The lock-up was gloomy and sad. Venturing inside, Helen found the large Ford Transit van parked up. As she’d remembered, it was badly dented at the front, the right wheel arch arcing dangerously back towards the tyre.
‘Not looking good, I’m afraid,’ Helen said, as she continued her circuit of the van.
Patterson ignored her, standing by the entrance, clearly not keen to prolong her inspection by engaging in conversation. But an idea was forming in Helen’s mind now and as she reached the back of the van, she yanked the doors open.
‘Surely you don’t need to see in there,’ Patterson protested.
Helen ignored him, climbing up into the body of the van. It was large, high-ceilinged and far more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Intriguingly, the interior of the van had been modified. Plywood had been attached to the walls and ceilings and on top of that a thick layer of cork.
Alarm bells were ringing for Helen now and she found herself moving deeper into the body of the van. The interior was completely swathed in cork, with one notable exception. At the very front of the van – at the point where the body of the vehicle connected to the driver’s cab – there was a small hatch. This was presumably to allow communication between front and back. Why this was necessary was unclear, as Patterson only transported foodstuffs for his local cash and carry business.
Helen walked towards the small hatch grimly, fearful of what she was about to discover. And as she looked through it her heart sank. Hanging from the rearview mirror, clearly visible from the rear of the truck, was an image of St Christopher.
And now it all slotted into place. Colin Patterson was the trafficker and his killing of Addisu was no accident. He was the man at Manor Farm that day. He had set off after Addisu in his van – deliberately running him over as he tried to escape, to prevent him blowing the whistle on Patterson’s lucrative trafficking operations. The trafficker’s racking cough and diseased lungs were not the result of smoking – Helen strongly suspected that he had contracted tuberculosis from his exposure to the illegal immigrants arriving from Africa. His ruse in asking for a cigarette at the crash site was done simply to disguise the fact that he suffered from the same disease as his victim. Since that day, Helen had been keeping the wily Patterson up to speed with their investigation – it was thanks to her that he had stayed away from the docks.
‘Mr Patterson?’
Silence from outside. Helen now realized how foolish she’d been, venturing into the lock-up alone. Immediately, her hand went to her belt, her fingers closing around her baton.
‘Mr Patterson?’ she shouted, her voice wavering slightly, as she marched towards the back of the van.
But a sound now made her turn. The door to the cab had suddenly slammed shut and to her horror, Helen heard the engine start up. She scurried towards the rear doors, but the van was already in motion and, losing her balance, she stumbled sideways, crashing into the cork walls.
The van shot backwards out of the garage then, without warning, braked sharply. Helen was off balance and could only claw helplessly at the smooth cork as she flew backwards. She seemed to be flying – somersaulting wildly in the air – before she came to earth with a brutal thump on the cold tarmac.
The van was only a few feet from her. Patterson gunned the engine, as Helen scrambled to her feet. If he shot backwards now, she would be done for, suffering the same cruel fate as Addisu. But to her relief, she heard the van’s gears shift noisily and Patterson shot off down the road away from her.
Her heart was in her mouth, adrenaline mingling with fear, but she recovered quickly. She was on her bike in less than a minute and roaring after Patterson, the young men on the corner of the street watching on in amazement.
38
Patterson was a local and it showed. He knew his way around Southampton, darting up side alleys, cutting red lights, doing everything he could to throw Helen off his tail. Helen fought hard to stay close to him, not an easy task when you’re driving one-handed.
‘This is WPC Grace. I’m in pursuit of a suspect on Marlborough Road.’
Helen radioed in the details, then gratefully placed her hand back on the handlebars. Patterson was changing direction sharply, which was hard for Helen to do with one hand – on more than one occasion she’d skidded while trying to do so. Now, however, she had full control of her bike and ramped up her speed. After days of floundering blindly in the dark, she was determined to bring this difficult case to a close.
Patterson was speeding south now, heading for the ring road. He would be able to speed up there, but he stood a much greater chance of being intercepted by traffic police. As if sensing this, Patterson suddenly cut across the lanes, making it onto the exit ramp just in time. Helen jammed on the brakes, the bulky van just missing her, before following suit. An articulated lorry roared past, blaring its horn, but Helen made it across unscathed, speeding down the exit in pursuit.
They were now entering the docks. Helen suddenly had a nasty thought that Patterson had an escape plan lined up. Somewhere to hide out in? Perhaps even a boat to spirit him away? If he had, it was down to her to stop him. Patterson had probably guessed that she’d radioed in her pursuit, hence his sudden change of direction.
