My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (38 page)

‘On it.’ Maguire switched to the radio channel and began talking to the others. Hawkins turned back to the window, watching the blurred outline of Wells’ Vectra making its final adjustments in the restricted space. The car stopped and its lights went out.

‘Stand by,’ she said to Mike and Amala at the same time. ‘Everyone keep their heads down till he moves.’

Mike confirmed her instructions to the others and joined her at the window, his extra height allowing him to look over Hawkins so she didn’t have to move. They watched the car, waiting for the driver’s door to open. But the seconds stretched, and the door stayed shut.

‘What’s he doing?’ Hawkins asked. ‘Amala, why isn’t he getting out?’

Yasir’s voice came through the speaker. ‘It’s difficult to say from this angle; he might be using his phone.’

‘I need to know,’ she flared. ‘Is he using it or not?’

Yasir’s voice remained calm. ‘Sorry, ma’am, I can’t see. Do you want me to pop over and ask?’

Hawkins hid her satisfaction at Yasir’s fortitude. ‘Just keep watching.’

She stared at the roof of Wells’ car, annoyed that she hadn’t considered this scenario beforehand. She’d concentrated on keeping their presence concealed, expecting their target to approach the house, but she’d neglected to consider what would happen if Wells realized they were there before leaving his car. And his vehicle was parked beyond both of theirs, making it impossible for them to block his exit.

She tapped Mike’s arm. ‘Get Sharpe to bring the other car round to the far end of this street and start heading this way. If Wells scarpers, Aaron can block him in. Make sure the guys from SCO19 know what’s happening.’

Maguire nodded and began relaying instructions as Hawkins turned back to the window, cursing the fact that the armed-response car was facing in the wrong direction to go after Wells if he left. They’d have to turn the vehicle round in order to follow him, a tricky, time-consuming manoeuvre in such a narrow road. Amala’s Golf was further back, but at least it was
pointing the right way. And still there was no movement from Wells. Was he simply sitting in the car while he finished a call, or did he know something was wrong?

Hawkins listened to Mike’s conversation with Sharpe, who confirmed he was on the way. Then she gave Wells a few more seconds, painfully aware that the longer he stayed in his car, the more likely it was that he knew they were there. Still no movement.

It was time to gamble.

‘Amala,’ Hawkins said into the phone, ‘Wells won’t be able to see from there that you didn’t just get into the car. I want you to start the engine, put your lights on and move away as if you’re a local heading out. Just drive alongside and block him in. The armed guys will back you up.’

‘No problem, chief. Here goes.’

On the line, Hawkins heard the distant sound of the Golf’s engine kicking over and, beside her, Mike quietly passing everything on. She still couldn’t see Yasir’s car, but suddenly its headlights illuminated the street below. No reaction from Wells.

Yasir’s lights swept left and right as she pulled out of the space, then the car came into view, steadily closing the gap to the Vectra.

‘Keep to a normal speed,’ Hawkins reminded her. ‘Stop alongside and get your head down just in case. SCO19 will be there in a few seconds.’ She glanced at Maguire, who gave her a thumbs-up.

Yasir was only fifteen yards from Wells, then ten,
then five. She slowed as she reached the other car and, for a split second, Hawkins thought it was going to work.

But as Yasir got level, the Vauxhall’s rear lights flickered as it started up, and its engine began to race.

‘Amala!’ Hawkins shouted.

Too late.

The Vectra lurched out of the space, clipping the car in front, and smashed into the Golf. Both cars skidded across the road, the VW slamming sideways into a Volvo parked on the far side.

‘Shit!’ Mike pressed the button on the Airwave set. ‘Bishop, get in there.’

Down in the street, Wells reversed away from the Golf, prising the damaged cars apart with a crunching sound. He backed up into the space as the left-hand doors of the BMW opened and two armed officers emerged on to the street, advancing with weapons raised.

The Vectra’s engine revved again and it rammed back into the side of the stricken VW, punching it further into the parked car as it scraped past and slewed away.

The SCO19 officers opened fire, blowing out one of the Vauxhall’s back tyres and smashing its rear screen. The car slowed and pitched on its deflated rubber but kept moving.

