Lewis accelerates to increase his speed of approach towards the crossing. The Russian is close behind. The gap between them is less than a few seconds at most. Lewis continues to watch the front of the approaching train, gauging their respective positions. Relative to him, the train now appears to be moving backwards. Exactly as he needs it in order to avoid a collision.
Once past the first barrier and onto the crossing itself, he is beyond the point of no return. Easing off the throttle, applying countersteering into the first turn, he leans with his body, resisting the temptation to apply any rear brake with his right foot. The fast approaching train on his left suddenly blares its horn very loudly as it sees a biker in its path. Lewis has been expecting this and blanks it out, concentrating instead on countersteering once again, this time in the other direction. His body position shifts and the bike begins to slide. As the rear tyre loses its grip, he opens up the throttle with his right hand and the bike power slides out of the crossing and across to the other side.
It is a perfect execution.
Now is the moment to be getting going – and quickly. Lewis chances a glance in his one remaining mirror but can’t be sure whether the Russian has been made it or not. A bend in the road prevents a clear view of the crossing, now behind him and disappearing from view. All he can hear is the desperate sound of metal sliding on metal. The train’s brakes are locking and the carriages behind him are rapidly decelerating to a halt. Has his plan worked? At best, yes; at worst, it might have only bought Lewis some much needed time. How much time depends on what damage or delay he has inflicted on the Russian.
The A28 is a short distance ahead of him. He heads left back towards Canterbury, hoping that Holly might have returned home from work. Now, more than ever, he desperately needs her car.
83
Canterbury
Panich was about three seconds behind Lewis’s bike and knew he was in trouble. He was approaching the level crossing at almost eighty miles an hour and could see the train powering towards him on his left. There were no cars waiting on either side, the crossing itself being an old type with just a single half-width barrier on each side.
He had a split-second decision to make: whether to slam on the brakes, grind the bike to a rapid halt and hope that he would be able to stop in time; or else try and get across the crossing without the train colliding into him. If he chose the former, then Lewis would be well clear by the time the train had passed. Panich would then have lost him. If he chose the latter, the chances of him avoiding a collision were going to be very slim indeed.
What made the decision easier for the Russian was the anger he felt towards Lewis for all that the death and destruction he had caused in the last twenty-four hours. Panich owed it to his team to finish the job that they had started.
He was going to try and get across.
Did he have enough time and speed advantage to zigzag across and still avoid the train? Or would he have to try something different. It was another split second decision. He saw Lewis ahead of him slowing into the zigzag, probably hoping to power slide out of the turn and thus avoid being hit by the train. Panich didn’t think there was enough time available for him to do that. He needed something else. Something else suddenly felt very scary.
Panich began by opening the throttle. With a sharp twist of his right wrist, his speed accelerated to almost ninety miles an hour. At the same time he swivelled in his seat so as to move his left leg so that he was no longer sitting astride the machine but side-saddle, both legs now on the right hand side of the bike. He was close to the first of the two crossing barriers, the adrenalin surging, the blaring of the approaching train’s horn sounding alarmingly loud in his left ear. This first barrier was of no concern to him. It was the second barrier, immediately in front and on the same side of the road as he was now travelling, that he was really worried about. One mistake and he would crash into the barrier and risk serious injury, if not decapitation.
The theory was that once on the crossing, he would release the throttle and kick hard down with his right foot on the rear brake pedal. The speed of the bike would in theory allow the brakes on the rear wheel to lock up and traction with the road surface to be lost. The immense energy of the train as it thundered towards him would only compound the danger. The final manoeuvre was to throw the bike’s handlebars to the left. With the rear brakes locked and sliding, in theory the bike would only have one way to go and that was onto its left hand side. The bike would then, also in theory, arch low, almost horizontal with the ground, allowing the bike to slide under the approaching second crossing barrier right in front of him.
All that was theory.
Always assuming that the train didn’t hit him first.
The theory being that given his speed and the bike’s momentum, he should have sufficient time to slide under the second barrier before the train entered the crossing.
The theory also being that if he judged it right, he might still be able to stay in control of the bike and right it on the other side.
Unfortunately for Panich, not all of the theory worked in practice.
With what felt like only centimetres to spare, Panich did succeed in sliding the bike under the second barrier, only a split second before the rapidly braking train had reached him. Unfortunately, Panich had not been a skilful enough rider to keep the sliding bike on its tyres throughout the slide. Because of this, he had been compelled to let go of the machine, the bike travelling in a straight-line to a sliding halt several metres further on. Luckily for him, there were still no cars waiting on the other side of the crossing. Panich’s body had rolled away towards the right hand curb. He had suffered bumps and bruises and a heat burn on his backside but otherwise he was alive and unhurt.
