TWO
As the Bonneville rounded the corner into Panton Street its rider found himself faced with an oncoming car.
The driver of the car blasted on his hooter as much in surprise as annoyance, looking on in bewilderment as the bike shot up onto the pavement and sped off.
A second later the police car skidded round in pursuit, slamming into the front of the car as it passed, shattering one headlamp.
Inside the police car Constable Norman Davies was speaking rapidly into the two-way radio, giving the location of the unit and also attempting a description of the man they were pursuing. He gave the number plate, forced to squint to read it as the bike hurtled back and forth from pavement to road, swerving past both parked and moving cars alike. Davies also called for assistance and for an ambulance to go to the bank in the Haymarket; although he had not seen the carnage inside, it was standard procedure.
Besides, he and his companion, Ralph Foster, now hunched over the wheel in concentration, had seen the motorcyclist shot. Davies winced as he remembered the police car inadvertently running over one of the dying man's outstretched legs.
He was informed that other mobile units were in the area and closing in on the bike, and that routes were being shut off. The man, he was assured, wouldn't get far.
Foster spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming car, jolting the Rover up onto the kerb. The driver of the other car also struggled to guide his vehicle out of the way. The blue lights and the wailing sirens were remarkably effective in clearing a path through even the most densely packed traffic, thought Davies, still gripping the handset, one eye on the fleeing gunman.
'Heading for Leicester Square,' Davies observed as the bike roared on.
Fragmented phrases floated to him across the airwaves as the Rover hurtled on in pursuit.
'… closing in from Coventry Street…'
'… three dead… Haymarket…'
'… in pursuit… identity unknown…'
'… armed… dangerous…'
Davies couldn't agree more with the assessment of their quarry.
The bike was heading towards the junction of Panton Street and Whitcomb Street. Leicester Square lay just beyond.
From an underground car park ahead a van emerged, reversing in front of the bike. The rider didn't hesitate, merely gunned the engine and sent the Bonneville rocketing up onto the pavement once more, ignoring the two people who had just emerged from the Pizzaland on the corner. He struck one. The other managed to jump back but hit the window of the restaurant and the glass gave way. There was a loud crash as he fell backwards through the clear partition, sprawling across a table as glass rained down on him.
'Oh Christ,' murmured Davies.
The bike spun to the left again, up Whitcomb Street, still against the traffic.
Foster twisted the wheel and the rear of the Rover skidded on the wet ground, spinning round to slam into the side of the van. A jarring thud seemed to run the length of the vehicle, and both policemen winced, but Foster floored the accelerator and sped after the bike.
The rider did not once afford them even the most cursory glance. He was hunched over the handlebars, gripping the throttle, seemingly oblivious to the cars he sped past in the wrong direction. The wind streamed into his face, sending his shoulder-length hair flapping out behind him as he rode.
The street seemed to be filled with a cacophony of blaring hooters and shouts or screams as pedestrians found themselves forced to leap from the pavements as the Bonneville surged along, its rider oblivious to those he struck.
Ahead he saw a man snatch a child up into his arms and duck down beside a parked car, shaking as the police car also passed within a whisker of them.
Another police car was approaching from the left, lights and sirens joining its companion in a discordant melody.
The motorcyclist paused for a moment then sped off up Wardour Street, past the Swiss Centre, pursued now by two police cars.
'Units covering from Shaftesbury Avenue,' a metallic voice informed Davies. 'Give your position.'
He did just that, almost dropping the handset as Foster sent the car slamming into the side of a passing transit, sparks spraying into the air as metal grated on metal. A hub-cap came free, Davies didn't know from which vehicle, and went spinning across the road.
Many pedestrians had now stopped on the roadside and were watching the chase. Others walked on, ignoring it. More than one tourist hurried to take photos.
The Bonneville was speeding towards the traffic lights at the top of the street, leading into Shaftesbury Avenue.
They were on red.
'Right, you bastard,' snarled Davies.
The rider worked the throttle and gathered speed.
Still red.
The needle on the speedo of the motorbike touched sixty. The bike shot across the lights as if fired from a cannon.
'Keep going,' yelled Davies, watching the bike speed past an oncoming Sierra, causing the driver to brake suddenly. There was a loud crash as a Cortina close behind slammed into the back of the other car. The Sierra was shunted forward, rolling towards the onrushing police car.
Foster swung the car round and paint ripped from the rear of the vehicle as it scraped the front bumper of the Sierra. But they were clear of the crossroads, heading up Wardour Street now, the motorbike still trailing exhaust fumes, the police sirens still wailing. Behind them the second car had narrowly missed the pile up in Shaftesbury Avenue and it, too, was in pursuit. From a side street Foster glimpsed another motorbike, a white one.
A police bike.
One second was all it took.
One second of broken concentration, then he heard Davies screaming a warning.
As he looked back through the windscreen he saw a man step in front of him.
THREE
The police car was doing fifty when it hit the pedestrian.
The impact catapulted the man into the air where he seemed to hang, as if magically supported, for several seconds before crashing back to earth, bones splintered and blood pouring from several ragged gashes. He rolled over in the gutter and lay still.
Davies looked back over his shoulder to see that the second police car had pulled up and one of the officers was getting out to look at the luckless soul.
'Jesus, Jesus fucking Christ,' shouted Foster, his face a mask of horror and revulsion. 'I couldn't stop. I couldn't…' He was breathing heavily, his face as white as milk. Davies said nothing; he merely gripped the handset and watched as the motorcycle policeman cruised up closer to the fleeing Bonneville.
He was almost level with his quarry when the rider reached inside his jacket and pulled out the automatic.
'No,' shouted Davies, as if in warning.
