Hot Pursuit

by Gemma Fox

  Lucas’s two calls into the office had already been logged into the computer, that and the place where they were due to meet. Normally Coleman wouldn’t accompany the crash team, just send the lads in and let them do their job, but this time it was different. Nick Lucas had evaded pick up – he was careful not to use the word capture – once before. It wouldn’t do for them to let Lucas give them the slip again.

  And – wherever the leak was – maybe, just maybe, bringing Nick Lucas in was the very thing that would flush the system through – maybe. That’s what his bosses thought anyway and if that was the case they wanted Coleman there; in at the kill, as it were. He smiled; it was an interesting choice of words. That was something he really didn’t want to miss. The chopper swung in low over the sea, the down-draft from the blades cutting the grey water into mare’s tails of foam.

  ‘How long before we get there?’ Coleman shouted and mimed, stabbing one finger furiously at his watch. ‘ETA?’

  A man on the far side of the cabin, dressed in combat khakis and with a helmet and headset on, held up his hands, palms flat forward, fingers outstretched, and mouthed ten minutes, then shrugged, implying a minute or two either way. The rest of team, six square-shouldered, cleanshaven young men dressed in neat and unremarkable suits, looked calm and cool and as if dropping out of helicopters was something they did on a daily basis. Two of them were wearing headsets, which implied they knew what they were doing.

  Coleman glanced down at his watch, willing them to arrive soon. He hated flying and always felt air sick in helicopters however many little white tablets the doctor prescribed for him. The fleeting thought was enough to remind him. He swallowed back a great wave of nausea. He tried running through the plans he had discussed with his superiors as a way of stopping him from throwing up.

  Dorothy Crow had taken the file from his hand as soon as he had walked back into the office from the Nick Lucas emergency meeting.

  ‘It’s a go,’ was all he had said to her.

  Dorothy had nodded and with a smile not unlike his own, added, ‘I know. The helicopter is already on its way.’ As she spoke she had handed him a glass of water and two Quells.

  Hunched and trapped now in the uncomfortable helicopter seat, Coleman nipped the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. It wasn’t meant to be like this; he was supposed to be a desk jockey these days not hurtling round the country like some stupid bugger out of Mission Impossible. Across the cabin two of the crash team appeared to be talking in sign language, hands a blur, the flash little gits. He was about to curse under his breath until it occurred to him that they could probably lip-read as well – he wondered if they did ESP.

  Coleman settled back, trying to find some way to stretch his legs, struggling to ignore the headache cradled deep in his forehead and avoid vomiting. Only a handful of people had access to the information about Nick Lucas’s whereabouts and they were being watched and monitored. Most of them were the same people who knew about the error that Stiltskin had thrown up – but only Coleman knew what connected them together and what was planned.

  Today was rather like the children’s game of Mastermind, played out with people. The solution might well show itself; the players in their various positions finally revealing their true colours. Maybe. And if he was lucky today everything would be sorted out once and for all. If he was lucky. Across the cabin one of the signlanguage guys was laughing at something his companion was spelling out. Coleman sighed and closed his eyes. Bloody kids.

  Bernie Fielding, his arms and ankles tied tight to one of the chairs in Maggie’s beach hut with a length of guy rope, was busy explaining to Nimrod exactly how very, very well he and Maggie got on, still friends after all these years. Amazing, really. How she would do anything for him, anything at all. No question. Maybe if he rang her, maybe he could persuade her to tell him where she and Nick were, maybe even persuade her to give him up. It was worth a try, surely. Wasn’t it? He whimpered.

  Nimrod considered the prospect for a few moments. He had certain standards; even though he was angry and frustrated it didn’t do to pop too many civilians when you were on a job. He was, after all, a paid assassin not some amateur thug. Despite some of his baser instincts he didn’t do freebies these days, unless it was very special circumstances – and he didn’t like mess.

  He was just about to suggest Bernie improved the strength of his argument when there was a short series of beeps announcing the arrival of a text message for one of them.

  All three men looked from face to face.

