Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

They had visited the lock-up twice before that and not seen anything suspicious. It was an Aladdin’s cave of junk of every description, from china to electrical goods. Second-hand goods, buying and selling, eBay trader, fence — it was all the same to her. And it would be low on her list of priorities if only it hadn’t meant children being targeted for their mobiles and business types for their BlackBerries. If she could link him to any street robberies that would be sweet indeed, only now she couldn’t even go near him without landing herself in serious trouble. ‘That’s okay, we’re following these two, nothing to do with Mitchell.’

Sorbie kept his eyes on the road. ‘If we got stuck in traffic near his lock-up would that be interpreted as unauthorized surveillance too? If we happened to look and see something?’

‘Like stolen goods being unloaded by known criminals? Only if they can prove you deliberately brought along your own traffic jam. Hey, you’re giving me ideas now …’

The scooter riders turned off to the right. ‘There they go. Mitchell’s place coming up in a sec.’

‘I know, Jack, I’ve been here before, you know?’

‘Just saying.’

‘Well, don’t. Just drive.’ Fairfield engineered a yawn as they drove past the lock-up. All of the warehouses looked dark and deserted at this time of the evening and the clapboard cafe that served them had long closed for the night.

Drizzle gave way to heavy rain again. Sorbie turned right at the traffic lights by the brewery and drove back east. They saw several scooters on their way in. ‘If you’re looking for scooters there’s always scooters. It’s like being told to look for a kid wearing trainers.’ A few minutes later he turned back towards the centre. They passed the large drive-through burger place. At this time of the evening it usually played host to hordes of teenagers, many on scooters. Tonight it looked deserted.

It was while he swept through a few side streets to relieve the monotony that the radio came to life. They no longer crackled (though from time to time they stopped working for no reason) but the controller still sounded reassuringly like she had a bad case of hay fever. Street robbery reported in Kensington Hill. Four suspects on two blue scooters leaving the scene along Hollywood Road going south.

Sorbie slowed down. ‘Hey, that’s us, Hollywood’s just behind us. They’ll come this way any second.’

‘I’m not so sure. Quick, do a U-ee! They might feel like a burger after a good mugging. We can always turn again.’ She steadied herself against the dashboard and gave their position to the controller. ‘Was the victim hurt?’

‘Yes, victim is male, in his thirties, collapsed with head wound, ambulance en route, ETA four minutes. The victim is receiving first aid from a taxi driver who is a trained first-aider. A passing couple who made the call saw the scooters leave in your direction.’

‘Get shifting, Jack. Looks like this one put up a fight for you.’

‘Bastards.’ He performed a ragged U-turn using the entire width of the road, the pavement and a bit of roadside shrubbery. It took him no more than thirty seconds to get to the bottom of the hill. There was no sign of any scooters. Sorbie bullied his way up the hill, scanning the road, his mirrors.

‘Damn, they could be miles away, those damn things can squeeze through any traffic too. Keep going.’

‘If we do meet them, do we try and stop them?’

‘We’ll follow.’

Seconds later they approached a narrow side street. It spat out two blue scooters. Sorbie knew this was the genuine article, he had always known he would know. Two scooters, four muggers; black clothes, black trainers, black full-face helmets. Only they were going the wrong way.

‘Rats. I was half-right, anyway. Turn round. Let’s get ’em. Make a noise.’

‘It’ll only make them split up.’

‘I know, Jack, but it’s in the rule book.’ She gave their call sign to the controller. ‘In pursuit of four suspects, possibly male, on two blue scooters travelling west on Bristol Hill, index number …’ She gave the number of the closest scooter. Sorbie brought their plain unit closer to the rear of the nearest scooter before turning on Blues and Twos. Blue light strobed under the grille of the bonnet and the siren howled.

Riders and passengers turned around and the scooters swayed, then picked up a bit of speed. It was a moment they had discussed many times. A single police unit would never persuade them to stop. It would take at least two units to have any chance of cutting off even one, after which they would probably abandon the scooters and run. If by then they had a helicopter up they should be able to apprehend them. Only it hadn’t worked the last time a patrol had caught a glimpse of them. They’d lost them on the ground and the helicopter had circled the area and found nothing.

Sorbie knew this pursuit could only go two ways and he was certain he already knew how it would end. If it went on long enough they might crash or they would disappear down an alley where he couldn’t follow. He had also discussed the possibility of ‘nudging’ them off, as he had delicately put it to Fairfield, but the inspector wouldn’t hear of it. Sorbie had met Australian police on a visit to Sydney and had admired their attitude. Over there suspects were ‘crims’ and crims got what they deserved. There was no time to pursue this favourite gripe of his, however. The front scooter was signalling left to alert his partner behind him and both scooters turned side by side, slicing across the inside lane and turning down a side street. A startled car driver slammed on his brakes, blocking Sorbie’s path.

‘Whose side are you on, blockhead?’ Sorbie cranked the wheel and took a lot of pavement in cornering around the vehicle. It only cost him a few seconds but it had put the entire length of a street between him and the scooters. They were cornering again. Sorbie shot after them.

Fairfield pointed ahead. ‘They’re going down there, that’s a dead end.’

‘It is for us but not for them. There’s a pedestrian entrance into the supermarket car park, they’ll go through there. We’ll have to go round. We’ve lost them.’ Sorbie drove on without slowing but turned the siren off until he needed it to cut across the next two junctions, then turned it off again. It might relax the riders if they thought they had lost them. He doubted it would. They were too well organized not to have an escape route planned in advance. Having circled the supermarket he slowed in the middle of the junction long enough to avoid colliding with a greengrocer’s van, then sped north.

Fairfield, who had kept up a commentary on the pursuit to the controller, asked if any units were in the area and was told there were none on that side of town. Several had been drawn off to help with a multiple RTA on the motorway, which kept the helicopter busy as well.

‘Are we packing it in?’ Sorbie asked, still overtaking vehicles at speed. They had come full circle, once more on the Bath Road.

Fairfield’s voice was gritty with frustration. ‘Carry on past Mitchell’s place. You never know, we might get lucky.’ Minutes later the lock-ups flew past her window, dark and deserted. ‘All right, cut the lights and drive me towards my coffee machine, Jack. I’m seriously pissed off now.’

Chris Reed loved computers. He loved everything about them. And especially the net. It was the most liberating weapon unwittingly given into the hands of the ordinary man, and now it was unstoppable. It brought together like-minded people into supportive communities that could be fostered and nurtured into global movements. The establishment could never monitor them all, there were too many of them, too many sites, too many users. Computers helped keep in touch, organize action. Computers gave you ideas. And they cost next to nothing. This one had come from a skip, like most of the things in his room in fact, and it was okay. It was ancient and had less memory than a middle-aged pothead but it did most things, albeit very slowly.