idea what was going on. Nor what the woman was doing spending so much time in the MG, fiddling about, with the Prius double-parked, blocking the street.
Then the woman climbed out of the car, and he saw that he was wrong, it was a bearded
Then he walked back to the Peugeot, parked a short distance away, and dialled PC Paul Packer’s number.
‘Hi, mate!’ Packer said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve found me car.’
‘OK. I’ve a slight problem for a couple of hours – I’ve been called to a job. Can you hang tight?’
‘For how long?’
‘Couple of hours, max.’
Skunk looked at the Peugeot’s clock. It was ten fifty. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait no more than that.’
‘Gimme the location. I’ll get it sorted.’
Skunk told him where he was. Then he hung up and turned to Bethany. ‘Get your panties off.’
‘I’m not wearing any!’ she said.
100
Grace checked his watch. Seven minutes past eleven. Then he glanced at the speedometer. They were doing a steady 135 mph. Lights streaked past; darkness rushed at them. He was concentrating on the cars ahead, trying to keep Glenn out of trouble. As they closed on each vehicle, he tried to check whether it was a police car. It was hard because there were so many unmarked patrol cars used on this stretch of road, but he knew some of the tell-tale signs to look for – two figures in the car, a clean, late-model four-seater and external aerials were the best clues – and he also knew there weren’t many out late at night – there was a preference for marked cars then, a visible police presence.
He was already going to have to pull some strings – not an easy task when the police were under ever- increasing public scrutiny – to avoid Branson getting fined and points on his licence for the four Gatso cameras that had double-flashed them on their way out of London. Four cameras, three points each – maybe even more for the speed at which they had hit a couple of them. At least twelve points on his licence. An instant ban.
He grinned at the thought, imagining his friend’s protests.
‘What’s funny?’ Branson asked, having to raise his voice above the Bubba Sparxxx rap song that was playing at maxed-out volume on the radio. ‘What you grinning at?’
Grace was tolerating the din because Glenn had told him he needed the music to
Eight minutes past. They were well beyond Junction 8 and Junction 9 should be coming up at any moment. He scanned the dark road ahead for the signs.
‘Your life? I thought your life was just sad. Didn’t realize it was a comedy.’
‘Just drive! I’m having one of those – what do you call them? –
The big blue and white sign for the Gatwick airport turn-off and the Junction 9 marking were now looming ahead. They hurtled past. A short way in the distance Grace could see the silhouette of the flyover across the motorway.
Thirty seconds later, as they passed under it, Grace’s eyes swung from his watch to the car’s milometer. ‘OK, you can slow down now!’
‘No way!’
Bubba Sparxxx ended, to Grace’s relief. He leaned forward to turn down the volume, but Branson protested. ‘It’s Mobb Deep coming on next, man. He’s like well out of your depth, but he’s my kind of music.’
‘If you don’t slow down, I’m going to find some Cliff Richard!’ Grace threatened.
Branson slowed down, a fraction, shaking his head.
For a moment, Grace tuned out Branson and his music and concentrated on some mental calculations. They had covered just over twenty-eight miles from outside Bishop’s apartment building in Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill, some of which was through built-up, urban areas and some on dual carriageway and motorway.
There were a number of different routes that Bishop could have taken, and analysis of all speed cameras and CCTV cameras covering them might in time reveal the one he had chosen. There had been some heavy traffic coming out of London, and Grace knew that on different days, at different times, you could be lucky or unlucky.