  Bernie shrugged. ‘Not me, mate,’ he said, eyebrows raised in a gesture of surrender. Slowly, Nimrod pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket, flicked through the screens and then smiled as the message appeared.

  ‘Well, well, well. Seems we haven’t lost our friend Mr Lucas after all,’ he said to Cain. ‘Which means that we won’t be needing you, Mr Fielding. Pity about that but there we are.’

  Bernie blanched to the colour of skimmed milk, fear strangling his breath in a rasping, ragged, gasping sob.

  ‘Blenheim Gardens, Minehead, it says here,’ said Nimrod glancing down at his watch. ‘There we are, then. I think we need to be gone, Cain. Apparently the crash team are already on their way to pick Lucas up. So –’ he turned his attention back to Bernie, wondering what was the best course of action. Leave him tied here or dump him in the middle of nowhere and hope he didn’t blow the whistle before it was too late? It was painfully obvious that Bernie thought that they had a more permanent solution in mind. Nimrod sighed and shook his head; hit men always got such a bad press.

  Still tied to the chair, Bernie wriggled frantically. ‘But you need me, I know where the gardens are,’ he stammered. ‘Please, I can show you the way. I can lead you straight to them. Let me help you,’ he implored. It was quite touching really.

  ‘We’ve got a map in the car,’ said Cain laconically.

  Bernie swallowed hard; Nimrod could almost see his mind working, like the fingers of a drowning man desperately grabbing hold of something, anything that might keep him afloat. ‘Yes, but what if Maggie is hiding him somewhere – you have to admit she’s a smart cookie, is Maggie,’ Bernie said. ‘She gave you the slip before. I wouldn’t put it past her to do it again – you’ll need me to point her out.’

  Nimrod considered for a moment or two; there was a certain kind of warped logic to Bernie’s suggestion and the woman was certainly sharp enough to come up with something out of left field. And maybe, if she was as fond of Bernie as he said, they could use him as a bargaining chip.

  It also struck Nimrod that Bernie Fielding was the kind of greasy little low life mammal that it was best to keep an eye on. Instinct told him that Bernie Fielding would sell his granny for chops and dog mince if he thought it would save his own hide. It made sense for Nimrod to keep Bernie where he could see him, at least until they caught up with Mr Lucas and then he would have to reconsider the position.

  Nimrod nodded to Cain. ‘Okay, untie him. We’ll take him with us.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Cain.

  Bernie whimpered and tried hard to make himself smaller and more appealing.

  Nimrod slipped on his shades. ‘And you’d better know where this frigging park is, Bernie, or you might find yourself in deep trouble.’

  Bernie Fielding’s expression implied that he thought he was in quite deep-enough trouble already.

  ‘Robbie, if you are so unhappy about my directions why don’t you let me drive for a while and then you can navigate?’ said Lesley coolly. She still had the road atlas balanced on her lap, currently unopened.

  Robbie Hughes didn’t even bother gracing her words with a reply. This was not how he had imagined the last couple of days going at all. Not at all. His big moment bringing Bernie Fielding to book had turned into a complete fiasco and overnight Lesley had transmogrified into an ice queen from hell. He would seriously have to reconsider her position as his PA once they got back to the studio. There was a nice little brune
tte in reception who always blushed when he arrived at work and who looked as if she might be just ripe for promotion. Besides, on top of everything else, thanks to Lesley he had missed breakfast. Robbie was hungry and when he was hungry he was bad-tempered.

  What he wanted was a mug of tea and a decent fry-up, but Lesley had refused to go into a transport café with him. Robbie had always loved rubbing shoulders with the hairy-arsed hoi polloi, it reminded him vividly of his roots when his dad had a bread van and did the rounds at the back of the gasworks and down by the railway station. Robbie often imagined how it would look with a sepia-coloured tint if they ever showed the footage on This is Your Life. Since his first big break in TV, Robbie had kept a Dinky car – a battered red Montego glued onto a mahogany plinth – in front of him on his desk to remind him of what he would be driving now if he had stayed at home and taken over the family bread round.