Without pausing for breath, he picked himself up and ran over to his bike. With immense difficulty he heaved the dead weight back onto its wheels. Panich knew immediately that he had a problem. The bike’s rear wheel had buckled in the slide. The drive chain was no longer in alignment. On this machine, he was going nowhere, the gamble taken but lost. Lewis would already be some distance away by now, gaining precious time and distance advantage.
Behind him, the train had finally come to a stop. It was time to get away from the scene and quickly, bike or no bike. He didn’t need to be standing around answering all sorts of the wrong type of questions. He pushed the buckled machine to the side of the road, took off his helmet, and began walking. The busy main road from Canterbury to Ramsgate was only a short distance ahead.
He checked his earpiece radio and began talking to Stefan as he walked, his left leg and buttocks sore from the fall but no other serious injuries to worry him.
“Shit,” Stefan’s voice crackled in his ear when he heard what had happened. “That was a hell of a risk you took.”
“I know, but the bastard got away. I had to take the chance. Where are you at the moment?”
“Making good time. I’m on the M2 just passing a place called Sittingbourne.” When Songbird had confirmed that Lewis was heading towards Canterbury earlier that afternoon, Panich had instructed Stefan to jump in the Mercedes van and bring it down as a back-up vehicle. “I should be in Canterbury in about ten minutes or so.”
“Good. Make your way to the nurse’s house. I’ll try and hitch a lift and join you as soon as I can.”
“We do have one good bit of news.”
“Humour me,” Panich said. He had reached the main road and was already standing on the junction corner with his thumb out.
“I’m now tracking the nurse’s mobile. She’s back home at her house in Canterbury.”
“Good work.” A delivery lorry heading in the Canterbury direction had seen Panich trying to hitch a ride and was slowing down. “Looks like I may have struck lucky with my lift,” Panich went on. “All being well this should get me to the house about the same t
ime as you. Let’s hope we are there in time to catch this bastard once and for all.”
84
Canterbury
Holly had been born two years after her sister. That detail aside, Lewis has always maintained that they could have passed for twins. They both had the same shoulder-length curly blonde hair, slightly lopsided smile and the warmest blue eyes that Lewis has ever seen on a woman. Genetics had also passed on similar mannerisms: an familiar upward flick of the head usually delivered with a raising of the eyebrows – like now, the moment that the door is opened and she recognises Lewis on the doorstep; the tilting of the face ever so slightly to one side; the wrinkling of the nose as they make eye contact; and, last but not least, the warm, welcoming, smile.
They hug on the doorstep. She, ten centimetres shorter than him, has to stand on tiptoe. She kisses him on the cheek as they embrace. This is the maximum affection that each has countenanced, in four years neither prepared to cross into uncharted waters beyond the brother-and-sister-in-law relationship. Lewis the widower typically has felt awkward in her company. Their brief moments together have been hesitant, their meetings few and far between. Getting too close could have become complicated.
“My God, Ben, it’s great to see you. Come in, come in, why didn’t you call to let me know you were coming?” she says, standing aside to let him enter the house. She is unable to resist raising herself up one more time to kiss him on the cheek as he brushes past her and heads inside. He smells the sweetness of her perfume. Their bodies are in close proximity in the narrow hallway. For a split second he is intoxicated before remembering with a jolt why he is here. The magic is about to vaporize.
“Holly, listen,” he says turning to face her, placing his bike helmet on a side table in the hallway. “This is not a social call. You have to trust me. I shouldn’t have called last night, I’m sorry. I realise now that I have put you in very real danger.” Holly laughs when he says this, but the smile quickly vanishes when she sees the look on Lewis’s face.
“I am deadly serious. It’s entirely my fault. In the last twenty-four hours several people have tried to kill me and they don’t appear to be showing signs of stopping just yet either. This is not a joke or a game, Holly. These are professional killers, the sort well able to access mobile phone records and see that you and I have been calling each other. There was a Russian on your doorstep earlier this afternoon, trying to get to me through you. If he could find you that easily, there’ll be others. You have to disappear off the radar for a while, go somewhere no one can track you down. I am serious. We, you in particular, need to leave immediately.”
“My God, Ben, what on earth have you been up to? Are you in trouble with the police? Is this all connected to the Iranian woman you asked me about?”
“The police are the least of my worries right now. It’s complicated and, yes, it is connected to Leyla Zamani and what she said to me yesterday. We simply don’t have time to discuss everything, not at this moment, at least. You’re going to have to trust me. We do, however, need to get going. We haven’t any time.”
“Bloody hell, Ben.” She stands there, chewing on a fingernail, wondering whether to believe Lewis’s story, her face scowling before her eyes suddenly go wide and she smiles again, as if having worked everything out.
“You want to borrow my car, don’t you?” she announces, her intuition taking Lewis by surprise.
“That would definitely be a bonus, yes.”
“Well you can’t.” She says this with such finality that Lewis just looks at her, perplexed. “I had a prang the other day. Some lorry driver shunted me at a junction. It’s in for repair.”
