Peter James - Need You Dead

The moment of the near collision had been so fleeting — and so sudden — that neither officer had been able to identify for certain the make of the car or get any of its index numbers. It was an estate car, probably a Ford Mondeo, they’d decided. Edwards said he’d put money on it being a kiddy joyrider, high on drugs, either from Crawley or Brighton.

The radio came to life and they heard the bland, emotionless voice of a male Comms operator. ‘All vehicles in the A27 and A23 areas, your attention is drawn to the following vehicle which has been involved in a hit and run major RTC on the A27. Last seen travelling on the westbound carriageway towards Worthing. Vehicle described as a Ford Mondeo estate, colour silver, index Golf Yankee One Four Golf Romeo X-ray. If seen, do not approach the vehicle, but immediately report any sightings back to this office. AD timed at 20.45 hours, Sierra Oscar standing by.’

Trundle pressed his radio’s talk button. ‘Comms, we’ve just had a vehicle similar to that driven past us at high speed and we are making after it in an attempt to identify and speak to the driver. We’ll come back to you shortly.’ He tried, with short stabs of his pen in the lurching car, to write the number down on the back of his hand. Then he called up the registration number to find out where it came from and where it might be headed, and the insurance details to see if had recently changed keeper. To his surprise the information came back that the vehicle was registered to Sussex Police.

‘Hotel Tango Two Eight One, can you give me your current position?’ the Comms operator replied.

Both officers frowned; there was GPS in all the force’s cars as well as on every officer’s personal radio, and ordinarily the Comms department always knew exactly where they were, from their positions constantly plotted on the banks of monitors in the Control Room.

‘Where are we?’ Trundle queried. ‘Are we not registering?’

‘Our screens are down,’ the operator replied. ‘Again.’

‘OK, we are approximately one mile west of the A23, close to Bolney.’

And suddenly a Mondeo estate was dead ahead, less than a couple of hundred yards in front of them, waiting at the junction with the busy Bolney to Cowfold main road. As they raced towards it, braking hard, Trundle was able to read the licence plate. GY14 GRX.

Yes!

It was moments like this that gave him the biggest bang in the job. Pressing his radio button again, he said, ‘Comms, we have visual on Golf Yankee One Four Golf Romeo X-ray.’

Comms replied, ‘Go ahead and ascertain who’s driving the vehicle, unless it’s unsafe to do so.’

Edwards flashed the headlights several times and gave a loud whup-whup-whup to let the driver know they were there and that they required him to stay exactly where he was. Trundle unclipped his seat belt and was about to jump out and run forward, when the Ford shot off out into the crossroad, missing being T-boned by an articulated lorry by a fraction of a second. Edwards edged the Audi out into the main road, mindful that in a plain car the front and rear blue flashing lights weren’t as visible to vehicles approaching from the side as the roof lights on a marked police car.

‘Which way did he go?’ he asked.

Traffic was crossing in both directions in front of them and they were in danger of losing him.

‘He went right,’ Trundle said decisively, pointing right. He held his breath for a moment as Edwards accelerated hard out into the road, right behind two vehicles travelling at speed, and pressed his talk button.

‘Comms, this is Hotel Tango Two Eight One, PC Trundle,’ he said.

‘Hotel Tango Two Eight One, go ahead,’ the reply came back.

‘The subject vehicle is now failing to stop. The driver of our vehicle is a green permit holder in a suitable vehicle, may we have permission to pursue?’

Trundle’s eyes were glued to the tail lights of the three cars ahead of them. And in particular the one in front that was steadily moving ahead. He knew there weren’t many passing opportunities on this road.

‘Can you give us an idea of road conditions, Hotel Tango Two Eight One?’

‘Misty rain falling, road slippery but visibility still fair at present, traffic level light. At this time my perceived risk is low,’ Trundle responded.

‘Roger that. Maintain commentary, ongoing dynamic risk assessment and direction of travel, we are making Ops-1 aware.’

‘Yes, yes.’

Moments later the voice of Inspector Kim Sherwood came over the radio. ‘Hotel Tango Two Eight One, this is Ops-1, permission is granted to continue pursuit.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Trundle said.

‘Our screens are back up and running. We have two divisional cars in your area, and another on its way, and an unmarked heading down from near Gatwick. We are also trying to redirect some more green permit holders to your location.’

Trundle held his breath again as Edwards overtook a car on the approach to a blind brow, waited until they crested it, then raced past the next car. Now they were right behind the Mondeo, 150 yards and closing. Coming up ahead was a long left-hander. The Ford was gaining on a van. Trundle was taking in as much information from all their surroundings as he could, switching his eyes from the road ahead to the speedometer and back. They were currently doing 88 mph.

‘Hotel Tango Two Eight One, our speed is eight-eight miles per hour in six-zero limit.’ Then as Edwards accelerated harder he said, ‘Nine-zero. Now one-zero-zero.’

Then suddenly Trundle froze. The subject vehicle was overtaking on a blind corner — and there was something coming the other way.

There’s something big coming the other way, straight towards me. I can see the lights, massive lights, high up. Be good if it’s a lorry. Something solid. Please let it be a huge truck or lorry. One of those eighteen-wheelers. The driver high up, so I won’t hurt him.

Please.

Please.

Blinding lights. Blaring horn. This is it. This is how the end is. Whiteout. Noise. White lights. Noise. This is how it looks. This is how it feels. One split second. Just one second and then—

There was a small clunk that barely shook the car. That was all. It sounded like a rock thrown against his door. Then the lorry hurtled past and was gone in a blur of tail lights, and turbulence that shook the car.

His wing mirror had gone. Knocked off.

He’d been that close to the lorry. Should have been closer, right across it. Head-on.

Sweat was running down his face, stinging his eyes. The wipers smeared the screen. The road snaked into the distance.

I can’t even kill myself. JESUS!

He pounded the steering wheel in frustration and anger.

I’m running out of fuel and I can’t even kill myself.

I don’t have the guts.

He looked at the needle on the empty mark. At the orange warning light. It had been on empty for a while. He didn’t know how much was left in the tank when it showed empty. Not much. There couldn’t be much.

He saw the blue lights behind him, in the interior mirror. The police car was moving out, overtaking the line of traffic, gaining on him.

I’m not going to be arrested. Not going to have that humiliation. No way. No. Then he yelled out loud, ‘YOU WON’T BLOODY GET ME!’

He was crying. Thinking about his wife. His daughter. What was going to happen when they found out?

Trying to think; to figure something out. But it felt like there was a tornado raging inside his head, ripping all his thoughts off the shelves, off his desk top, out of cupboards, filing cabinets. Flinging them everywhere.