Paul Finch - Ashes to Ashes - An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

Without waiting for a response, Heck ran due north along the flimsy roofs, feet drumming on damp planks covered only in tarpaper, jabbering into his radio again, giving instructions as best he could. At the far end, he dropped onto all fours and swung his body over the parapet. He hung full-length and dropped the last five feet, before careering downhill through grass and clutter onto the road.

‘Bellfield Lane heading northeast,’ he shouted, hammering along the tarmac. ‘Any units in that direction to respond, over?’ But the airwaves were jammed with cross-cutting messages. ‘Shit … come on, someone!’

As he ran, the vast concrete shape of a railway gantry loomed towards him. Above it, stroboscopic lights sped back and forth as trains hurtled between East Dulwich and Peckham Rye. Conversely, the shadows beneath the structure were oil-black. In normal times this would be a muggers’ paradise, but Heck was armed, and besides the night was now alive with sirens – it was just a pity none were in the immediate vicinity.

Beyond the railway overpass, a sheer brick wall stood on the right, but on the left there was wire fencing, and behind that another slope angling down to a glass-littered car park. The fence’s second section was loose, disconnected along the bottom, giving easy access to the other side. Heck swerved towards it – only to find that his quarry, neatly camouflaged in his all-black garb, had secreted himself flat at the foot of the waiting slope. The first Heck knew of this was the muzzle-flash, and the hail of shot that swept the wire mesh.

He threw himself to the pavement, rolling away and landing in the gutter – where he lay on his back, gun trained two-handed on the wall of fencing.

Until he heard feet clattering away again.

He scrambled to his knees.

A dark shape was haring across the car park below, at the far side of which a concrete ramp led down onto yet another housing estate, this one comprising rows of near-identical maisonettes. Heck slid under the fence and gave chase, stumbling down the slope until he reached the level tarmac, all the time trying to get through on his radio.

‘Is no one fucking listening to me?’ he shouted. ‘For what it’s worth … still in pursuit, suspect still on foot, still armed, opening fire at every opportunity. Heading west onto the Hawkwood estate. Listen, this is a built-up area with lots of civvies. Not many around at present, but someone’s got to get over here fast. Over and fucking out!’

At the foot of the ramp, he vaulted a railing and ran along a boulevard faced on two sides by front doors and ground-level windows. Sagan was still in sight at the far end – a minuscule figure, which abruptly wheeled around, levelled the shotgun at its waist and fired twice. Heck was out of lethal range – Sagan was using buckshot rather than solid slugs – but instinct still sent him scrambling for cover behind a bench. When he glanced back up Sagan remained visible, but it went against all the rules to open fire in a residential zone like this. You didn’t even need to be a poor shot; ricochets could go anywhere. To make matters worse, several doors had opened as curious householders peeked out.

Sagan darted left along a side-street. Heck vaulted the bench and gave chase, shouting at the onlookers as he did. ‘Police! Lock your doors! Stay away from the windows!’

He rounded the corner and descended a flight of steps into a covered area. Sagan was visible again, framed in the exit on the other side. He let off two more rounds. Heck dived sideways, smashing through a decayed wooden hoarding and entangling himself in heaps of musty second-hand furniture. He fought his way out through a rear door and sprinted along an alley, hoping to head the bastard off – only to emerge into another car park.

Again, Sagan was waiting, shotgun levelled.

Heck ran low, scuttling behind a row of parked vehicles. Sagan blasted each one of them in turn, bodywork buckling, safety glass flying, before turning, ascending a flight of steps and dashing down a passage between faceless walls. Heck slid over the nearest bonnet and charged up the steps. He entered the passage, which was about fifty yards long; at the far end of it Sagan was rapidly reloading. Before Heck could point his pistol and shout, the bastard fired twice; ear-shattering detonations in the narrow space. This time, as Heck pitched himself down, he pegged off three quick shots of his own, which caromed along the passage, missing their target but sending him ducking out of sight.

Heck retreated around his corner, sucking in lungfuls of chill air. He risked a second glance. The passage still looked empty, but Sagan could be lying in wait, and once Heck was halfway along he’d be a sitting duck. He ran back down the steps, along a row of caged-off shops, and around the base of a tower block. He’d expected to find open space on the other side, but instead the shell of a derelict industrial building stood there.

Swearing, Heck panted the new directions into the radio as he set off running again. At the end of the factory wall there was a net fence and on the other side of that a deep canyon through which another railway passed. The London Overground, Heck realised, though at present it was a good twenty feet below him. He glanced right. The nearest route across it was an arched steel walkover about fifty yards off. A figure was already traipsing over this – slowly, tiredly.

Sagan.

The killer and torturer was an arch-pro. But he was also in early middle age. His energy reserves were finally flagging.

Heck took a short cut along a narrow defile between the factory’s north wall and the railway fence. Initially he had to get through barbed wire, and then found himself negotiating thick, leafless scrub entwined with wastepaper and rubbish. Inevitably, cans and bottles clattered, causing such a racket that the figure on the bridge stopped and looked around – and began to run again. By the time Heck got to the bridge, there was no sign of him.

Exhausted himself, Heck lumbered up the steel staircase and over the top. A train thundered past below, a chaos of light and sound, illuminating the footway to its far end. There was a possibility Sagan could reappear over there – while Heck was hemmed between neck-high barriers of riveted steel. But that didn’t happen. He made it to the other side, descended the stair to half way and halted, hot breath pluming from his body. Open waste-ground lay ahead, on the far side of which stood a cluster of dingy buildings: workshops, offices and garages, with an old Ford van parked at the front. Sagan was almost over there, moving at a fast but weary trudge – about sixty yards distant.

Heck raised his pistol and took aim, but he wasn’t a good enough marksman to ensure a clean shot from this distance. Especially not at night. He continued down, and inadvertently kicked a beer bottle on the bottom step. It cartwheeled forward and smashed.

Sagan twirled around.

Heck scampered down the last couple of steps and veered sideways. Sagan strode back, shooting from the waist like a character out of a western, working the slide again and again, pumping fire and shot. Heck scuttled and crawled, but found no more cover than bits of rubbish and sprigs of weed.

At which point a third party intervened.

‘Drop it!’ came a fierce female voice. ‘Do it now, or I’ll shoot you, you bastard … I swear!’

Heck glanced up, to see a short, shapely figure in jeans, trainers, an anorak and a chequer-banded police cap, circling around from behind the van, her Glock trained with both hands on the back of John Sagan’s head. The gunman froze, the shotgun clasped in his right hand, his left held out to his side.

‘I mean it, you dickless wonder!’ the girl cop shouted in a ringing northern accent. ‘Drop that weapon now, or I’ll drop you !’