The BMW bounced madly across the uneven road surface, losing the rear bumper in the process. He was vaguely aware of cars around him locking up and skidding. He ignored the cacophony of horns blaring at him in anger and fear.
After clearing the junction, Winston let out a loud whoop. His heart was beating like a jack-hammer as he ran a large forearm across his brow and blinked the sweat away from his eyes. Somehow, he had survived, and there was no sign of his pursuers in the mirror.
The badly cracked windscreen was severely affecting his view, and he suddenly realised that the right-hand bend he was entering was much tighter than anticipated. He slammed on the brakes to reduce the car’s frightening momentum, and the tyres screamed as they fought a losing battle to maintain traction. Turning broadside, the BMW eventually skidded to a halt, its engine stalling. Hands shaking, Winston was frantically turning the key in the ignition, trying to get the car running again when he became aware of the damned siren. His eyes immediately darted in the direction of the dreaded sound. “What the hell…!”
◆◆◆
Brian Johnson turned off the fluorescent lights in the divisional BIU at Whitechapel police station. He closed the door and trudged along the deserted corridor towards the lift. Everyone else was long gone. It had been a stressful day, and his head was throbbing. The two extra strong painkillers he’d taken an hour ago hadn’t helped in the slightest.
He waited impatiently by the elevators, massaging his neck to ease the dull pain that had formed there.
“Hello, Johnson.”
Johnson spun around, startled. He recognised the speaker at once and relaxed. “Oh, it’s you, sir. I didn’t realise you were still in the building.”
If Chief Superintendent Porter registered Johnson’s edginess he chose to ignore it. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture and smiled benignly.
Charles Porter was the Divisional Commander for Whitechapel. He was a short man, overweight but not badly so, with a politician’s charm and the watchful eyes of a hawk. A pair of metal framed spectacles perched precariously on the end of his beak-like nose. “You know, contrary to what most people around here seem to think, even the boss has to work late sometimes,” he said, wearily removing his flat cap to reveal a thick thatch of salt and pepper hair.
“Of course, sir,” Brian said quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Experience had taught him that it always paid to suck up to senior management, even when you didn’t really give a fuck.
“So, how’s it going?” Porter asked.
Johnson frowned. What was the old fool on about now? “Sir?”
“Your first murder enquiry: how’s it going?”
Johnson shrugged. “It’s early days, yet,” he said.
At that moment the elevator arrived and both men stepped in.
◆◆◆
Station Reception Officer Henry Boyden had just finished his tour of duty and was donning his coat when Johnson came into the front office. “Brian? What are you doing here?” he called. “Hang on a minute. I’ll walk out with you.”
Johnson grunted a surly acknowledgement and waited impatiently for the other man to join him.
“You only transferred out of here a few days ago, and you’re back already. Are you here on official AMIP business?”
“Yep, I’m working on that prostitute murder that happened yesterday.”
“Sounds nasty, have you got much to go on?”
“Nope, not yet.”
“Poor girl, is it right she was sliced up?”
”Yep, he gutted her like a fish. Serves her right for being a slut.”
”That’s a terrible thing to say,” Boyden admonished.
Johnson shrugged, and then sneered nastily. “I seem to remember that you were a bit partial to the odd hooker back in the old days, though I never understood why a good-looking bloke like you would want to pay for it.”
Boyden cringed. “Every squaddie in our unit occasionally went with prostitutes when we were stationed over in Germany,” he said defensively, “especially you. Anyway, that was years ago, when I was young, free and single. I’ll have you know I’m a happily married man now.”
“Whatever,” Johnson sneered.
They crossed the main road in silence. When they reached the council estate opposite, they stopped. “Need a lift?” Boyden asked. “My car’s only a few streets away.”
“I’m parked in there,” Johnson said, nodding into the estate.
“Are you mad? You know you’ll get it clamped if you leave it there,”
“I know,” Johnson snapped, “but as a civilian analyst I don’t get to drive police cars, so I’ve had to use my own vehicle to come over here just to spend a fruitless afternoon in your rubbish BIU, going through a load of out of date intelligence that has got me absolutely nowhere.”
Boyden seemed disappointed. “Why do you have to behave like such a wanker? You really ought to change your attitude, mate. You used to work in that BIU. A little loyalty wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Oh, I’m a wanker now, am I? You didn’t think I was a wanker when I got you a job, did you?” Johnson said, haughtily.
All Johnson had done was mention to him that the station was recruiting and he should consider speaking to HR if he fancied a change in career. Anyone listening to Johnson telling the story would be forgiven for thinking he had personally gone cap in hand to the Chief Superintendent, begging for a job on Boyden’s behalf.
Boyden rolled his eyes. “I’m very grateful,” he said patiently, “but that doesn’t mean I approve of you running your former colleagues down.”
“I should hope you are grateful. I went to a lot of trouble to get you in.”
“I said I’m grateful, Brian.”
Johnson nodded. Without saying goodbye, he hurried over to the old Vauxhall that was parked out of sight at the base of the flats. A sign on the wall said: ‘Residents only. Unauthorised vehicles will be clamped or removed. Fine £50’. He doubted anyone would pay attention to the old car. It blended into its surroundings too perfectly. He started the