“That could be a complication.”
“Relax, I’ve been given a loan car. It’s all paid for by the insurers.”
“Well, I can take that, then.”
She touches his nose with her index finger. “On one condition.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“In fact I have two, both non-negotiable. The first is that once this has all blown over, you are going to take me on a date, dinner preferably, place and location of my choosing. You’ve been avoiding me since Lisa died, Ben, and I’d like to change that a little. Lisa and I were, are different, despite appearances. Who knows, you might even like me. There,” she says, fiddling with an eyelash, “I’ve wanted to say that for a while.”
“And the second?” he says, his eyes not meeting hers, scratching his head as he talks.
“They’re part of the same package, Ben. You have to say yes to both or else no car. That’s the deal.”
“We need to be gone in less than a minute. Come on, spit it out,” he says.
“Condition two is that I am coming with you. If you want the car, you get me as well. Take it or leave it, Ben Lewis, that’s the deal.”
85
Savile Row Police Station
The mobile phone on her desk started to vibrate one minute before the clock on the outer office wall indicated that it was four o’clock. Meilin was feeling dreadful, her stomach knotted with fear and anxiety. She had been in a trance, preoccupied with thoughts about what might be happening to her mother and, most importantly, her little girl. She hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her husband what had happened. He would go ballistic, most likely saying that it was all her fault. He was still at work and she wasn’t ready to tell him yet. She slid the button across the face of her phone to take the call, bracing herself.
“This is Meilin.”
“What progress?” Cheng’s voice was sharp, business-like and terse, a contrast to the earlier call. Meilin had been planning to demand to speak to her mother first, to check that everything was all right, but the man’s tone threw her off guard. She immediately launched into her prepared updated.
“Not a lot new, I’m sorry. Police cameras haven’t been able to locate Lewis’s bike anywhere in the last sixty minutes. The last sighting was outside Canterbury over an hour ago.”
“Could he have made either Folkestone or Dover without being detected?”
“It’s unlikely. All motorcyclists are being subjected to extra scrutiny at the train and ferry terminals today.”
“Are the police using roadblocks?”
“Not at present. Our surveillance systems will pick him up if he tries to get through.”
“I hope for your sake that you are right,” the caller said and then to Meilin’s surprise, he rang off abruptly. She didn’t even get the chance to ask about her little girl. She laid the phone down on her desk, tears once more streaming down her face.
Across London, Cheng was speaking to Sui-Lee on her mobile, the microphone wirelessly connected to her motorcycle helmet.
“No news on Lewis yet. The police think he may have gone to ground.”
“Or he might have changed vehicles. He’s not stupid.” Sui-Lee was talking loudly over the roar of the bike’s engine.
“I did get one piece of useful information. You’ll need to ditch the bike and hire a car. The police are watching all bikers passing through the channel ports today.”
“Okay, that’s helpful,” Sui-Lee said. “I’m not far from Maidstone. I’ll see if I can find a car rental place.”
“If you wait a moment, I’ll search online and find where the nearest places are.”
There was silence over the connection whilst he retrieved his laptop and typed in the search request. There were three major rental outlets near to Maidstone and he relayed this information to her.
“Good. Let me know if you hear anything more. I’ll call you when I’ve managed to pick up a car.”
86
Nr Maidstone
The fact that Ben Lewis’s departure from the UK into France remained for the most part undetected by the police may largely have been down to a burst pipe in a small, rather tumbledown Kent cottage.
The owners, a newly retired banker and his wife, had been spending most of the summer in the Dordogne, trying to renovate a property they had purchased for their retirement. This new French project had been absorbing most, if not all, of their spare cash. Which went some way to explain why their original Kent home, pretty as it was nestled in the village of Langley not far from Maidstone, had been largely neglected. The two retirees had returned to the UK two days previously to discover that a burst pipe had flooded the downstairs living area. Their neighbours, who had been visiting the property fastidiously every day for the last six weeks, had themselves gone on holiday the previous weekend leaving the house unmonitored for seventy-two hours. Enough time for cascading water under mains pressure to have caused substantial damage.
The insurance company had been helpful and responsive. Within hours a team had been sent in to clean up the damage. The day that Saul Zeltinger was being driven at speed down the M20 motorway in an unmarked police BMW 5 series was the same day that local builders had been into the property ripping out waterlogged plasterboard and sodden wooden floorboards. These they had loaded into a skip. There had been so much spoil to get rid of that around midday, a second lorry had arrived to deposit a new skip and take away the first.
Most reputable skip hire companies took skips that were full to specialist centres to recycle the waste material. However, on this particular day the driver had been told by his bosses to take the damp and unpleasant load of material directly to the nearest landfill site, some ten miles away. The quickest route took the lorry along one small section of the M20 motorway.
The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1) Page 19