ring of roadblocks, just in case. This last comment raised a few sniggers, because they all knew it to be superfluous. Nobody would get past them. Mr Cox asked the various teams to acknowledge that they were clear about their duties and said: “OK, gentlemen, let’s bring him in.”
I was guest of honour, invited to ride with him. Our carpark was filled with their vehicles, haphazardly blocking the regulars in or out, and others were parked outside, straddling the yellow lines and pavement. We slowly disentangled ourselves and moved in a convoy out of town, towards the moors. I suspected that some of them had never seen a landscape devoid of houses, billboards and takeaways.
A steady drizzle was percolating through the atmosphere as we crossed the five hundred foot contour, blurring the colours slipping by our windows to a dirty khaki. Just how I like it. Superintendent Cox turned his collar up in an involuntary action and switched the windscreen wipers on.
“That’s the lane to the other side of the farm,” I told him. He slowed and jabbed his arm several times through his open window. I swivelled round in my seat and counted five vehicles turn in that direction. Two miles further I said: “And this is our lane to the farm.” He turned off the main road and set his trip odometer to zero.
“I reckon we make the block in about one point three miles,” he stated, slowing to a crawl. Three minutes later, with the farm still not in sight, he stopped and switched the engine off. “This’ll do,” he said.
Three vehicles from our side and two from the other were going to approach the farm and make the arrests. The others would act as roadblocks in case someone made a run for it. Our three moved ahead and parked in single file. Doors swung open and black looks were cast at the sky. Stooped figures opened boots, lifting out pieces of equipment: waterproofs; body armour; weapons. They donned hats and baseball caps, or pulled hoods over their heads. I stepped out and felt the cool rain on my face. Beautiful.
Cox was on the radio, calling up the observation post. I heard them report that the farm was as quiet as a grave. About half an hour earlier the curtains in an upstairs room had opened, and that was the only activity they’d seen. He made contact with the other section of our small army, code name T2, but they hadn’t turned into the lane yet. The chopper was standing by, he informed us.
T1 was us, or more precisely the three cars that would do the job. When the snatch teams were kitted up they squashed themselves into the cars and waited, steam and smoke rising from the open windows as they waited for the call. Every couple of minutes a cigarette end would come curling from one of the windows to sizz out in the wet grass. Our remaining three cars arranged themselves at angles across the narrow lane, completely blocking it.
“The trap is set,” Cox told me with a satisfied grin. He produced a half-empty hip flask of Famous Grouse from the depths of a pocket and took a long swig. I shook my head when he offered it to me, so he had mine, too.
He was on the radio again, chasing up T2 when there was a crackle of interference and a voice shouted: “They’re moving, they’re moving!”
“Quiet please! Come in OP,” Cox said.
“Activity at the farm, Skipper,” came the reply. “Three figures have dashed out of the house. In a hurry. I reckon they’ve rumbled us.”
“T2, acknowledge.”
“T2 receiving.”
“Are you at the lane end yet?”
“We’re at a lane end, Skip, but it’s only a dirt road.” “That’s the bridle path. The lane you want is about half a mile further on. For fuck’s sake get there, now! OP, come in.”
“OP receiving.”
“What’s happening?”
“They’re in the garage, I think. Yes, the big door’s opening and a motorbike’s coming out.”
“My team, T1, did you hear that?”
“Yes, Skip.”
“He’s making a run for it. Stand by.” Car doors opened and they tumbled out, brandishing their Heckler and Kochs.
“OP, OP, which way’d he go?”
“He’s not reappeared yet from behind the house. A Land Rover and the BMW have also just come out of the garage and gone round the house. I can see the bike now. He’s turned left, heading east.”
“That’s towards us. Good.”
“And the other two are heading west.”
“Right. Did you clock that, T2?”
“Yes, Skip.”
“Are you at the lane end yet?”
“Not sure, Skip. There’s a dam and a reservoir with a lane…”
“That’s the wrong way!” I yelled at Cox. “They’ve turned the wrong friggin’ way!”
“You’ve turned the wrong way,” Cox told them, trying to read the map that was draped over his steering wheel. “You need to be about three miles the other way, and get a move on.” He turned to me, saying: “Fortunately Chilcott’s coming towards us.” I rang Heckley control and told them to let our boys know that he’d made a run for it. It looked as if we might have to do the job for them after all.
The road ahead undulated like the spine of the Loch Ness monster and bent to the left. I climbed out of the car and peered at the furthest crest in the road. After a few seconds the bike appeared, rising into view then falling out of sight as it sank into a hollow. Then it appeared again, nearer and bigger, travelling quite cautiously, and dropped out of sight. In front of me the RCS crew spread out across the road and adopted kneeling positions, firearms at the ready. The bike rose into view again and fell away. One more brow left. We could hear it now. They pressed rifle butts against shoulders and peered down sights.
The rider’s head appeared, then shoulders, windscreen, wheels: a splash of colour — red, white and fluorescent green — in the murky landscape.
“Here he comes,” a voice said at my elbow. It was Cox, his eyes bright with excitement. In the next few minutes he’d be reciting the caution to the most wanted man in Britain or zipping him into a body bag. Either would do. The bike stopped, a hundred and fifty yards down the road. I could sense the fingers tightening on triggers, and I desperately needed a pee.
“Easy boys, he’s not going anywhere,” Cox shouted.
The biker tried to do a U-turn, but the road was too narrow. He paddled the bike backwards a few feet and completed the manoeuvre, driving off back towards the farm with a new urgency. The engine note rose and fell as he went up through the gears, the bike and rider bright as a tropical fish as it crested the brows.
“T1 to T2,” Cox yelled into the radio. “He’s coming back your way. Where are you?”
“T2 receiving, at the lane end,” I heard them confirm. “Forming roadblock now.”
“Have you seen the other two vehicles?”
“Negative, Skip.”
“He’ll be with you in about two minutes.”
The same thing happened at their end. The biker stopped, turned round, and headed back this way.
“OK, let’s tighten the net,” Cox ordered. We climbed back into our seats and moved half a mile down the road, until the farm was clearly in view. We’d just reassembled into a roadblock when the biker came burbling round the corner, the rider sitting up, only one hand on the handlebars.
“He’s a cool customer,” I said.
“Bravado,” Cox explained. “He knows the show’s over.”
The biker turned round, went back, saw the others blocking his flight and turned towards us yet again. He accelerated, front wheel lifting off the road, as if about to do an Evel Knievel over our heads, then slowed to a crawl. Cox was right: he could handle a bike. T2 moved forward, shrinking his playground.
There was a gate in the wall about a hundred yards in front of us, marking the beginning of the bridle path. The rider stopped, leaned the bike on its side stand and made a dash at the gate. Cars from both sides accelerated towards him, tyres spinning on the wet road. We held back, maintaining the roadblock. He pushed the gate open and leapt back onto the bike, gunning it towards the gap as the car from our side swerved to a standstill feet from him.
I’d started to say that he wouldn’t get far on a bike like that when events made my words redundant. The
