But it isn’t an accident. A large, black SUV has pulled off the road and has mounted the pavement a couple of hundred yards away. Other cars are objecting and tooting their horns at this piece of insane driving. The doors open and two men in suits get out.
Even from this distance, I recognise one of them.
It’s Blond Hair.
18
A DANGEROUS DRIVER
I start running, swerving past the shoppers, workers and tourists and trying to keep the SUV in my line of vision. Sara and Rachelle are six feet away from the two men and don’t yet realise what’s happening. I could shout, but I know they wouldn’t hear.
They don’t waste any time. Blond Hair strides over to Sara and punches her just once, in the face. She drops instantly and he and his colleague drag her towards the vehicle, open one of the back doors and chuck her inside like she’s a sack of potatoes.
Rachelle starts screaming at them and Blond Hair’s friend grabs her hair and smashes her head against a shop window. Luckily the glass doesn’t break, but it looks like she’s out for the count.
I’m about fifty yards away now and I can feel the strain of sprinting in my legs and lungs. It’s a matter of seconds before I get to those bastards, but I can see both men have got in the vehicle and are now driving away. They’re heading in my direction and are accelerating hard in first or second gear.
Where the assault happened, people are confused and shouting. They gawp but don’t do anything, apart from an old woman who bends down to look at Rachelle.
I could do something insanely brave like jump onto the bonnet and hang on to the windscreen wipers, but I know that’ll be a waste of time. There isn’t much you can do with a vehicle this big and I’d be useless to Sara if I was wrapped under its wheels or unconscious or dead.
As it shoots past and changes lanes, Blond Hair gives me a quick, indifferent smirk, then gets back to the serious business of driving like a maniac.
There’s a lot of traffic about, and the SUV is having to constantly change lanes and overtake to make progress. This is not a good road for quick escapes. It cuts up two taxis, almost hits an elderly pedestrian and causes a red BMW to brake hard, receiving a long horn blast from the driver.
It drifts into the bus lane then screeches out again. They’re in a hurry to get away. I have no idea what they’re doing or where they’re going, but if I was them I’d want to get there before Sara regains consciousness.
Thanks to the vehicle’s size and aggressive driving tactics, cars and cabs are quickly getting out of the way, allowing them to make good progress. I can hear the low-gear roar of the engine and the constant blasting of their horn. I have to act fast. I need a car. I need a fast car.
I look to my left and do a rapid scan of the traffic. Three black cabs, a bus, a Ford Ka, a four-ton flatback lorry, a VW Scirocco, a Mini and a Volvo S60. No good. Then I see a jet blue Audi R8 Coupé. That’s it. Female driver and it’s slowing down at a zebra crossing to let a bunch of tourists across.
I run as fast as I can to the crossing and knock on the window, fishing a business card out of my pocket. My card doesn’t have anything on it apart from my name and mobile number, but it’s made from a thin, silvery metal with miniature micro-grills on the top and bottom and looks pretty damn cool, classy, sassy and impressive. At least I hope it does.
The power window comes down. She’s forty, blonde, red-framed glasses, grey business suit, dishy. The first thing I do is hand her my card so she doesn’t think I’m robbing her or trying to clean her windscreen.
‘Hi. This is going to sound insane. I’m a private investigator. My name’s Daniel Beckett. My client is Sara Holt the fashion designer. She’s just been assaulted and kidnapped. They’ve got a three-minute start in a fast, black SUV, which is heading south at some speed. Could you please give me a lift?’
She frowns and for a second I think she’s going to drive off. She looks at my card and looks at me. Someone honks their horn at her. Vital seconds are ticking away.
‘Sara Holt who designs for Maccanti?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get in.’
Well, that was easier than I thought it would be. I run around the car and get in the passenger side. The car smells of leather and perfume. Before I can get my seatbelt on, she puts her foot down and the acceleration is so great that it pins me back in the black leather bucket seat.
She’s a good driver, maybe even a crazy one. We make sixty as we bomb down Baker Street and I’m amazed she doesn’t hit anything.
She overtakes three cars on the inside using the bus lane and gets a chorus of complaining horns.
She cuts up an enormous coach and almost hits the back of a silver Mercedes, braking suddenly for a cyclist and rocking me forward in my seat.
My mouth is dry. She shakes my hand while steering with one finger on the steering wheel.
‘I’m Eve Cook. Pleased to meet you, Mr Beckett. Which one is it we’re following?’
For a second I can’t see the SUV and my heart sinks as I think we’ve already lost them. Then it reappears, having been momentarily hidden in front of a huge lorry. I point straight ahead so there’s no doubt.