‘Go!’ Hawkins shouted, sprinting for the stairs with Maguire right behind her, gritting her teeth as still-weak
muscles screamed. She flew downstairs into the road, catching sight of the armed officers beside the Golf, pulling a dazed Yasir from the driver’s seat as their colleague turned the BMW round. Ahead, the damaged Vectra retreated towards the far end of the street.

Maguire passed her, heading for the crash scene. Hawkins launched herself after him, realizing there wasn’t room for the larger X5 to pass the back of the Golf without risking their currently undamaged pursuit vehicle. If, as she hoped, Sharpe managed to stop Wells, she didn’t want to delay the armed officers getting there.

She neared the Golf, feeling the rain on her skin as it fell from the blackness above. They reached the car as Yasir was lifted clear. Maguire lunged through the open passenger door as Hawkins checked her, relieved to see she was conscious, despite a glazed expression and a nasty cut on her head.

‘She’s okay,’ one of the armed officers said. ‘I’ll wait with her for the ambulance.’

Hawkins thanked him as Mike started the Golf and reversed away from the other car.

‘Hey!’ he shouted, pulling forward. ‘This bucket still runs. Get in.’

Hawkins didn’t hesitate, throwing herself into the passenger seat and slamming the door. Maguire gunned the engine and they skidded away, to the sounds of tortured tyres and a loud scraping noise as they accelerated after Wells, a solitary headlamp beam lighting their way.

She dragged on her seat belt, shouting, ‘You sure about this?’

‘It’s just the fender running on the road,’ he yelled back. ‘It should hold.’

‘Great.’ She twisted in her seat, seeing the third armed officer climbing back into the BMW, which took off after them. She turned back, alert to every tortured sound from the battered Golf, any of which could signal imminent failure. But it was worth the risk to have two vehicles in pursuit. Her attention moved ahead as a single brake light flared. Wells had reached the end of the street, but he seemed to have stopped, which meant one of two things. Either his car had given up, or Sharpe had blocked him in.

She glanced at Maguire. ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’

‘You wanna drive?’ He jerked the wheel to stop the wounded Golf from swerving off line. ‘Steering’s a hoot.’

‘I’m sure you’re doing your best.’

She watched his brow crease in response to her taunt, feeling the surge as he pressed the throttle to the floor. The scraping noise increased.

They closed to within a hundred yards of the Vectra. Hawkins leaned forward as the wipers cleared the screen, seeing Wells get out of his car, advancing on the Focus now visible behind. Aaron Sharpe was inside, but he wasn’t looking at the ex-soldier. Instead, he seemed to be searching for something in the cabin and, a second later, Hawkins realized why.

He was trying to lock himself in.

Wells wrenched the door open and pulled the sergeant from his seat. Sharpe offered mild resistance as he was flung aside by the stockier man. He crumpled at the roadside as Wells took his place in the Ford and sped off.

But the delay had allowed them to close the gap. Maguire braked hard, skidding around the abandoned Vauxhall and on to the adjoining road, with Wells a short distance ahead. Hawkins reached forward and switched on the siren before checking behind to see the X5 easing through the gap to follow them, its own grille-mounted lights and siren coming on in response to their lead.

She turned back and grabbed the Airwave handset Mike had dumped in the console, switching it to open frequency. ‘Come in, Control, DCI Antonia Hawkins and DI Mike Maguire, in pursuit of IC1 male believed to be Marlon Wells, requesting air support. Suspect’s vehicle is a black Ford Focus, currently approaching Brixton town centre from the east side, sixty miles per hour, traffic moderate.’

The operator confirmed, and Hawkins maintained dialogue, detailing the pursuit as she and Maguire approached the end of the road. The noise inside the VW was getting worse but, mechanically, the car seemed to be holding up. For now.

With any luck, one of the Met’s three permanent surveillance helicopters would be near enough to pick
up their chase. And, once they had Wells in their sights, his chances of escape fell off a cliff. The Eurocopter EC145s were all fitted with video cameras and thermal imaging systems, capable of tracking their target till he gave up or ran out of fuel. They just had to keep him in view until the chopper caught up.

Wells reached the turn and threw his car right, sweeping on to a one-way system against the traffic flow. Mike followed, the damaged Golf screaming its dissatisfaction as they rounded the sharp corner at speed. Wells swerved to avoid an oncoming bus, mounting the wide pavement, scattering pedestrians. Maguire was forced to follow, crashing up the low kerb, but ahead the Focus was cutting through a busy intersection to re-join the road.

