Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

The relief of getting upright was marvellous. Parts of him that had gone numb were restored. He almost forgot to pick up his stick, the sensations were so good. He could probably have walked all the way to Avoncliff station unaided, but decided it was wise to have it with him. Heels sinking into the cascading shingle, he slid down the gravel mound the back way, making no more sound than Gillibrand had on his trip to the bushes.

Now that he was mobile he wondered why he’d endured the prone position for so long. The thinking had been that he’d presented less of a target. But if you’re face down on stone chippings there comes a time when safety considerations dwindle to nothing.

He could have borrowed those night-vision glasses, but they weren’t of much use on the move. The moonlight came and went, and his eyes adjusted well. He could see enough of the ground at this minute to step out with confidence. Equally, he had to remember he would be visible to the sniper.

Was the killer of three police officers really holed up somewhere in this remote spot? He had his doubts. Even so, he stayed close to the river bank, as far from the footpath as possible. The firearms lads were posted at least fifty yards to his left with their guns pointing away from him.

The going was easy here, fairly flat, with nothing more difficult than a few waist-high clumps of meadowsweet to negotiate. The Avon had a tendency to flood in this section of the valley after heavy rain and it was squelchy in parts. But the ripple of the water close at hand meant he was safely south of the area targeted by the police marksmen. Closer to Avoncliff he would pick up the roar of the weir.

Despite what he’d said to Gillibrand he didn’t really plan to check the firing positions. It would be folly to creep up behind an armed man. Polehampton might, but then Polehampton was Polehampton and even he might have learned something from the handcuffing episode.

No, the object of this move was purely to get his blood flowing again. He’d reached a stage on that gravel heap when he was incapable of thinking of anything except his own discomfort. This was bliss, inhaling the fresh night air. He patted the injured leg: virtually restored, he decided. He was favouring it a little from caution rather than necessity.

A sudden piercing shriek drilled a shock through him. Close, frighteningly close. He halted, tense, alert for danger.

Blood-curdling — but was it human in origin?

Then a skittering in the water told him he must have stepped close to a coot or a moorhen.

Better not stay so close to the bank, he told himself. There are sure to be other waterfowl and the screech must have been audible for some distance around. Advertising his presence wasn’t in the plan. He veered left, around some reeds and found more of a path. He would follow it in confidence that the river ran parallel with the railway. Keep going for ten minutes or so and he should find himself reasonably close to Avoncliff Station without disturbing the firearms teams.

That waterbird had shaken his nerves. All the pleasure of being on the move had gone. He was tense, primed for more disturbances. A mass of cloud had crossed the moon again. He was forced to take shorter steps, even though the path was clear of hazards.

He could definitely hear the faint swish of falling water now. The weir was some distance beyond the station, so he was making good progress. He stopped and listened. He didn’t need to walk too far.

Then he heard a loud splash to his right.

Something pretty big had entered the water. More wild life? The sound had been heavier than a bird would make. What else could have made it? Were there otters along this stretch of the Avon? He wasn’t aware of any. Actually it had sounded heavier than an otter.

If the cause of the splash wasn’t natural, what was it?

His heart thumped.

He hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps when there was another sound, more alarming still, a grunt as of effort, chesty, heavy, close at hand. Some living creature far larger than an otter was nearby.

Maybe the splash had disturbed some mammal, a fox or a deer. Or was it the mammal that had leapt into the water?

Animal or human?

He soon knew.

The cloud cover shifted from the moon. A man with a backpack was up and running, not more than ten yards ahead of him.

‘Hey, you!’ Diamond yelled.

The runaway figure didn’t react, except to go faster.

He shouted a time-honoured warning: ‘Stop, police.’

This didn’t work either.

More from instinct than good sense, Diamond started running too. He was back in rugby-playing mode, a Met Police wing forward doing his damnedest to catch an opposition three-quarter in full flight. He’d never been the fastest man on the pitch. Power had been his forte more than speed and he’d added much weight since his playing days, so this couldn’t last long.

In the urgency of the chase, his leg was functioning as it should. The problem was that the opposition was faster on its feet. There was no way of catching up. Nor could he get a decent view of the guy, who was little more than a black smudge now, fast disappearing.

Diamond stopped running and gulped in some air. Felt twinges in his thigh. A few visits to the fitness centre would have helped.

Up ahead, a gasp and a thud sounded across the landscape. Had someone else joined in?

Heavy-legged, he forced himself into a semblance of motion again, heading towards the source. It was impossible in the moonlight to make out precisely where the fugitive had got to. Not where Diamond expected. He appeared to have got clean away.

But he hadn’t. The man was grounded, and suddenly Diamond could see him, in the act of getting up. He must have tripped and fallen.

When you get lucky, you need to make the most of it. He bore down on the runaway, who was now upright and starting to move off again, but with less agility. The tumble must have winded him, or caused an injury.

Diamond realised as he belted across the spongy turf that, ridiculously, he was still holding his walking stick. He was about to toss it aside when he had a thought that it could yet come in useful. He was definitely catching up, starting to move with more freedom, accelerating again. He urged himself on and reached a point a few yards short of his quarry.

Now use the bloody stick, he told himself.

His grip was halfway up the shaft. Still at full pelt, he extended his arm, dipped forward, and managed to hook the curved handle around the man’s left leg above the ankle.

The man went over for a second time with another bellow of pain, or frustration. And this time, Diamond’s full weight followed, a dive so committed that it absolutely required a soft landing. For a split second he was airborne. Then his shoulder crunched against firm flesh. He grasped for something to hold and found what must have been one of the shoulder straps of the backpack. The main thing now was to stay on top and let his body mass work for him.

The guy was wriggling like a beached fish. He couldn’t escape from the middle-aged spread bearing down on him.

‘I told you to stop,’ Diamond said breathlessly into his ear. ‘You’re nicked.’

No response.

For the next minute or so, the struggle was frenzied. By degrees the resistance became intermittent. The trapped man would let up for a few seconds before making another attempt. He was strong, no question, and quite a bit younger than Diamond. But he was exhausting himself.

The main problem in Diamond’s mind — apart from staying on top — was what to do next. The advantage was his for the present. He could hold this position for some time and he would need to, because he wasn’t carrying handcuffs. He hadn’t expected to make an arrest tonight. He didn’t even have a personal radio on him. All those young policemen in full kit had cuffs with them, but were they within hailing distance?