‘Suspect now proceeding to the Western Docks. Repeat, the Western Docks.’
Pocketing her radio once again, Helen increased her speed. The roads near the docks were deserted, the workers having returned home for the night, so Helen felt liberated to pull back hard on her throttle. Patterson’s vehicle was bigger than hers, but she was faster. With a sudden burst of speed, she drew alongside him. He didn’t notice at first, surprised by the speed of her arrival, and Helen reached out a hand towards the van, determined to wrench the passenger side door open. Suddenly Patterson saw her and yanked the steering wheel hard left, the van lurching towards her. Helen did likewise, her wheels locking. The bike shook, threatening to topple over, but killing her speed and jamming her foot down, Helen managed to right herself.
She had lost valuable time and the van was speeding away from her once more. Helen pulled the throttle as far back as it would go, the bike lurching violently forward. She just about managed to stay on and was soon bearing down on her quarry once more. In her mind’s eye, she could see Patterson nervously looking in his mirrors, cursing her dogged pursuit of him.
She was only thirty feet behind him, now twenty, now ten ….
She pulled up alongside him once more. But this time he was ready for her, swinging wildly to the left once more. This time the side of the van hit her and Helen now found herself careering towards the warehouse wall. She squeezed the brakes tightly but her momentum was irresistible now and she just had time to dismount, before her bike smashed into the unyielding brick wall. She followed suit, hitting the wall hard, before rebounding off it onto the ground.
Even as she lay there, disoriented and stunned, she could hear the van speeding away. Despite her best efforts, Patterson had escaped.
39
‘Suspect heading west towards Quay 21.’
Helen clambered unsteadily to her feet, as she radioed in her update.
‘I’m no longer in pursuit, please advise all units to be vigilant.’
A disconsolate Helen clicked off, looking down at her bike. It was badly damaged, probably beyond repair, and she grimaced at the thought of what McBain would say when he got wind of it. She had wanted to play the hero, but had only succeeded in destroying valuable police property and cracking a rib or two in the process, judging by the sharp, nagging pain in her left flank.
Turning away from the mangled bike, a breathless Helen cast an eye down the dockside. The white van looked tiny now in the middle distance. It was probably half a mile away from her already and about to disappear from view. Helen watched it go, seething with anger and frustration. She was about to turn away in disgust, when suddenly she saw the van’s red brake lights spring on. Even at this distance, she could hear the squeal of tyres and moments later the
sound of sirens. Now Patterson was reversing quickly and, as he executed a sharp 180-degree turn, Helen realized why. A patrol car had entered the docks from the western end, cutting off Patterson’s escape route. The trafficker was not free and clear yet.
The white van sped back along the dockside, Patterson driving at top speed. There were no turn-offs available to him – the dockside was bordered by a warehouse on one side and the water on the other – which meant that he was now speeding directly back towards Helen. She was slow in reacting to the danger, heavily concussed and with her limbs still aching from the battering they’d taken, but now she turned and ran. Her progress was faltering, desperate – she knew she couldn’t outrun him, but up ahead she now saw two more patrol cars speeding towards her. If she could make it to them, before Patterson caught up with her, she would have a chance. If not …
She raised her pace, swallowing down the agony. Pain seared through her body, bringing tears to her eyes, but on she went. She could hear the van bearing down on her, could feel her resolve weakening. She was running as fast as she could, her limbs somehow obeying her, as she fought to escape a violent death. The sound of the van’s engine was getting louder, but so too were the patrol cars’ sirens and now they shot past her, jamming their brakes on and spinning sideways to form a barrier across the dockside.
Helen lunged forward, only just making it clear, as Patterson’s van veered right, clipping the nose of one police car, before breaking sharply to avoid the next, which slid helplessly past. Now the way was clear for Patterson, if he was quick. But he had braked to a standstill and Helen now saw her chance. Summoning what strength remained, she stumbled forward, yanking open the passenger door. Patterson reacted, slamming his foot on the accelerator, but, grabbing hold of the seat, Helen hauled herself inside, even as the van shot forward.
A fist flew directly at her, but she batted it away, clinging desperately to the seat edge with her other hand. The van was speeding along now, Helen’s feet hanging out of the open door. She knew that if she was dislodged, she would fall into the path of the pursuing vehicles, so she clung on for dear life, even as Patterson’s fist flew at her again, this time catching her on the shoulder. As he raised his fist again, she hauled herself up, getting her knees onto the seat and grasping the wheel with her right hand.
