Final Account

erotic way. Soon, the eerie flex-atone entered and sent shivers up and down his spine. A cheap effect, perhaps, but sometimes effective if you happened to be in the right mood.

Banks drained his glass and put it on the table by the sofa. Sandra let her head rest between his shoulder and chest. Definitely a good sign. “Remember that silly film we saw on TV a while back?” he said. “The one where the couple has sex listening to Ravel’s Bolero?”

“Hmm. It’s called 10. Dudley Moore and Bo Derek. And I don’t think they were really listening. More like using it as background music.”

“Well, I’ve never really liked Bolero. It’s far too ordered and mechanical. It’s got a kind of inevitability about it that’s too predictable for my taste. I’ve always thought this Khachaturian piece would be a lot better to make love to. Much better. Wanders all over the place. You never really know where it’s going next. Slow and dreamy at the start, with plenty of great climaxes later on.”

“Sounds good to me. Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

Sandra moved her head up until she was facing him, her lips about two inches away. He swept back a strand of hair from her cheek and let his fingers rest on her cool skin. “I thought you had to call the station?” she said.

“Later,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Later. Are the curtains closed?”

3

Boredom. They never told you about that down at the recruitment drives, thought PC Grant Everett as he rolled down the window of the patrol car and lit a cigarette. His partner, PC Barry Miller, was good about the smoking. He didn’t indulge, himself, but he understood Grant’s need to light up every now and then, especially on a quiet night like this one.

They were parked in a lay-by between Princes Risborough and High Wycombe. To the south, through the rearview mirror, Grant could see the faint glow of the nearest town, while to the north only isolated lights twinkled from scattered farms and cottages. All around them spread the dark, rolling landscape of the Chilterns. It was an attractive spot on a nice day, especially in spring with the bluebells and cherry blossoms out, but in the dark it seemed somehow forbidding, inhospitable.

A light breeze swirled the smoke out of the car. Grant inhaled deeply. It had just stopped raining and he loved the way the scent of rain seemed to blend with the tobacco and make it taste so much better. It was at moments like this when he understood why he smoked, despite all the health warnings. On the other hand, he never quite understood it when he got up after a night’s chain-smoking in the pub and coughed his guts up for half an hour.

Next to him, Barry was munching on a Mars bar. Grant smiled to himself. Six foot two and sixteen stone already and the silly bugger still needed to feed his face with chocolate bars. Who am I to talk? Grant thought, sucking on his cigarette again. To each his own poison.

Grant felt sleepy and the cigarette helped keep him awake. He had never got used to shift work; his biological rhythms, or whatever they were, had never adapted. When he lay down his head in the morning as the neighbor’s kids were going to school, the postman was doing his rounds and everyone else was off to work, he could never get to sleep. Especially if the sun were shining. And then there was Janet, bless her soul, doing her best, trying hard to be as quiet as she could around the house, and Sarah, only six months, crying for feeding and nappy-changing. And the bills to pay, and… Christ, he wasn’t going to think about that. At least the job got him out of the house, away from all that for a while.

A lorry rumbled by. Grant flicked the stub of his cigarette out of the window and heard it sizzle as it hit a puddle. Occasionally, voices cut through the static on the police radio, but the messages weren’t for them.

“Shall we belt up and bugger off, then?” said Barry. He screwed up the wrapper of his Mars bar and put it in his pocket. Ever the careful one, Grant thought, with an affectionate smile. Wouldn’t even be caught littering, wouldn’t Barry.

“Might as well.” Grant reached for his belt. Then they heard the squealing sound of rubber on wet tarmac. “What the fuck was that?”

On the main road, a north-bound car skidded as it turned the bend too fast, then righted itself.

“Shall we?” said Barry.

“My pleasure.”

Grant loved it when the lights were flashing and the siren screaming. First he was pushed back in the seat by the force when he put his foot down, and then he felt as if he were taking off, seeming somehow to be magically freed from all the restraints of the road: not just the man-made rules, but the laws of nature. Sometimes, Grant even felt as if they were really taking off, wheels no longer on the ground.

But there was no chase to be had here; it was over before it began. The car was about two hundred yards ahead of them when its driver seemed to realize they meant business. He slowed down as they caught up and pulled over to the side of the road, spraying up water from the hedgerow. His number-plate was too muddy to read.

Grant pulled up behind him, and Barry got out to approach the car.

It wasn’t likely to be much, Grant thought as he sniffed the fresh night air through the open window – maybe a drunk, maybe a few outstanding parking tickets – but at least it was something to relieve the boredom for a few minutes.

He could hear perfectly clearly when Barry asked the driver to turn off his ignition and present his driving documents. The driver did as he was told. Barry looked at the papers and passed them back. Next, he asked the man if he had been drinking. Grant couldn’t hear the man’s reply, but it seemed to satisfy Barry. Grant knew he would be listening for slurred words and sniffing for booze on the driver’s breath.

After that, Barry asked the man where he had been and where he was going. Grant thought he heard the man mention Princes Risborough.

No other cars passed. The night was quiet and Grant caught a whiff of beech leaves and cherry wood on the damp air. He thought he heard some cows low in the distance and, farther still, a nightingale.

Then Barry asked the man to get out of the car and clean off his number-plate. Grant heard him explain patiently that it was an offense to drive with a number-plate that is “not easily distinguishable” and smiled to himself at the stilted, textbook phrase. But the man would get off with a caution this time; Barry seemed satisfied with his behavior.

The man got back in the car and Grant heard Barry speak over his personal radio.

“465 to Control.”

“465 go ahead.”

“Ten nine vehicle check please.”

The voices crackled unnaturally over the country night air.

“Pass your number.”

“Mike four, three, seven, Tango Zulu Delta.”

“Stand by.”

Grant knew it would take three or four minutes for the operator to check the number on the computer, then, all being well, they could be on their way.

Barry and the driver seemed to be chatting amiably enough as they waited. Grant looked at the newly cleaned number-plate and reached idly for the briefing-sheet beside him. There seemed to be something familiar about it, something he ought to remember.

He ran his finger down the list of stolen cars. No, not there. He wouldn’t remember any of those numbers; there were always too many of them. It had to be something more important: a vehicle used in a robbery, perhaps? Then he found it: M437 TZD, gray Granada.