  Even so, those good working-class roots were there, buried deep in his bones, and he felt it was important to go back, to remind himself once in a while of how life might have been. And Robbie always enjoyed the big mugs of tea, and the plate of egg, bacon, beans, black pudding and a fried slice, and the surreptitious glances from the drivers as they worked out whether or not he really was that bloke off the telly. Every so often one of them, some big bluff chap in overalls smelling of diesel oil and cheap aftershave, would amble over and ask for his autograph – almost always for the wife or the girlfriend – and pat Robbie on the back or shake his hand to say what a good job he was doing, fighting crime and righting wrongs, leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

  But oh no, the bloody ice queen wanted to come off the motorway and look for a decent restaurant, complaining that she hated the way men in transport cafés always leered at her, and so as a result they had reached a bad-tempered impasse and were now both hungry. He knew that because Lesley’s stomach kept rumbling furiously and he was glad, it served her right.

  She’d relent eventually; she looked a bit pasty.

  Robbie had brought a video camera in the car with them so that Lesley would be able to capture the denouement of the Bernie Fielding story, but he was beginning to think now that without the Gotcha film crew behind him he might well have to do it as a reconstruction later. After all, he wasn’t exactly sure what Lesley was capable of in the point-and-zoom department and given her present state of mind he didn’t like to ask.

  In quieter moments he was mentally framing the shot where he had had a blow-out in the fast lane of the M6 and had wrestled the car fearlessly onto the hard shoulder. Battling his way across three streams of motorway traffic before leaping out and single-handedly mending the flat with just a Swiss-army penknife and…

  ‘It’s just up there on the right.’ Lesley’s voice cut through his thoughts like a blowtorch.

  ‘What is?’ snapped Robbie.

  She was waving with her hands about. ‘The holiday camp.’

  ‘Is that my right,’ he growled, ‘or some obscure alternative female right that can only be divined psychically?’

  Lesley lifted an eyebrow and peered at him. It was such an aggressive little gesture; he was almost certain that that little girl in reception wouldn’t do that.

  Lesley had changed the tyre fairly quickly – but what she hadn’t pointed out when they got going again was that, under the stress of it all, Robbie had taken a wrong turn at the next big junction and thanks to her they had almost ended up in Wales. Wales for God’s sake, why hadn’t she said something? Lesley had refused to admit to doing it on purpose.

  ‘Right.’ She pointed with one chubby little finger.

  Robbie sniffed, an instant before clocking the sign to St Elfreda’s Bay Holiday Centre. Okay, maybe Lesley was right this time, there had to be a first time for everything. They were about to swing into the entrance when a large silver-grey car pulled out in a hail of loose chippings and stopped. Robbie waved them on. Beside him Lesley made a peculiar noise in the back of her throat.

  ‘What is it now?’ Robbie snapped.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said, ventriloquist fashion.

  ‘What’s him?’ growled Robbie. He had just about had enough of Lesley.

  ‘That man in the back of that car, there. Don’t look now but it’s Bernie Fielding.’

  Robbie snorted. ‘Oh really, and how would you know that, eh, Lesley? We haven’t got a decent picture of him.’

  ‘I know it’s him,’ said Lesley firmly. ‘Remember the wedding photograph we’ve got on file from when he got married to Maggie Morgan? It looks just like him. His hair’s shorter and thinner now but I’d know that face anywhere.’

  Robbie glared at her. He had spent hours staring at the thin grainy paper-clipping until all he could see were the bloody dots. The freebie newspaper that had published the original had long since closed down so they hadn’t been able to track down a decent copy or a print. There was no way he could conjure a face out of the grey tones, however hard he tried, but it seemed that, miracle of miracles, Lesley had.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Robbie couldn’t quite keep the scepticism out of his voice.

  Lesley nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, that other man, the one at West Brayfield? I knew that he wasn’t Bernie.’

  Robbie stared at her. ‘What? What do you mean you knew he wasn’t Bernie? Why the hell didn’t you say something before I started filming the bloody interview, then?’

