She turned to the old man, now speaking softly to two elderly dog-walkers he’d called over to as they’d crossed the car park with their Labrador.
“Police car,” she said, getting carefully to her feet. “She needs an ambulance, not the police . . . she’ll need a hearse soon enough.”
“They’ll have medical training, will know what to do. We never learned,” he replied, looking at the dog-walking couple.
“We did a first aid course years ago,” said the male dog-walker. “Just keep her comfortable, head raised. It’s all you can do.”
“Mouth-to-mouth, mainly,” the female dog-walker explained. “For drownings . . . children on the beach. We were volunteers. I think we’re too late for this lady. Is there a pulse? I saw you checking.”
“It’s very faint. And there’s some breath, but very shallow.”
“What happened, did you say she was run over?” asked the male dog-walker.
“Has she spoken?” said the female dog-walker.
The old man and the old woman shook their heads – no nothing – as a policeman came sprinting over. He bent down, touched the policewoman’s neck and arm and then spoke urgently into his radio, calling for help.
Another policeman approached, looking at the old couple and the dog-walkers as he ran up to them. “What happened?”
“It’s Orrey,” the old woman answered. “He came back for the car – you said you’d been keeping watch since last night but you obviously weren’t any more. He’s knocked your colleague out . . . and driven off in the car.”
“What car is he driving?”
The old woman stared back at him, snapping, “It’s the one that’s been sitting here for the past 24 hours while you chased all over the countryside on a wild goose chase. The one you were supposed to still have under observation in case he returned.”
The old man stepped forward, trying to soothe matters. “Listen. Orrey. Raymond Orrey – the man you’ve been looking for – came back, we think with . . . with our grandson, William, and stole the blue Renault that’s been parked out the front here.”
The policeman gazed down at the fallen policewoman as the old man went on, “Your colleague must have tried to stop him. We don’t know the number of it, the car; we never thought to look. Our son and his wife will have it. They’ve gone after him. To stop him.”
“Which way did he go, Orrey?”
The old woman answered this time. “We didn’t see, we were tending to your colleague. We thought she was dead. She nearly was. She’s just about breathing. He would have driven out that way . . .”
The old man pointed to the exit to emphasise the old woman’s comment. His eyesight wasn’t so good these days. He could swear that was a Renault over there. But it couldn’t be, could it?
“ . . .and then headed out of town as quickly as he could, I imagine. Wouldn’t you?” The old woman finished speaking. “Well, wouldn’t you?” she added, turning towards the old man.
The old man, distracted by his thoughts, turned to her to answer.
5.34pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
Engine and lights off.
I drop down, pulling William towards me so we are both below window level.
He makes a squawking noise.
Daren’t look up and back, to see where the police car is going. Left, into the car park to the huddle of neighbours around the fallen policewoman? Or behind my car, coppers out, running up to us, wrenching open the doors to arrest me and snatch back little William?
I wait, face pressed close to William’s.
He struggles a little.
I pull a silly face and make a funny noise. He watches me.
Is this how it ends? Right here and now? Locked in a sweet embrace with William, me gurning and whistling gently, him reaching out to touch my raspberry-blowing lips? All the while, me straining to hear the sound of the police car stopping, doors opening, coppers’ footsteps approaching my car?
William doesn’t look very well, to be honest.
Car sick, I reckon.
I can’t bear it. Is it all over now, is this it?
I wait, stiff and tense. Not wanting William to see how I feel, scared and frightened. What do I do if the coppers rip open the doors? All over in seconds, no chance to get to my feet and fight, just dragged out onto the pavement, in front of my sweet, gentle little boy, and manhandled away, never to see him again.
I am not going to give up without a fight. I’ve come too far.
Moving my arm, I reach out and press down the lock on the door.
As the coppers reach for the doors, I’ll sit up and drive off.
It would be the end, of course; I know that, deep down. The coppers, struggling to break open the doors as I move over to the driver’s seat and fire the car up, would soon be racing back to their own car.
