Peter James - Need You Dead

Too clear.

Just a long black ribbon with dark woodland on either side.

The subject vehicle was no longer in sight.

Need to get to the city.

I’ve just got to get there. Got to, got to, GOT TO.

Out here in the countryside, if he ran out of fuel they’d find the car quickly, he knew. Then they’d put up the helicopter with its heat-source night vision and they’d pick him out. He’d be better off in the city, invisible there, plenty of hiding places, and it would make it harder for a dog handler to find him.

He just had to get there.

Ten miles.

There has to be ten miles more in the tank.

He looked in his mirror.

Just darkness.

He was hurtling up towards a three-way junction that he knew well. The Ginger Fox restaurant, where he’d sometimes come with Lena for Sunday lunch, was on the right. A sharp right in front of it would be the fastest way to the city from here. It would take him to the A23. But that’s where they’d be expecting him.

Turning off the main road — more or less straight on into another lane — would take him back out into the countryside. Where he did not want to be.

Had to carry on along the main road. That was his best option. Nothing showed in his mirror, to his relief. They still weren’t in sight.

He drove too fast round the sharp left-hand bend, feeling the car twitching and sliding on the wet, greasy road, then a right-hander was coming up. He braked hard and turned sharp left just on the apex, down a narrow road he’d cycled along many times in the past, Clappers Lane. It would take him on a back route into Brighton that hopefully they wouldn’t be expecting him to go for. Via Shoreham, to the west of the city.

If his fuel lasted.

If they didn’t find him again.

He looked at the fuel gauge. There was always a couple of gallons in the tank when it showed empty. There had to be. He gripped the wheel, looked in the mirror, the road ahead, the mirror, the road ahead.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Just got to keep going. Keep going. All the time I’m going I’m alive.

When I stop, I’m dead.

‘Shit!’ PC Trundle said. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

They had stopped, momentarily, outside the Ginger Fox, staring at the road signs — although they knew this area like the back of their hands.

Trundle was trying to guess which way the car had gone. Which road would he have taken, he wondered? And every second that they wasted here meant the Mondeo was getting further and further away.

‘A23?’ Pip Edwards suggested. ‘That’s where I’d head.’

‘If that’s where he wanted to get to, he’d have hit it sooner.’ Trundle shook his head. ‘He’s been keeping to the back roads and obviously has local knowledge.’

‘Right, so let’s think for a moment,’ Edwards said. ‘Where’s he actually going?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You’ve nicked a car, the police are on to you. You need to ditch it — but preferably somewhere else you can nick another car to shake them off.’

‘A pub car park?’

Edwards shrugged. ‘If he had the presence of mind, maybe. Not sure I’d think that if I was in a red-mist panic, I’d just keep driving, in the hope of getting away — as he has done. Perhaps losing us in a town. Crawley? Haywards Heath? Burgess Hill? Brighton? Could be any of those. So, straight on or one of the rights?’

The two officers stared ahead.

‘I don’t think he’s turned off — I think he’s carried on towards Henfield,’ said Trundle.

‘Do we toss a coin?’

Trundle pressed his radio button. ‘Ops-1, we have lost Golf Yankee One Four Golf Romeo X-ray. He could have gone one of three ways. We are terminating the pursuit.’ He gave the road numbers.

‘OK, Hotel Tango Two Eight One, stand down and stay where you are. We’ll see if he’s spotted on any of those routes. You’re in a good position if he doubles back, so stay put.’

‘Stay put,’ he repeated, flatly, sensing from the tone of Kim Sherwood’s voice that she felt they’d fucked up. ‘Yes, yes.’

Moments later Inspector Sherwood’s voice came through the radio again, sounding much more animated. ‘Subject vehicle has just been sighted! Single male occupant.’

Roy Grace had returned to his office and, patched into Ops-1 on his radio, was following the pursuit. Ray Packham, at the spare desk in front of him, was going through the contents from Lorna Belling’s laptop.

Grace had spoken to both the duty Gold and Silver Commanders about the POLACC — police accident — with the possibility of a case of potential murder committed by a member of his team, and he had also alerted Professional Standards.

Batchelor’s Ford Mondeo had been put on the ANPR hot list, and police vehicles heading towards the area to attempt to contain and stop the car had been ordered to minimalize their use of blue lights and sirens, where safe, in order to avoid alerting him.

‘Some very angry emails to Lorna Belling from Seymour Darling, Roy,’ Packham said, suddenly.

‘Yes?’

‘Get this one, from Darling: Oh right, Mrs Belling. If you call screwing someone behind your husband’s back “honest”, then I’m a banana. SD .’

Grace smiled distantly, his focus entirely on his thoughts about Batchelor. He was distracted by a voice on the Ops-1 patch. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five. We have visual on subject vehicle entering the Shoreham flyover roundabout. Off at three. Now heading towards Shoreham.’

Then he heard Sherwood direct local division cars down to the coast road.

A male voice, presumably in the pursuit car, was calling out the speed. ‘Seven-zero in three-zero limit. Eight-zero in three-zero limit.’

Grace knew that stretch of road well. It was two-lane, residential, cars parked on both sides, only just room for two vehicles to pass each other in opposite directions. A 30 mph limit, and Batchelor was hurtling down it at eighty.

The officer’s voice suddenly shouted out, ‘Jesus, near miss, he’s driving like a lunatic, he’s passed an oncoming vehicle on the wrong side, driving along the pavement!’

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Ops-1 said. ‘It’s too dangerous. Discontinue the pursuit. Maintain your course, but discontinue the pursuit.’

‘Yes, yes. We have pulled over and switched off our lights.’

‘Ops-1,’ Grace said, ‘is the helicopter available?’

‘I’ve already checked, Roy, it’s attending a serious injury RTC in Kent at the moment. Won’t be available for an hour, on their best estimate.’

‘What about the drone?’

Brighton Police used a drone to supplement their network of CCTV cameras around the city.

‘I’ve just alerted the duty Gold Commander and requested it. But we have CAA flight restriction issues — it can only overfly the coastline, not the city itself.’

‘Can you get it directed towards Shoreham?’

‘Yes, it’s being dispatched now.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Packham exclaimed.

‘What, Ray?’

‘He’s making a pretty explicit threat to her in this one.’

Then Kim Sherwood spoke again. ‘Subject vehicle has just pinged an ANPR camera on Albion Street, heading east.’

Into Brighton , Grace thought.

‘I have another divisional car that’s sighted him. He’s gone the wrong side of an island and run a red light.’

Just what was going on with Batchelor, Grace wondered? This was so utterly out of character — complete madness — if indeed it was him driving, and they still did not have confirmation of that. It was still possible someone had stolen the car, or kidnapped the DI. He just could not believe this was Batchelor. No way. This was not the gentle giant, Guy Batchelor, that he knew.