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.
In the end, I’d been seen by a doctor at St Mary’s who’d put some antiseptic cream on the wound before patching it up, and finally we were in a position to drive back to the station. Now that Panner had committed a serious crime while violently resisting arrest, Flanagan had decreed that he should be brought in as soon as he was apprehended. A surveillance team from SO11 would still set up shop outside his bail address but it was thought unlikely he’d head back there now that he was aware the police wanted to talk to him. I only hoped that we hadn’t messed up by giving him advance warning of our interest. If he was as slippery as Fiona Ragdale had suggested, then he wasn’t going to be easy to find.
‘I think we’re lovers, not fighters, Asif,’ I told Malik as we were heading down the Euston Road in the direction of the station. Traffic was heavy, bordering on ludicrous, and progress predictably slow.
‘I prefer to see us as the brains rather than the brawn,’ he said with a smile.
I think we both felt vaguely humiliated that we’d been outfought and outrun by a low-life pimp who’d already taken something of a beating himself, but neither of us said anything. Sometimes that’s just the way it goes.
My mobile rang. It was Tina. She was back at the incident room, had heard what had happened and wanted to know how I was. ‘I think I’ll live,’ I told her, and almost let slip that my injuries wouldn’t affect my performance in the bedroom before realizing just in time that I had company.
‘Panner wasn’t driving a Megane by any chance, was he?’
‘No, an ancient BMW. Why?’
‘I think I might have a lead.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘You know I’ve been going back on HOLMES looking for similar cases to the O’Brien hit? Well, there was an unsolved murder at the beginning of last year in a pub car park in Harrow. The victim was a garage owner called Paul Bailey who owed money to a lot of people. He was shot twice in the head at point-blank range with a.38 revolver, and was dead before he even knew what was happening. A couple coming out of the pub at the same time caught a glimpse of the killer, as did a man walking his dog, and a woman driving past. The descriptions were sketchy but they all tallied with what we’ve got for the O’Brien killer. Dark hair, late twenties, five ten to six two. I reckon it’s got to be the same one.’
‘Could well be.’
‘But that’s not all, John. The man walking his dog was further down the road from the pub. He heard the shots and saw a man hurrying down in his direction on foot. Before the man got to him, he got into a car that was parked up and drove off. The car passed directly by the dog walker and, because he was concerned about the shots, he made a mental note of the model and registration. The plates turned out to be false, but the car was an old-style black Renault Megane coupe, and the investigating team made a list of every black Megane coupe owner in Greater London with that particular model.’
‘Christ. How many was that?’
‘A lot. Three thousand three hundred and twelve in all, including, I expect, plenty of dark-haired young men, and to be honest, nothing ever came of it. With that many people there were only the resources to speak to those with a criminal record, and in the absence of any other evidence the case finally ground to a halt. But if that list contains our man, and he also comes up on the list we’ve got of people who bought Desmarches suits, then. .’ She let the sentence trail off, the meaning clear.
‘You’re on a roll, Tina. Well done.’
‘Thanks. It’s good to know we’re getting somewhere.’
‘Changing your mind about retiring, then?’
‘That was last week. Things have moved on since then, and anyway, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’
‘So, you’ve spoken to Harrow CID?’
‘They’re going to fax me over the list.’
‘Great. I’ll give you a hand going through it when I get back.’
After we’d said our goodbyes, I told Malik what she’d found out.
