by Ray Timms
Chapter 9
I was now driving south on the M5 all the while on the lookout for Julie's Astra. All I could think of was I needed to go back to the Exeter junction, back to where I last saw her... back to the service station. I toured the forecourt and she wasn’t there. So, where the hell was she? If it hadn’t been for the credit card business I would have gone inside the shop and asked Stan if he had seen her. I looked at the possibilities. There were only two exits off the petrol station: She could conceivably, have driven back up the A307, the way we came in, except I couldn’t see why she would do such a thing. The only other possibility was that she did leave by the M5 and I must have missed seeing her. That didn’t feel right. What other explanation could there be? And I don’t buy into the alien abduction theories.
After circling the forecourt three times, increasingly attracting the attention of other motorists, I began to allow the Alien abduction theory a little more credibility.
I was reminded of the famous words spoken by Sherlock Holmes: “When you have eliminated all which is possible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
That certainly narrowed it down. Julie had either, never exited the service station, or…. she has been abducted by aliens. The latter of course, would open up a whole vipers nest of complications.
Perplexed and in a state of shock, I could feel myself slipping into bereavement mode. A few liquorice allsorts would have helped but the bag was empty.
I had to face the truth of the matter Julie was not to be found at the service station. I had no idea where she was or how I could have missed her? I pulled into the bay alongside the air and vacuum machines and kept the engine running. I began thumping my forehead with the flat of my hand in the hope I might dislodge some nugget of information that might help. The rational part of my brain began sweeping aside the more illogical notions, and it focused on what I actually knew.
Ok. I couldn’t remain where I was, I had to move, but go where? I leaned my head on the steering wheel and pressed both palms against the sides of my head hoping to constrain a sudden compulsion to leap from the van and scream at the sky. Instead I chose to vent my frustration on my missing wife.
‘Bloody hell Julie! All you had to do was follow the friggin wagon train… how difficult was that?’
That helped calm me little. I closed my eyes and reviewed the "law of reciprocity" that states: “When faced with competing and equally valid arguments one should eat no fewer than two liquorice allsorts.”
Except I had none, or, I thought I had none, until I found a triple brown and white sandwich, and a yellow coconut wheel in the glove box that had fallen out of the packet? Those did the trick. Sherlock could go do one. I worked out Julie must have slipped past us unnoticed at the point at which our convoy had left the motorway… no other explanation could possibly explain her disappearance.
Ipso-facto, Julie was well on her way to London.
Time to move. I shoved the Transit into first and sped off.
I hit the M5 at speed thinking Julie doesn’t drive fast it wont be long before I overtake her. Before that I imagined I would have overtaken Sean and Carl in their slow moving convoy.
I checked my watch. Four minutes to ten. Sean and Carl should have crossed the Somerset border by now, and were probably halfway across Dorset.
Having in my mind concluded the matter of Julie’s disappearance I applied a little more concentration to my driving. Sensibly, the other vehicles on my side of the motorway were all behaving in a civilized manner. All in all, the road felt unnaturally serene. A glance in my wing mirror explained why. I saw blue-flashing lights. I looked down at the speedometer, I was doing seventy-five. I eased back on the throttle and brought the speed down to a little under seventy and then saw the unmarked cop car pull into my lane. Crap!
My breathing now came in truncated snatches. I felt my muscles tense up. I licked my dry lips. Being a man of lapsed religious conviction I had little faith in my mumbled invocations. Now just four car lengths behind me I could see the two grim-faced uniformed males inside it.
I felt in my gut they were going to pull me over. That was when my brain divided into two opposing camps. I hated it when this happened. It meant I couldn’t get anything constructive done all the while these factions competed to take control over my next course of action. The logical part of my brain, that held most sway, most times, argued the case that trusting my gut was essentially the same as reading tea leaves.” Countering this, the illogical part of my brain was telling me. “You don’t know that.”
“The cops are not after you Art… The analytical side of my brain insisted. “Making decisions based on something you feel in your gut is essentially the same as the Romans who used to decided on whether or not to go to war based on the configuration of the entrails of a sacrificed chicken! Relax. You’ve nothing to worry about,” the voice in my head persisted.
“Don’t forget the small matter of the credit card!” Another voice piped up. “Maybe the guy in the petrol station had called the cops after all! And, maybe, this Transit has been flagged up as stolen!” Crap!