‘An upside to traffic lights at last,’ he shouted, fighting the wheel, threading the Golf between cars swerving left and right, horns blaring as the chase barged its unexpected way through.

Hawkins gritted her teeth as they missed the final car by inches, and Mike floored the throttle again, dragging the raucous Golf into line with their target. They swung on to the high street, shops closing in on both sides as Wells began weaving in and out of the late-evening traffic on the main road through the centre of Brixton.

Clearly, their target wasn’t familiar with the area, or he wouldn’t have chosen this route. There were only two lanes, separated from the oncoming traffic by a raised central pavement, hemming him in. For a second
it looked like he was lining up to veer off into a side street, but instead he ploughed straight on. Hawkins checked the turn as they passed, noting red-and-white barriers just inside. She leaned across to see the speedometer reaching seventy miles per hour. Fortunately, the noise coming from the two police vehicles was warning passers-by, though it only took one oblivious teenager plugged into an iPod to wander out in front of them in the restricted space …

She had to trust Mike’s skill.

‘How’s the car?’ she yelled.

‘Holding up,’ he came back. ‘Feels okay.’

Wells wasn’t pulling away. They swept under a couple of small bridges, past Brixton tube station, drawing startled looks from swathes of pedestrians either side, their attention being pulled in by the sirens and the worsening racket from their lagging bumper.

Hawkins had just finished another radio update when she straightened in her seat. Three hundred yards ahead, every lane was blocked, backed up with queuing traffic both sides.

‘Mike,’ she warned.

‘I know.’

Wells had obviously seen it, too, and the Focus braked as it approached the next turn. Maguire did the same, changing down through the gears as Wells took his only option, screeching into a side street, clipping a post as he went. The Ford skidded but stayed on track, racing away as Maguire hauled the VW round after
him, into a narrow road lined with bollards and parked cars. Hawkins noted the street name, reporting to the operator that they had entered Ferndale Road.

People on the pavements recoiled as the cars screamed through, but suddenly there were brake lights ahead. Hawkins craned her neck, seeing the slower car that Wells had caught and couldn’t pass.

They closed on him fast but, before she could think of how they might stop him in the restricted street, the distance between them widened again. Wells surged around the other car, mounting the kerb, drawing a blast from the horn of a driver coming the opposite way. Maguire threaded the Golf through the same gap and swung them back into the killer’s wake. Wells accelerated around a gradual bend with high walls either side, then took a left at a fork in the road, brake lights burning, almost losing the rear. Mike followed him through a narrow tunnel, shouting at the oncoming cars to wait as their convoy swept through.

‘Antonia.’ Bishop’s voice came through the Airwave unit in her hand. ‘We’ve taken the other fork. I think these roads join up again, west of here. Keep us updated on his position and we’ll try to get ahead.’

‘Affirmative.’ Hawkins breathed again as the road opened out, revealing a long residential street. Cars were parked either side, though there was room for traffic to pass in both directions, while small but regular speed bumps took the edge off their pace. The
adrenalin in her system retreated slightly in response, giving her opportunity to think.

Hopefully, Bishop’s unilateral decision wouldn’t cost them. If he’d given her the choice, she’d have told him to stay close behind, in case the maltreated Golf let them down.

She checked on Mike. ‘You okay?’

‘Swell.’ He grimaced as they jarred over another tarmac ridge.

Hawkins shared his frustration. The restricted backstreets gave them no chance of stopping Wells. Unless Bishop found a way to overtake and cut him off, their only chance was to hope they’d reach more open areas, where Mike could use their vehicle to ram him off the road. As things stood, they needed to stay with him long enough for a chopper to arrive.

Hawkins didn’t know this part of London, so she carried on relaying information about their trajectory via the Airwave unit, hoping Bishop or the support crews would come through. According to the operator, back-up was less than ten minutes away. But if their vehicle let them down, they could lose Wells in a fraction of that.

For now, her priority had to be trying to work out where Wells would go. Was he simply running away, or did he have a destination in mind? Either way, his flight definitely had an air of desperation about it. As if he had nothing to lose.