  Lesley paled. ‘Because you seemed so certain, Robbie,’ she said nervously. ‘I was worried in case you got angry with me. I thought I must have made a mistake.’

  Robbie felt his blood pressure rising. ‘So thanks to you, Lesley, I fell flat on my arse and made a complete and utter tit of myself?’ he growled.

  She stared at him. ‘What do you mean, thanks to me?’

  ‘What I said. You should have said something. You’re my PA, that’s your job.’

  Lesley glared at him; it certainly seemed that she wasn’t worried about him getting angry any more. ‘Oh is it?’ she snapped. ‘And what exactly could I have said, Robbie, that would have shut you up? Let’s be frank. What was it that you would have listened to?’

  ‘You still should have tried,’ grumbled Robbie petulantly. ‘I am the first one to admit that I’m not infallible.’

  Lesley looked heavenwards as if waiting for a sign from God; the truth was that they both knew that when Robbie was hell-bent on something, with his beach-storming hat on, he was almost impossible to stop, and infallible didn’t come close to what he thought he was.

  ‘So what are you suggesting that I should do now, then?’ said Robbie. ‘Given that Mr Fielding is, according to you, heading off down the hill?’ Their car was now sitting slap-bang in the middle of the road. Behind them a minibus full of what looked like boy scouts pipped hopefully.

  ‘Follow that car,’ Lesley said, waving her hand like a wagon-train master cracking a whip, and then added as an afterthought, ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  Maggie drove up the Avenue – one of Minehead’s main tourist and shopping streets – found the turning that would take her up to Blenheim Gardens and a place to park on the first attempt. Easy. She sighed with relief as she backed into the space – although almost as soon as the thought formed the easy feeling faded. Making contact with Coleman would mean there was a good chance that Nick Lucas would vanish from her life forever.

  The main road had been busy with cars, holidaymakers wandering up the broad paths and straggling into the road, slowing the traffic to a snail’s pace. By contrast, Blenheim Gardens was a haven of tranquillity.

  ‘I wish –’ Nick began as they headed towards the gates and then he stopped himself again.

  ‘I wish you’d stop saying “I wish”,’ said Maggie grumpily.

  Catching hold of her hand Nick pulled her up against him. ‘Maggie, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.’

  Maggie groaned. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Nick – that is such a corny thing to say.’ Not that it stopped her from turning in his
arms or tipping her face up towards him so that he could kiss her.

  ‘But I mean it,’ he said, looking hurt as a moment or two later she pulled away. ‘Seriously. Of all the women who could have found me seminaked in their hall, I’m –’

  She kissed him quiet and then said firmly, ‘Coleman. Come on, we have to go –’ as he made to kiss her again.

  Nick’s face fell. ‘I know, I was just hanging on, relishing the last few minutes.’

  ‘But you have to go.’

  Once they were through the gates there was a signpost indicating the way to the café, amongst other places. For all her encouraging, Maggie was in the same state of mind as Nick, torn between wanting to linger and getting him to Coleman and safety.

  Without another word Nick caught hold of her hand and they made their way towards the café. It was the most perfect day to be wandering through the park with a new lover. Maggie felt tears catch in her throat – it was as wonderful as it was ridiculous to be walking hand in hand in the sunshine.

  Ahead of them the gardens looked stunning – great beds full of riotous hot summer colours, interspersed with palms and shrubs and trees. The perfume of the flowers was a heady counterpoint to the rich aroma of coffee that carried towards them on the light breeze.

  As they walked Maggie was aware that her eyes were working left and right across the faces of the people around them; the sunbathers and the strollers, the courting couples and the old ladies clutching their ice creams. Maggie wasn’t altogether sure what she was looking for but knew for certain that she’d recognise it the instant she saw it.

  ‘We have them both in our sights, Sir. They have just entered the park,’ said a hissing metallic voice in Coleman’s ear. ‘They’re currently heading towards the café and should be with you in a matter of minutes –’ There was a crackle and then Coleman smiled. Not long now, he thought. ‘We have a vehicle on standby. Would you like us to close in?’