Ian Rankin - The Impossible Dead

Move, Malcolm.

A steeper bank, a single line of trees and then a gap. He knew it had to be the road. He was forced to claw at the ground with his right hand as he climbed. When he stood up again, he was inches from the tarmac. He looked to left and right. The boot of the Maserati was just visible, the rest of the vehicle hidden around the curve of the road. Fox headed in the other direction. He was out in the open now. Couldn’t hear any traffic or spot headlights in the distance. His eyes stung and he wiped the perspiration from them. He could always dive into the woods on the opposite side of the road. Safer there, but more isolated, too.

Wait…

The sky was brightening. He could make out the treeline, silhouetted against the night. And now he could hear the faint roar of an engine. He remembered the local boy racers, their names scored into the memorial cairn. Would they stop for him? Were their brakes equal to their reaction time? It would be so bloody typical: escape a gunman just to be mown down by a spotty teen in a super-tuned Cosworth.

The roar was definitely getting louder. He was on a nice straight stretch. He started to remove his jacket – the lighter shirt might now be an advantage.

‘Fox!’

Fox turned. Pears looked mightily pissed off. The pistol hung at his side as he emerged from the trees. Seemed to Fox that he had tripped and fallen. A definite limp, clothes and face smeared with dirt.

He took a few deep breaths, straightened up, and started to raise the gun. Fox was barely thirty feet away. But the car was approaching. Fox was waving with his working arm. Pears was aiming at him as the car came into view, headlights flashing from full beam to dipped and back again, horn blaring. A small car with a big engine. Fox was trying to shield his eyes. A half-glance back told him Pears was doing the same. The car skidded to a stop, ending up side-on to the direction of travel. The passenger-side door flew open.

‘You trying to get yourself killed, pal?’

Just a kid, maybe not sixteen yet. Bass booming from inside the car. The driver leaving the engine idling as he too emerged, another car arriving behind him. More kids getting out. More thumping music.

Fox was staring at Pears. The gun was no longer visible, hidden behind him. He was making to retreat, backing away.

‘Is that blood?’ someone was asking Fox. ‘You crashed your motor or something?’

Pears was no longer visible. Fox asked the passenger if he could borrow his phone.

‘Aye, sure.’

But Fox’s hand was shaking too hard, his fingers slippery with blood. So he recited the number instead, the teenager punching it in and holding the phone towards his ear as he started to talk to Tony Kaye.

The Mondeo turned up a couple of minutes after the Armed Response Unit. Fox had given the four officers the lowdown: type of weapon; rounds already fired; direction taken by assailant. The teenagers had stuck around, slightly nervous that there might be some hidden agenda, despite Fox’s assurances. They leaned against their cars, smoking cigarettes and staring at the weaponry. When one tried to take a photo, a wagged finger was enough to deter him.

Tony Kaye was first out of the Mondeo, followed by Joe Naysmith. The last of the armed officers was disappearing into the woods as they walked towards Fox.

‘Does it hurt?’ Naysmith asked, nodding towards the wound.

‘Like blazes,’ Fox informed him.

‘Called an ambulance yet?’

Fox shook his head.

‘You’ve lost a bit of blood.’

‘It’s a graze,’ Kaye stated, giving Fox’s shoulder a cursory glance. ‘Think we should see what they’re up to?’ He gestured towards the woods.

After a moment’s hesitation, Fox nodded his agreement. ‘You lot stay here,’ he ordered the teenagers. ‘And no phones or texting – got that?’

It was quiet in the woods: no voices, no gunfire. Just the crackling of twigs underfoot.

‘You got here quick,’ Fox said.

‘Maniac at the wheel,’ Naysmith responded.

‘What did he have in mind for you?’ Kaye asked, pushing his way past the encroaching branches.

‘Suicide by hanging.’

Kaye shook his head. ‘I thought this guy was supposed to be a pro.’

‘He’s got away with it in the past.’

‘Overconfidence?’ Naysmith guessed. Then: ‘What if we get to him before the ARU?’

‘There’s three of us,’ Kaye growled. ‘Mood I’m in, shooter or no shooter he’s getting a doing.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’ Naysmith asked, noticing that Fox was faltering.

‘Just a bit dizzy.’ Naysmith steadied him. ‘I’ll be fine, Joe, honest.’ Fox wiped sweat from his face with his unbloodied sleeve.

When Kaye looked to Fox for guidance on the direction they should be taking, Fox started to shrug with his one good shoulder, but then stopped as a yell rang out. Sounded like the ARU giving due warning.

‘Maybe that way,’ he suggested.

The three men pushed on at a brisker pace. More voices ahead of them, but appearing to be in movement. It felt to Fox as though he were retracing his steps almost exactly. Part of his brain was telling him to stop, but he kept going, the sweat pouring from him.

They all heard the car engine when it kicked into life. A low growl turning into a roar.

‘Maserati?’ Naysmith guessed.

Sure enough, the Armed Response Unit stood with pistols trained on the car’s windscreen. Not that this was enough to dissuade the figure in the driving seat. The Maserati skidded backwards on to the road, spun, and started to speed away, its headlights switched off.

‘Back to the patrol car!’ one of the ARU men barked to his colleagues. ‘Ronnie, call it in!’

‘What do you reckon?’ Kaye was asking Fox. ‘Mondeo might be up to the job.’

‘Malcolm needs patching up,’ Naysmith warned.

Kaye ignored him, awaiting Fox’s decision. Then came the sound of squealing tyres, followed by the thump of impact.

The Victoria Hospital again.

Fox didn’t doubt that the reporter Brian Jamieson would be on the prowl somewhere in the vicinity. Fox’s wound had been cleaned and stitched. Painkillers were swooshing around inside him, and he had a prescription for more in his pocket. His shoulder was strapped and there was a dull ache if he tried moving his left hand. His jacket and shirt had been bagged as evidence. Forensics would head to the scene once it was light, seeking out bullet casings and the pistol and the noose.

No weapon had been found in the car. Pears must have tossed it. Fox was standing in the injured man’s room right now. His was the only bed in there. One of the medics had listed his injuries: a couple of broken ribs, two damaged knees and facial bruising.

‘Why you should wear a seat belt,’ the medic had stated.

A wire cage beneath the bedclothes was keeping pressure off the patient’s legs. He had opened his eyes when Fox stepped into the room. There was a police officer on duty outside. He had noted Fox’s name and taken a good look at his warrant card. Fox didn’t blame him: the borrowed hooded top and baggy jogging bottoms were hardly standard issue for a cop.

‘I think he’s asleep,’ the officer had said.

But Stephen Pears was awake for Fox.

‘We’ll find the gun,’ Fox told him.

‘And what will that prove? That I was so scared of you, I felt the need of it?’

‘Scared of me, were you?’

‘You and your outlandish theories.’ Pears tried to clear his throat, his mouth parched. He looked at the water jug next to his bed, but Fox wasn’t about to oblige.

‘You don’t seriously think that’s going to work?’ he asked instead.

‘You’d just accused me of murder,’ Pears went on. ‘You’d told me to drive to the spot where Francis Vernal died. I panicked, thinking you had a similar fate in mind for me.’ He was staring hard at Fox.