close and he would give himself away, too far back and he would lose him. He watched, waiting for him to indicate.
Right. Mickey did the same.
The Nemo pulled out. Mickey tried not to be too impatient with the car in front, concentrate on not losing the Nemo, keeping it in visual contact all the time. The car in front went left. Mickey went right.
The Nemo was just in front of him.
Mickey allowed himself a small smile. Kept his eyes on it.
Right at the next mini roundabout. Mickey did the same.
And off down St Andrews Avenue, signalling and moving over to the right.
Mickey kept smiling. He knew where the Nemo was headed.
He thought about getting back on the radio, giving his location and where he thought they were going but, since his car was directly behind the Nemo on the dual carriageway, he didn’t want to do anything that could be seen in the wing mirror, something that might tip the driver off, make him suspicious.
Off to the right down Brightlingsea Road.
Yes. Mickey knew where he was going.
The university.
He had heard on the radio that the house in Greenstead Road had belonged to Fiona Welch and her boyfriend. This confirmed that they were involved in this.
The Nemo turned into the grounds of the university, then into the car park. Mickey followed. The Nemo parked. Mickey drove round until he found a space nearby. He found one in the next row, facing the van. He watched, the engine running.
The driver was definitely male, thin. The wool hat was removed revealing longish, unkempt hair. Typical student, Mickey thought.
The driver shucked out of his army jacket leaving a sloganed T-shirt beneath. It looked like he was pulling something down over his hips. Getting rid of his army trousers too, Mickey reckoned. He got out of the van, leaned back in, grabbed a canvas bag from behind the seat, slung it across his body. Ready for class.
Mickey smiled. Mark Turner. He knew it. And there was virtually nothing on him. This would be easy, he thought.
Turner set off in the direction of the campus. Mickey got out of the car and, at a discreet distance, followed.
Essex University campus was a textbook design in sixties neo-brutalist modernism, with each subsequent architectural feature either an accompaniment or an apology to the original. It was laid out as a series of squares and quadrants with concrete steps and walkways joining them. Turner walked towards the main quadrant through the car park, going past the gym and down the steps, trees on either side. Mickey followed him easily.
He should have radioed for back-up but, again, he didn’t want to risk losing him or letting him see the radio. Instead, Mickey opened his phone, called Anni. She answered immediately.
‘It’s Turner,’ he said.
‘Where are you?’
‘University. He’s just got out the van, walking towards the campus. I’m on foot. Looks like he’s trying to behave as normally as possible.’
‘Give himself an alibi, more like.’
‘Anyway, back-up would be appreciated.’
Turner didn’t look back, which was helpful as most of the people Mickey’s age were much less formally dressed. Turner didn’t seem hurried or stressed, just walking along casually. Either that, thought Mickey, or he was affecting to look casual just in case anyone was watching him. Which meant he really was nervous.
Which meant…
Turner turned round. Saw Mickey. It was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know who Mickey was but certainly knew what he was.
Turner ran.
Mickey, no longer needing to pretend any more, cut his call short, gave chase.
Along a concrete walkway, the Student’s Union bar on one side, opening out to a main quadrant. Windows all round and, in the floors above, coffee shops and a general store on the ground.
Turner ran to the right, up a flight of stairs, under overhanging buildings. Knocking students, teachers and administrators alike out of the way. A cluster of smokers in one corner jumped as Turner came barrelling towards them.
Mickey ran at full pelt, his chest burning, legs pumping. He tried to match Turner for speed, knowing how difficult it would be to slow down and stop if Turner took an unexpected route.
Turner ran into the nearest building, up a small flight of stairs, down a corridor, Mickey right behind him. Students jumped out of the way when they saw the pair of them coming.
Turner slammed open a set of double doors, took the stairs before him two at a time. Mickey still chased. At the top of the stairs he went through another set of doors, then left down another corridor. Through another set of doors and into the main cafeteria.
People turned, initially puzzled but then rooted to the spot with fear as the two men came their way. Turner took advantage of the situation, grabbing a pile of trays as he passed, throwing them behind him. They scattered and clattered, fanning out and hitting Mickey in the legs. He did his best to jump over them, not lose speed, not let them slow him down.
Turner hit the double doors at the other end of the cafeteria, slamming them open, knocking the people before him out of the way. Mickey didn’t give up.
Down another flight of stairs, out on to the upper quadrant. Then left and away, past the library, heading towards the lake.
It seemed like Turner had no real idea where he was going, his only thought to get away. Mickey didn’t know where the lake route led to but, if it was outside the campus, Turner could escape. He powered on, finding extra strength from somewhere, pushing himself as fast as he could go.
He was gaining on Turner…
Faster, faster, pushing harder and harder…
Stretching out, almost able to touch him…
Turner risking a glance over his shoulder, seeing how close his pursuer was.
Then, looking forward again, Turner missed his footing, hit a pothole in the grass, stumbled.
And Mickey was on to him. Rugby tackling him to the ground, both his hands on Turner’s back, pushing him into the earth.
‘Get off, let go… bastard…’
Turner struggled, tried to kick, to punch. But Mickey, adrenalin ascendant, ignored him. He twisted the student’s arm up his back until he cried out in pain. Then twisted it further.
‘Get off me… bastard…’ Another cry of pain to accompany it.
Mickey didn’t care. Fed on that pain. Ate it up. Smiled. There would be time for the full reading of Turner’s rights soon enough. But there was something else he had to say now. Something more important.
He laughed. ‘You’re nicked, my son.’
And there was Mickey triumphant. His old self back again.
84
The Creeper looked down at Rani lying there still, eyes closed.
And then she spoke to him.
The Creeper frowned, confused. How could Rani be talking to him if she was lying there, right in front of him?
‘Rani…?’
