Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

‘What’s he want us to do?’ I said, turning on to the Bishops Bridge Road.

‘Get over to Panner’s bail address and keep an eye on the place, just until he gets a chance to set up a team from SO11 to put him under surveillance properly. But it’s going to take a couple of hours. If he decides to leave the premises, we’re to follow him discreetly, see what he gets up to. At the moment, it’s only about evidence-gathering. We’re not to apprehend him, unless we catch him in the commission of a serious crime.’

‘No problem.’

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘What?’

‘Over there. Slow down.’

I looked to where Malik was pointing. On the other side of the road, in front of the railings that separated the pavement from the grounds of Paddington’s Hallfield estate, a group of four men were fighting. It looked like it was one against the rest, and the one was having a bit of a hard time of it. He took a punch to the head and went down, disappearing behind a parked car, allowing the others to deliver a series of unseen kicks in his direction.

I slammed on the brakes, coming to a skidding halt twenty yards away from the action, and shoved on the hazards. Malik produced his mobile phone and called for back-up, and at the same time we both jumped out of the car. The vehicle behind us did an emergency stop and gave a continuous blast of the horn, but I was already running for the other side of the road, waving my warrant card in all directions, Malik’s footsteps sounding close behind.

‘Stop, police!’ I yelled, unsure what else to say. It’s rare these days that I come across a crime actually taking place in front of me, so it’s not something I have to practise a lot. I’d almost forgotten the adrenalin rush you get when you suddenly shove yourself in the path of danger.

I was now less than ten yards away and the three men, all eastern European in appearance, turned to face me, their expressions ones of surprise rather than fear. I could see why. One of them was holding a wicked-looking claw hammer in his hand, claw facing outwards, and they also had the numerical advantage. I slowed down, knowing that if they didn’t run Malik and I were both in trouble. Neither of us was armed and neither of us was in a position to bring this situation to a swift end, other than through the force of our personalities.

‘Police!’ I shouted again, still coming forward, speeding up again now, knowing that any obvious hesitation would be fatal. ‘You’re all under arrest.’

One of them aimed another kick at their unfortunate victim, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand, and then, without warning, all three turned and made a dash for it up the road. I ran up onto the pavement, gave a half-hearted five-yard chase — more to make sure they didn’t come back than anything else (I’ll be straight: there was no way I was tackling a man with a claw hammer when he was hot-footing it in the opposite direction) — then turned in the direction of the victim, who was being pulled to his feet by Malik, one hand covering his face where he’d been kicked.

He looked familiar, but then he would have done: I’d seen his photograph often enough that day, although he was a lot bulkier in the flesh. Malik recognized Robert ‘Pretty Boy’ Panner at exactly the same time, and took his arm, starting to speak.

Panner might have taken a bit of a beating but he didn’t appear too much the worse for wear, and his eyes widened as he realized who we were. Knowing he might make a run for it, I took a step forward to secure his other arm, but before I could reach him he lashed out, hitting Malik in the gut, then swung him bodily against the bonnet of the nearest car. Malik’s not the biggest of guys, and he went straight over it. I jumped forward, trying to grab Panner’s jacket, but he was a fast mover and did a nice little ballet-style twirl before accelerating away down the pavement in the direction of Paddington station.

I looked over at Malik, saw that he was OK as he clambered up from behind the car, then took off after Panner. He might have been fast, and obviously keen to get away, but I was also very keen to catch him, and now that I’d started going to the gym (albeit erratically) in an effort to get myself fit again and impress Tina, I thought I was in with a chance.

But clearly my fitness regime needed some improving because Panner had the edge and slowly but surely he opened up a gap between us, helped no doubt by the fact that a group of schoolkids across the street were enthusiastically cheering him on. Whatever happened to rooting for the good guys?

As he came to the north-eastern corner of the Hallfield, he turned into Gloucester Terrace. There were ten yards between us now, twelve when I had to dodge an old lady who looked like she was trying to cut me off. Or maybe it was just that I was getting suspicious of everyone. I rounded the corner and saw another schoolkid lying on the pavement where Panner had evidently knocked him over. He was surrounded by a group of his mates who were all staring after the fugitive’s rapidly disappearing figure. That bastard could have been a promising athlete if he’d put his mind to it, instead of spending his days pimping, threatening women and children, and getting beaten up. He had a natural swiftness of foot that made it look like there was lead in my brogues. But I was going to get him, I was sure of that.

‘Police! Out the way!’

The group scattered, but the kid on the ground sat up and tried to crawl away, and I was forced to jump over him, losing my footing as I landed back on the pavement and stumbling forward onto my hands and knees. Behind me I heard laughter, but I didn’t have time to worry about that as I ran on, my breathing getting heavier all the time as the full enormity of my unfitness finally became apparent.

Up ahead — twenty yards away at least, probably more — Panner had stopped by a battered old BMW and was fishing round in his pocket for the key. I made a final burst, ignoring the pain in my lungs, knowing that I’d hardly have the strength to stand up, let alone nick him, by the time we were face to face, but knowing that I couldn’t stop. Glory beckoned.

He found the key, opened the door and jumped inside. I was ten yards away now. The engine coughed and roared into life, and he reversed straight into the car behind him, smashing its headlights. Eight yards, six, four. . He turned the wheel as far as it would go, at the same time moving forward, but a car coming the other way prevented him from pulling out. Two yards, one, and then I was pulling open the door and yelling at him to stop, reaching for the keys.

The other car passed, and Panner slammed his foot on the accelerator and roared out on to the road, with me clinging desperately to the door as my legs were dragged from under me. I had to make a split-second decision, and I made it.

‘You fucker!’ I screamed at the side of Robert Panner’s head, then I let go of the door and tumbled hard onto the road, rolling over and praying that any traffic coming my way would have enough time to stop, all too aware that grabbing hold of speeding cars rarely results in a happy ending.

I heard the shriek of brakes, loud in my ears. A car stopped much too near, and there was the sound of a metallic impact combined with the shattering of lights as another car hit it from behind, shunting it forward. I could smell the heat of the engine, my eyes remaining tight shut, hands covering my head, my shoulder burning where it had struck the tarmac.

Slowly, very slowly, I opened my eyes. The driver’s-side tyre of the lead car was a foot from my head. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We were at the scene for more than an hour. Back-Up had duly arrived a few minutes later but Panner was long gone, and I hadn’t been able to get the registration of the car he was driving. I also had to act as witness in the three-car crash caused by my rolling about in the road, having been rudely ejected from Panner’s BMW, and had to give my details to a succession of drivers most of whom didn’t seem to understand why I’d felt the need to act like Jackie Chan, all the time rubbing my injured shoulder in a vain attempt to gain even a modicum of sympathy.