The car rushed towards him on the wrong side of the road. With one hand shielding his eyes, which closed at the last second in anticipation of the impact, he yanked the wheel sharply to the right to avoid being hit as the car rushed past him with barely inches to spare.
A car with Anne Coburn sitting in the passenger seat. Thorne slammed on the brakes and watched in his mirror as the Volvo stopped at the end of the road and turned left. They were heading west.
He might have been wrong but he didn't think that either Anne or Bishop had seen him. Both had been staring straight ahead. Where were they going? He hadn't got room to turn the car round quickly. Without thinking, he ground the gearstick into reverse and put his foot down.
For the first few minutes, past the north side of Clapham Common, Thorne was happy to cruise along two or three cars behind the Volvo, watching for its distinctive rear lights, keeping it close. He was sure now that Bishop had no idea he was being followed. Thorne wanted to keep it that way and was content to maintain a relaxed pace. Let them get where they were going. Following procedure for once in his fucking life. Keep it safe, he thought. Keep it sedate.
Sedate. As the word formed in his mind, the car in front turned away giving him a clear view through the Volvo's rear window.
There was something very wrong with the picture. It took half a second and then he got it. He couldn't see Anne any more.
The car hadn't stopped he was certain of that. She had been there a few minutes earlier, her head against the window. There was only one explanation.
She had to be unconscious.
Things began to speed up in every sense. There was another car between Thorne and the Volvo. He tried to get past it as the traffic swung right on to Clapham Park Road, and as he overtook on the inside, he watched the Volvo accelerate away. It looked as though Bishop knew he was there after all.
Thorne had never been good at this. He'd been in plenty of pursuits but he'd never been the one with his foot on the pedal. Forty-five miles an hour, along busy built-up streets at nine o'clock at night in the driving rain was fucking terrifying.
Why would Bishop hurt Anne? Why now? Thorne knew he should call this in. There was no radio in the car.
His mobile was back at the flat. He thought about pulling over, using a payphone. By the time a unit picked up Bishop's car it might be too late. He had to keep following. Fifty miles an hour along Acre Lane. The rear fog- lights of the Volvo blinding, the horns of other cars blaring. Without taking his eyes off the Volvo for a second, Thorne switched tapes and turned up the volume. One type of music for another. Song replaced by sound. Melody by a pumping rhythm that seemed instantly to be emanating from inside his own head. The noise, the beat becoming a low, almost Zen-like hum, pulsing through his skull like the soundtrack to an arcade racing game. Focusing. The wheel vibrating beneath his fingers. The car in front. The target. Speeding down the hill now towards the lights and the cinema ahead and pedestrians shouting and the wheels squealing as they turn left much too fast on to Brixton Road.
And suddenly, Thorne knows where they're going. Brixton. SW2. He remembers the address from a page in his notebook. The page headed 'children'. Thorne's never been to this address but why on earth would he have?
Thorne knows now that, even with a warrant, he'd have found nothing at the house in Battersea. Where they're going now is Bishop's place of work. It's where he would have brought Helen and Leonie. A place to which he would have a key. A flat for which he helped pay the deposit. Somewhere almost certainly empty late at night if the occupant is working. Easily established with a phone call…
The beat and the speed increasing and rain lashing the windscreen, and Thorne's hands on the wheel guided solely by the movements of the two red lights ahead of him. His eyes fixed on those two red lights, which flash as the Volvo brakes suddenly, like the eyes of some sleek, dark monster, which roars and is away from him quickly as the Page Volvo jumps the traffic lights and he has no choice but to do the same.
From the corner of his eye he sees the blue and red of the traffic patrol car to his left, and a thousand yards further on the second one pulls out in front of him. The last thing he needs. A pair of fucking black rats, working in tandem.
As Thorne slowed down, hammering his fists on the steering-wheel, he watched the eyes of the dark monster ahead of him get smaller and smaller.
When the constable, a fat fuck with a pockmarked face and a walrus moustache, finally sauntered up to the Mondeo's passenger door, the first thing he saw was an ID pressed hard against the window. The first thing Thorne saw when he removed it was the smug look the constable gave to his colleague in the patrol car: Look what we've got.
– Thorne took a deep breath. This was going to be interesting. The walrus made a casual winding motion with his forefinger. Window down. Thorne counted to three and wound down the window like a good boy.
'Detective Inspector Thorne. SCG West.' There was no reaction. Thorne certainly hadn't been expecting a tug on the forelock and a polite 'On your way, sir', far from it, but this was going to be a bad one.
Age-old animosities. Uniform and plainclothes. Anyone and Traffic.
'Fifty miles an hour plus, through a red light, in the pissing rain. Not clever was it?' The estuary accent trying its very best to drip with sarcasm.
'I'm in pursuit of a suspect,' said Thorne, flatly. The constable turned casually to watch the traffic disappearing into the distance and smiled, the rain dripping off the peak of his cap. Thorne tried to keep his temper. 'I was in pursuit of a suspect.'
'You were driving like a twat.'
Thorne was out of the car, the red mist ready to come down. 'Is this how you normally deal with members of the public?'
Another sly smile, another glance to his mate in the car.
'You're not public, are you?'
Thorne stood, staring straight ahead, the rain running down the back of his jacket. He thought about the killer's first note again. He thought about Anne lying across leather seats, unable to move. Bishop was probably playing classical music… Fuck, they'd probably be there by now. Jesus fucking Christ…
'Have you been drinking, sir?'
'What?' Starting to lose it.
'Simple enough question. You fuckers obviously think you're above the law'.
Thorne grabbed his jacket, spun him round, and pressed him hard against the car, sending his cap tumbling into the gutter.
From the corner of his eye, Thorne Could see the other one step out of the patrol car. Without even turning to look, he shouted through the rain, 'I'm a DI, now get back in that fucking car.'
The walrus's mate did as he was told. Thorne turned his attention back to the man himself, leaning in close, the rain beating down on the two of them, nose to nose at the side of the road. Passing cars honked their approval, the drivers of Brixton pleased. to see a copper getting what was coming to him from an innocent motorist. Thorne raised his voice just enough to make himself clearly understood over the noise of the rain, spattering off the PC's reflective plastic tabard. 'Listen, you fat, scabby arsehole, I'm getting back into my car now and driving away, and if you so much as raise an eyebrow, you'll be pissing blood for a week. That was a threat. The next bit is an order. Are you following this?'
The walrus nodded. Thorne released his grip but only slightly. 'This is an instruction, understand? Get back into your car right now and get on your radio. I want you to contact someone at Operation Backhand out of Edgware Road. You need to get hold of DC Dave Holland…'
In my dream I'm running.
It's nowhere dramatic. Not across a cornfield or through the surf on a storm-lashed beach or anything. And I'm not running towards anybody. There's nobody in the distance with arms thrown wide, aching to kiss me. Not a soldier returned from the war or a film star. Not Tim. It's just me.
Just running.
It's funny because I've always hated running, always done whatever [could to avoid it. Skinny little legs and knock knees.
