derived from the row of cast-iron posts that runs across the end of the street. A now defunct Methodist church stands on the corner, and the posts were possibly placed there to deter the carters from taking a short cut to the loading wharves. They were erected by the minister of the day, and it is hard to believe that the foundry that moulded them was not having a joke at his expense, for the posts look remarkably like huge, rampant male members. The developers wanted to remove them, but the council, in its wisdom, slapped a preservation order on them. Dick Lane still has its dicks.
More important than all that is the fact that the posts are exactly sixty-four inches apart. There’s no known reason, practical or mystical, for this. Nobody has come up with the theory that it’s the distance between the Sphinx’s eyes, or the exact width of the Mark IV Blenkinsop loom. It probably just looked about right to the bloke who installed them, nearly two hundred years ago.
At about half past eight young Jamie Walker, now on the run, stole a Ford Fiesta; his favourite car. The owner saw him drive off in it and phoned the police. He was a known drugs user and pedlar on the Sylvan Fields estate and demanded to know what we were doing about the theft of his only means of continuing in business. Control circulated the description, filed a report and went back to the Sun crossword. Ten minutes later one of the patrol cars, conveniently parked in the town centre where they could ogle the talent making its way to the various pubs, saw a green Fiesta with a white bonnet and red passenger door tearing the wrong way through the pedestrian precinct. It was Jamie. They did a seven-point turn and gave chase.
The rules of engagement say follow the target vehicle until the driver is well aware that you require him to stop. Then, if he continues to flee, drop back but try to remain in visual contact until assistance can be organised. The patrol car, siren and lights a-go-go, positively identified the registration number and was backing off when Jamie turned into Dick Lane.
“Gorrim!” declared the driver of the patrol car.
Jamie’s Ford Fiesta was sixty-three inches wide, which gave him a clearance of half an inch each side as he slotted it neatly between the posts at the bottom of Dick Lane. That’s an ample margin when you are escaping arrest, in somebody else’s vehicle. He wiped the wing mirrors off, but he never used them anyway. The pursuing officers saw the Fiesta slow to a crawl and make a right turn on to the towpath, towards freedom.
What was actually said between the driver and his observer is open to speculation, as their stories conflicted at the resulting enquiry. What is known is that: a) They decided to continue the chase; and b) A Ford Escort of the type they were driving is sixty-six inches wide. The iron posts neatly redesigned the front wings of the police car, in a process known to engineers as extrusion, and then held it fast. Alpha Foxtrot Zero Three juddered to a standstill with the posts jammed solid halfway along its front doors.
The advent of closed circuit television has been, it is generally agreed, a wondrous breakthrough in the policing of town centres. Tonight it was to prove a curse. Two very large police officers trying to extricate themselves through the rear doors of a fairly small car makes very good television. The CCTV cameras recorded the build-up and several local yuppies with palm-sized Sonys committed the rest of the story to magnetic tape in much greater detail, negotiating contracts with Reuters and Associated Press via their mobile phones even as they filmed.
After doing some much-needed tidying in the kitchen I made myself a peanut butter, honey and banana sandwich and ate it in the bath, accompanied by Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto number 2 played very loud on the CD. It’s not one of my favourites, but it includes the Brief Encounter music, which amused me. I dried myself and fell into bed feeling reasonably wound down considering the day I’d had, totally oblivious of Jamie’s latest exploits.
“Boss wants you. Now,” I was told as I passed the front desk early Friday morning.
“What’s he doing in at this time?”
“Don’t ask.”
I ran straight up the stairs to Mr Wood’s office on the top floor. First thought in my head was that Silkstone had topped himself in the cells.
“Morning, Gilbert,” I said, after knocking and walking in. “You’re in early.”
“You haven’t seen it then?” he asked without returning my greeting.
“Seen what?”
“Breakfast TV.”
“I’d rather fart drawing pins. What’s happened?”
“Watch this.”
He went over to the monitor on another desk and pressed a few buttons. After a snowstorm of blank tape a well-polished couple with colour-coordinated hair flickered into view. I stayed silent, not knowing what to expect, but it was looking like a Martian invasion at the very least. The Chosen Two shared a joke which we couldn’t hear because the sound was off and the picture changed to black and white.
“That’s Heckley,” I said, recognising the scene. “Down near the canal.”
“Dick Lane,” Gilbert stated.
“That’s right.”
A car jerked towards the camera in ten yard steps, like an early movie. The clock in the bottom right-hand corner said 2123.
“Driven by Jamie Walker,” Gilbert informed me.
“Oh,” I replied. “Last night?”
“Mmm.”
There were some posts across the end of the street. The car — it looked like a Fiesta — was stopped by the camera as it reached them and in the next frame it was through and bits were flying off it. It exited to the left, narrowly avoiding falling into the canal, and another car jumped into the top of the picture.
“Watch,” Gilbert ordered.
“One of ours?”
“Alpha Foxtrot Zero Three.”
“Who up?”
“Lockwood and Stiles.”
Jim Lockwood and Martin Stiles were first on the scene when we arrested Tony Silkstone. I felt uneasy, expecting their car to go into the water and drown them both, or roll over and burst into flames. All it did was get stuck between the posts. The coloured picture came back on, with the Golden Couple laughing just enough not to ruffle their coiffures or flake their make-up. I tried to stifle a giggle, but failed.
“You’ve got to laugh, Gilbert,” I chuckled.
“What’s so funny about it?” he demanded.
“It just is.”
“We’re a bloody laughing stock! It won’t be funny when the Chief Constable sees it, I’ll tell you that.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted. “Nobody was hurt, that’s the main thing. I was expecting to see someone hurt. What’s happening?”
“I’m having them in at nine o’clock. I’ll have to ground them, Charlie. And the car’s probably a write-off. Jamie-fucking — Walker! I’d like to take the little scrote and…and…oh, what’s the point?”
“Who’s investigating it?” I asked. He told me the name of a chief inspector from HQ who I hardly knew.
The super was right: it wasn’t funny. Wrecking a police car is a serious matter. Lockwood and Stiles would be taken off driving while a senior officer made preliminary enquiries. It was back to the beat for them. If he’d committed a prosecutable offence it could be the end of the driver’s career. “Were this a member of the public would further action be taken?” was the question that the investigating officer would be asking. Meanwhile, we’d lost the use of two men and a car.
“The point is, Charlie,” Gilbert said, “we need young Jamie in custody. Number one priority, everybody on it. Right?”
“I am conducting a double murder enquiry,” I reminded him.
“Forget it. Get Jamie. Anyhow, it’s all sewn up, isn’t it?”
“Everybody seems to think so except me. I’ve got my doubts.”
“Here we go again!” he complained, putting his hands on his head. “Listen, Charlie: Silkstone’s confessed;