I was now getting pissed off listening to these two irascible cynics that occupied my head. I needed more liquorice allsorts. Holding out little hope I rummaged around in the glove box and without taking my eyes off the road or the approaching blue flashing lights I poked around in the corners. My heart sank. I groped deeper. My thumb and finger came out with one of those little liquorice figures, black, this was. They only ever put the one in a bag. You’ve seen them; they look a bit like a stubby person, or a teddy bear. I could never decide which, whatever, it got its head bitten off.
I sighed. What was wrong with reading tea leaves? I liked the reassurance they gave me. I checked the wing mirror. The blue lights were much closer now. I was getting panicky and reminded of the time I reached the front of the queue at the “Ride of death” in Chessington Zoo. I was never one for the really big, scary rides. I found the Teacup and saucer ride scary enough.
I needed to get a grip. I decided the approaching police car was not the least bit interested in me. I imagined these stalwart custodians of British justice had better things to attend to. Right now I had more important matters I needed to be thinking about: matters such as finding my wife, and hooking up with the rest of my convoy.
With a deepening gloom I watched the blue lights close in. Had they slowed? If the cops had wanted me to stop, surely the protocol in these matters was: The cop car would pull up close to my bumper and then do the wheeey-wheeey thing, and then the flashing light thing, and then, non-verbally, make it clear to me that I should pull over. Either way, I just wish they’d drive past me and sod off, go chase some bad guys.
With the cop car in the centre lane and now parallel with my window I glanced to my right and found myself looking at a pair of piggy eyes set in a piggy face. With a waving, pointing motion of his piggy hand he made clear that I was expected to pull over onto the hard shoulder. I almost choked on Bertie Bassett.
I felt my chest tighten up. I flicked on my hazards, eased back on the throttle, and braking all the while, I trailed the unmarked cop car into the emergency stop lane.
After coming to a halt, I killed the engine, and watched the unmarked Volvo in front of me do likewise. At this point I was almost hyperventilating.
It felt like an age before I saw both doors of the Volvo open. I wondered why the delay? What? Were they checking the number plate? I knew it... they had checked with the DVLA and had been told the Transit was on their wanted list. The cop driver, wearing mirror sunglasses, was the first to climb out of the Volvo. I had always held the opinion that men who wore mirror sunglasses must have small willies, and men disadvantaged in that department, in my experience, are always very bad news. I watched as he straightened up and pulled on his cap. I was immediately struck by his resemblance to Mr Mackay, the prison warder in Porridge. From his gait I imagined he was ex mili
tary. My tongue poked around in a hole in a back molar trying to dislodge a piece of Bertie Bassett. I noted the three stripes on the sleeves of his uniform. This was a sergeant.
‘Good morning Sir,' he said bending at the waist having a good sniff inside the van through my open drivers window, no doubt hoping to smell alcohol, or weed. 'I am Sergeant Sylvester, and my colleague over there,’ he pointed back to his car, 'is PC Butty. We would like a word with you.’
The piggy-eyed cop appeared to be having trouble unhooking his seat belt. PC Butty, such a ridiculous name, might have been an entirely different species of hominid. Butty was vertically disadvantaged to the point where I doubted he was tall enough for his head to actually reach the hat he had by this time squashed down on his head.
PC Butty grabbed hold of his pants and pulled them up. I imagine the amount of armoury attached to his belt must weigh them down. In his right hand he had a Taser. He lifted the loudhailer held in his left hand to his mouth.
I watched PC Butty adopt a spread-legged stance at the side of the cop car.
‘STEP OUT OF YOUR VEHICLE… PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, AND DROP TO YOUR KNEES.’
PC Sylvester: “Rambo” I decided, ducked his head reflexively and spun around to face his junior partner.
‘Butter, for chrissake put that bloody thing away. This isn’t Hawaii 5-O.'
‘I am issuing the suspect with a warning Sarge.’ Butty said aiming the Taser in my general direction.
PC Butter was the son of Commander Butty, who happened to be head of Somerset and Avon Police. It was the Chief himself that insisted that Sergeant Sylvester take him under his wing, show him the ropes, keep him from doing anything stupid, like that was even possible!
‘But I'd rather you didn’t do that Butty,’ the long-suffering sergeant said through gritted teeth. It had been a long day.
Had it not been for the thought he would have to explain to a disciplinary panel how it came about a Police loudhailer was irreparably damaged in a collision with the police chief's son's head, Sergeant Sylvester might have done something rash. An action that could well have a negative effect on his police pension due to come out in two years.
‘Sir!’ Butty said smartly giving his sergeant a salute. ‘Do I have your permission to batter him, if he tries to do a runner?’