How far would I get?
I’d have to take my chances – driving into the lanes with my lights off, taking the car up as fast as I could, 40, 50, 60 miles per hour and more, trying to shake them off. I’d not get far, not up against an experienced police driver. But I’d have a last few minutes with my dear, sweet William and we would have the choice of living or going out together. I’d not want to go on without my little boy. Nor him without his loving daddy.
William looks at me. He’s troubled, a daddy can tell.
I go to kiss him.
His breath smells sweet and sickly.
Clumsily, he pulls away.
I hear footsteps and am ready to react, while treasuring our last few seconds of happiness.
“I love you, William.” The first time I have said that to anyone in my life and meant it, really meant it, with all of my heart. I look at him, gaze into his soft blue eyes and will him to say the same back to me. If he could say it, just once, before the coppers get to the doors, it would mean everything, the whole wide world, to me.
“William . . .?”
5.36pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
“Rick, where is he? Where’s he gone? You’ve lost him. How could you lose him?” The young woman cried out.
“Because he could have gone either way and anywhere from there . . . so many turnings.” The young man tried to keep the mounting panic out of his voice. “He’s not going to go the obvious way, is he?”
He banged the steering wheel with his fist in frustration.
He slowed the car. Came to a halt.
Looked back towards the way he had come.
“What are you stopping for? Rick! Don’t stop . . . just keep driving, go and find him.” She rubbed furiously at the windows, trying to see out more clearly.
He revved the engine.
Began to turn the car around.
Then stopped, thinking.
“Nat, think for a minute . . . work it out; what would you do?”
“I’d be driving at 90 miles an hour looking for Orrey. Why don’t you? For fuck’s sake, Rick, this might be our only chance.”
She punched him on the arm.
“No, Nat, stop, listen.”
She punched him again. “Drive, Rick, for fuck’s sake, drive.”
He grabbed her hands, pushing his face close to hers.
“Listen,” he said, “listen to me. I’ve worked it out. I know what he’s going to do. If we wait here, we’ll catch him. Trust me, Nat, I’ve worked it all through.”
She sat back, wrestling her hands free and turning awa
y from him. She leaned her head against the passenger window. “You idiot, Rick, you fucking stupid idiot.”
“Nat, listen. Orrey will try to head out of town down the high street. It’s by far the quickest way from the cottage. But they will still have roadblocks up. That’s what they said.”
The young woman turned back to look at him.
“He’ll be forced to come this way, towards the lanes. Eventually, anyway. There are too many lanes to block off. And so . . .”
She nodded.
“And so . . .” she repeated, “ . . .if we sit here and wait, I’ll either get a phone call on the mobile any minute to say he’s been arrested at one of the roadblocks or, once he’s driven himself round and round in circles, he’ll come back down here and try to make his way out down the lanes.”
The young man nodded.
He began to drive.
Reversed the car onto the side of the road, so it would not be seen.
They waited.
5.37pm SUNDAY 1 NOVEMBER
William looks back at me with a serious look on his face. I lean forward to kiss him another time but he pulls further away, starts struggling. He can sense, I think, that the coppers are upon us.
I sit up sharply.
Nobody there. My overactive imagination, hearing footsteps where there aren’t any; the mind plays tricks when it’s under pressure. God knows, but you should know that by now, shouldn’t you?
I slide across, pulling William back onto the passenger seat.
I look over towards where the policewoman lies, surrounded by people. The police car is there, two coppers out by the small crowd. I see the coppers bending over. Is she dead? I can’t tell. I think so. She has to be, given the force of the car hitting her.
Glance around, as I reach to start the car up again.
I cannot stay here a moment longer. It can only be a matter of time before the coppers start looking for this car. If the policewoman is alive, the coppers will lean forward and she will sit up as best she can and whisper urgently to them, “Renault Megane, blue, registration . . .’
All they have to do is look across.
Sweet William Page 22