Immediately, Patterson slammed his fist down on her fingers. Helen cried out in pain but refused to let go, attempting to turn the van around by tugging the wheel towards her. Roaring in anger, Patterson brought his fist down again, before suddenly arrowing an elbow towards his assailant. Helen hadn’t been expecting this move and his pointy elbow caught her in the throat, knocking her backwards. She suddenly felt breathless and nauseous, vomit creeping up her throat. Patterson saw his chance. Letting go of the wheel for a second, he shoved her forcefully away. Helen fell backwards towards the open door, saving herself at the last minute by grabbing hold of the open door. Patterson sensed victory, but he’d taken his eyes off the road momentarily and hadn’t detected the van’s slow drift to the right. Helen spotted it before he did – the warehouse wall looming fast towards them – and without hesitation leapt from the van.
Time seemed to stand still now. From her prone position on the ground, Helen watched as the van sped towards the wall, before coming to a sudden, savage halt. Metal screamed, glass shattered and then suddenly all was still. The chase was over.
Scrambling to her feet, ignoring the patrol cars that were pulling up around her, Helen hurried towards it. She was hobbling as fast as she could, expecting the van to erupt in flames at any moment. Her heart was in her mouth – surely Patterson couldn’t have survived such an impact?
Running over the broken glass, she peered into the crumpled cab and called out his name. To her surprise, she got a response. The fugitive was badly shaken, but essentially unharmed, pinned to his seat by the fully inflated airbag. Helen could barely suppress a smile. Airbags had only become standard last year. Although Patterson would never see it this way, he had had a very lucky escape today.
40
‘I don’t know how you keep doing it, Helen, but you do …’
Helen noted Whittaker’s use of her first name, but refused to blush. She sensed this was what he was hoping for.
‘Do you do it to make us fellas look bad? Or do you just like putting on the cape and mask?’
‘Just doing my job, sir.’
‘How did I know you were going to say that?’
There was a brief pause in the conversation, as the ambulance fired up the blues and twos and headed away from the docks.
‘Is Patterson going to be ok?’
‘They’ll check him over at St Mary’s, see if there are any internal injuries, but he was sitting up and talking, so he should be fine. Which is more than can be said for one of our primary pieces of evidence.’
Whittaker’s eyes had alighted on the crumpled van, which was now being hoisted onto a recovery truck.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Helen replied quickly. ‘But in the circumstances …’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Helen. We all owe you a great debt.’
For a moment, Helen was speechless. Senior officers were far more likely to steal the credit than hand out praise.
‘Anyway, there is plenty for me to do now,’ Whittaker continued, taking his leave. ‘But stay in touch, eh?’
He turned to go, but couldn’t resist a parting shot.
‘I foresee great things for you.’
41
It was Christmas morning, but the cemetery was far from empty. It was a crisp, sunny day and as Helen walked along the carefully manicured path she was pleased to see several families paying their respects to those they’d loved and lost. Thoughts of Marianne immediately filled her head. What was she doing right now? Did she ignore Christmas completely? Did it make her angry? Or did she allow herself a little happiness, taking some pleasure in the brief relaxation of prison rules on the big day?
She would probably never know, so, pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind, Helen strode on towards the plot. She soon found it and paused a moment to admire the sparkling new headstone.
Helen had insisted that the force pay for one out of their Victim Support Fund and to her surprise they’d agreed. The message on the stone was brief – ‘Addisu Tesfaye, 1971–1993, Gone but not forgotten’ – but it said enough. Helen was moved to see that there were already two bouquets of flowers by the grave and she now added her own. It was the least she could do for a young man who’d deserved so much better. Helen stayed for a few minutes, then turned and made for the gates once more. Christmas Day spread out in front of her, but for once she didn’t feel downcast. Today she had a plan. She had spotted a new Indian restaurant, which proudly proclaimed it would be open on Christmas Day. She would go there shortly, pick up a takeaway of all her favourite tandoori treats, then head home for a lazy Christmas lunch in front of whatever film the BBC decided to air. It wasn’t a conventional Christmas Day, but it was as conventional as she was prepared to go. Truth be told, she didn’t fancy turkey this year.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Copyright © M. J. Arlidge, 2017
The moral right of the author has been ass
erted
ISBN: 978-1-405-92699-7
Running Blind (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 7