Speaking as if he were reading a bedtime story to a four-year old, Rambo said.
‘First of all Butty, Mr Blakely, here, is not a suspect and, he is being very good and quiet, and furthermore he has no intention of escaping… Tell him Mr Blakely?’
How the hell did Rambo know my name? For a few moments I couldn’t say anything. The van was still registered in Smithy’s name so it could have been anyone driving a company van!
‘I can assure you, Constable Butty, I have absolutely no intention of doing a runner.'
‘I’m sorry to trouble you sir.’ Rambo sounded genuinely embarrassed. ‘PC Butty is very keen, and he is new on the job.’
I was hardly able to take my eyes off Butty with his Taser whom I had now decided was as mad as a box of frogs. I gave the sergeant look of empathic understanding.
Adopting a star-jump stance Butty had now taken it upon himself to stand right in front of my van.
Rambo watched this display and then said. ‘Butty, what the hell are you doing?’
‘I am preventing the suspect from fleeing a crime scene Sarge.’
I forced my hands to relax my dead-mans grip on the steering wheel. PC Butty was now checking the road tax disc.
‘Where were we Mr Blakely?’ Rambo said indicating with his head how embarrassed he was.
I felt sorry for the man, having that jerk tailing him around.
‘‘You pulled me over.’ I explained. ‘Do I have a brake light out? I’m not a criminal honestly… and I really am going to return the van to the Inland Revenue …the very minute I get to London…. I…I…’
‘Have you been drinking sir?’ Rambo said.
I couldn’t make out if he was being serious, his eyes hidden behind them stupid mirror sunglasses.
‘Only tea – coffee.' I said 'Nothing stronger. I’m teetotal.’
‘Bah!’ Butty interjected. ‘Do you really think I'm that stupid buddy?
I was tempted to say yes!
‘I’m sorry,’ I said addressing Rambo. ‘Is he for real? I mean, can he not go sit in the car and play with something?’
‘He’s the guvnor’s son,' Rambo said. ‘What can I say?’
‘Butty! Go check the tyres.’ Sergeant Sylvester snapped.
I was getting impatient, worrying about the convoy and how much time we’d lost. I really didn’t need these two pantomime characters holding me up for reasons that had yet to be explained.
The next sentence that came out of Rambo’s mouth made no sense at all.
‘Step out of your vehicle please sir, and leave the keys in the ignition, that’s a good man.’
Butty who was now slapping his collapsible truncheon on the palm of his hand had me worried. I got out of my van and stood staring at my own reflection in Rambo’s sunglasses.
‘Now sir,’ Rambo said.
When he took out his notebook and flipped it open he had my undivided attention.
‘You said something about this van wasn’t yours, that it belonged to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs?’
Aw crap! These two dickheads hadn’t stopped to me to question me about the van after all. There were times when I wished I would just keep my big mouth shut.
‘Oh... this van ' I said stalling for time whilst trying to think of a reason why I should be driving around in a van that was full of furniture that belonged to HMRC. I said, '‘this van is on loan from them.’ Brilliant! I had an idea. I may yet be able to talk my way out of the hole I just dug myself into. ‘Let me explain Sergeant Sylvester... sir. HMRC and I have a financial arrangement over unpaid wages due to me.’
“A... Fin.ancial.... arrange...ment” Rambo said aloud as he wrote it his notebook.' Go on.’ Sergeant Rambo glanced up and licked the tip of his biro held in readiness above his pad.
‘Ok,' I said, thinking on my feet, 'I should explain. The Inland Revenue has said I can hang on to the van until such time as my case has been heard and a settlement agreed. (At this point I should have shut up, instead I started rambling on like a courtroom barrister defending a murder suspect.) ‘Under the Act of jurisprudence, pertaining to plumbers versus bosses, 1842, as a lawful creditor to the estate of the insolvent JA Smith Plumbing Enterprises, I am lawfully permitted to take ownership of the said vehicle until the debtor duly pays what he owes me.'
I must have been tired. I can’t think why I said all that but it worked.
I saw Rambo push back his cap and scratch his head. It seemed my performance had rendered the pair of them dumbstruck. Perhaps my predilection for TV court dramas was of greater use than Julie would have acknowledged. I found myself rising to the occasion. Pacing to and fro with my hands clasped behind my back I got into my stride.
‘Whilst this dispute remains unsettled subject to habeas corpus, ipso fact and furthermore, in abeyance of section seven, paragraph B of the “Goods and Chattels Act of 1882 I am within my rights to keep hold of this van until the European High Court In Strasbourg sits on my case.' I had run out of superlatives... and Latin.
Rambo removed his sunglasses to get a better look at me.
‘Can he do that?’ The short fat copper said.
I imagined his arms must have been aching by now; holding that star jump pose in front of my van, and tugging up his trousers?
‘I dunno,’ Rambo said.' Anyway that’s of no interest to us.' Turning back to me now he said, 'Mr Blakely I have no idea what the hell you are talking about. We stopped you to tell you that your wife has been involved in a fatal…. ‘
I heard the word “Fatal” and promptly fell against the side of th
e van.
‘Mr Blakeley! Are you alright?’ Said Sergeant Sylvester.
‘Noooo!’ I cried. 'Please... don’t say my wife is dead.'
‘What! No.' Rambo said. 'If you'd let me finish: I was about to say, as a result of a fatal collision between your wife’s windscreen and an unrecovered missile, most likely a stone, your wife and her car have been taken, under police escort, to the police station in Clyst St George.
For some time, I couldn’t say how long, probably about ten seconds, all I could do was stare at the cop. Finally, it made perfect sense. Wow! Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have worked this one out. Who'd have thought it, Julie being taken away by the cops? That was about as likely as my alien abduction theory.
‘Wha… wh…is she hurt?’ I stammered, ‘and where the hell is Clyst… whatever it was you just said?’
‘St George.’ Rambo said. ‘Your wife is in the nick at Clyst St George. I have been told your wife suffered no injuries. She asked my colleagues who rescued her to track you down and get you to go to her because she has no means of paying for a replacement windscreen.'
I closed my eyes and groaned. Now, it all made perfect sense. A broken windscreen! The thought never entered my head As for me paying for a new one…they had to be joking!
I then remembered I still had the cheque book, the one that I faithfully swore to my bank I would return. It was in the glove compartment. I’d pay with a cheque. It'd bounce of course, but then what they going to do, throw me in debtors prison, take away my house, send round the bailiffs, take out my spleen and auction it off? What’s one more offence when I was running about the southern counties acting like bank robber Clyde Chestnut Barrow, (Bonnie and Clyde), on the lam, with law officers chasing me across state lines in a hot vehicle?
By this time I was having difficulty in defining with any exactitude just where the edges of reality lay. (Yeah. I know what you’re thinking…. I am probably overdue for a review of my meds.)
The moment passed. I got my breathing under control. Panic over. In a couple of hours I would have Julie would back on the road and… there was still a chance that we could reach London by nightfall.
‘Thank goodness,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much. Am I free to go now?’
Rambo cast his colleague a look. Butty shrugged. What'd he know?
The sergeant stepped away from my van and with a sweep of his hand said.
‘You may go on your way Mr Blakely.’
Star-jump Butty gave me a scowl and then hauling up his pants he ran to catch up with his boss who was about to climb back into the unmarked cop car parked in front of me on the hard shoulder. (Does anyone know how it got to be called a "Hard Shoulder?”? Yeah, it's hard, you'd expect it to be, the surface I mean, but it's hardly a shoulder!)
I got back in the van and groaned. Rambo was coming back. What now? I leaned my head out through the open drivers window.
‘Oh. Just a second, Mr Blakely.’ Rambo said.
My heart stalled.
‘Have a nice day now.’
I stared at him and then said. ‘You too.' Was that it? He came all the way back just to tell me have a nice day? Idiot. I gave him a salute and then fired up the engine.
I didn’t move off straight away. I wanted them to go ahead of me. I didn’t fancy having them two numbchucks on my tail, watching them through my wing mirror. I could just imagine what that would do to my fractious nerves. I was going to sit tight, keep my nerve and wait until they pulled away and had gone out of sight.
I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Through the murky windscreen I could make out the heads and shoulders of two coppers sitting in their car twenty feet in front of the van. They weren’t moving off. I sensed rather than knew that they were now engaged in a conversation on the police radio. Jeez, I wished they'd bugger off go chase a few proper criminals. I was in a rush to go find Julie, except first, I had to find Clyst ST George!
All wasn’t lost. My plan wasn't quite in tatters. I just needed to make a few adjustments to the timing. First, I would get Julie back on the road and then shoot off and try and catch up with Carl and Sean who by that time should be in Surrey, not too far from London.
It was a great relief to me to think at least our belongings, everything we had in the world, were safe and sound and on the way to our new home.
Actually...