‘There. That one. The black one.’
Another snarl from the engine and we’re about thirty feet behind the SUV. Under other circumstances, I’d make sure he didn’t know I was tailing him, but this is different and unavoidable. I can tell he’s spotted us as soon as he skips a red light and makes an illegal left turn into Wigmore Street. He wouldn’t bother with the risk if he thought he was clear. I feel my stomach lurch as Ms Cook swerves around a purple Mini so we can keep the SUV in sight. She turns to me and smiles sweetly.
‘Shall I go through the red light, too?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No problem.’
She overtakes a slow-moving Bentley in the inside lane and I hear the tyres scream as she makes a wide illegal left into Wigmore. Two cars coming the other way blast their horns at her, people shout and point, and I hear the unmistakable sound of one vehicle rear-ending another. Oh well; just minor collateral damage.
Blond Hair is already about two hundred yards ahead, but there’re no vehicles between him and us. Ms Cook puts her foot down again and we’re soon catching up. Despite wearing a seatbelt, I find I have a white-knuckle grip on a black leather handle that’s attached to the inside of the door.
He sails straight through another red light at the Wimpole Street crossroads and we follow, my driver narrowly avoiding being hit by a car transporter that hisses and rocks scarily on its suspension after a skilful emergency stop. People are looking at us now and this is getting too conspicuous. I suddenly feel nauseous.
I’m trying to work out where Blond Hair can be going. We can’t keep on trailing him closely if he continues to drive this recklessly and his driving brings a new meaning to the word reckless. Eventually we’re going to be in an accident and I can’t inflict that on this car or its driver. Being ex-police and almost certainly Met, I have to assume he knows London like the back of his hand, so that’ll make everything doubly problematic.
‘So what is Sara doing next season, do you know?’ says Eve Cook, noisily changing down from third into second for improved control. ‘I’ve heard whispers.’
I lick my lips so I can speak, while being rocked from side to side. ‘Well, she’s working on some Basquiat-inspired designs at the moment. Very colourful. Could you watch that…’
She narrowly misses hitting another cyclist.
‘Oh, marvellous. Have you seen the film about him? I’ve got one of her silk camisoles from last season.’
I can hear a police siren behind us. Probably nothing – we’ve only been at this for about thirty seconds. We continue along Wigmore Street at high speed, the engine screaming. Shocked pedestrians leap back onto the safety of the pavement.
The SUV takes a rubber-burning left turn into Harley Street, rocketing up the one-way system the wrong way. That�
��s all I need. We follow at speed, but Ms Cook is looking a little perturbed.
‘You know that we’re going up a one-way street the wrong way?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure I’m skilled enough to do this. Do you want to swap places?’
The SUV is fifty yards ahead. I watch with horror as it narrowly misses hitting a huge, slow-moving Rolls Royce head-on. A big green jeep swerves to avoid the SUV and crashes into a stationary Renault Clio.
There are a lot of car horns being sounded now and it’s hardly surprising. This insane manoeuvre tells me two things: he’s getting desperate and the one-way system in Baker Street was taking him away from wherever it was he’s trying to get to.
He’s also hoping that driving up here will be an effective way of getting rid of me, but I’m afraid he’s out of luck. A small florist’s van does a hard turn to avoid the SUV, then jams on its brakes when it sees us coming. The woman driving looks insane with fear and rage.
‘OK. Listen carefully,’ I say, leaning toward her. ‘Don’t worry about hitting anything. He’s clearing a path for us by doing this. Put your foot down and focus on getting right behind him.’
I look at the speedometer. We’re only doing forty, but when all the other traffic is heading towards you and panicking, that’s a fairly terrifying speed. A lorry loaded up with scaffolding narrowly misses scraping the side off us. I can see the driver swearing his head off.
I take my seat belt off and undo hers. ‘I’m going to count to three, then I’m going to slide across into your seat. You must slide across me at exactly the same time. The car will lose power for a few seconds but that’s not important. When you’re in the passenger seat, get your safety belt on immediately, OK?’
She nods. Her eyes are bright with the excitement. A car pulls out from a parking place at the side of the road, then suddenly changes its mind as the SUV charges past, followed by us.
‘Ready? One. Two. Three.’
Avoiding the gear stick, I grab the steering wheel with one hand and rapidly pull myself across into the driver’s seat, grabbing her waist at the same time and helping chuck her across to the passenger side.
For a second she’s on my lap and I can feel her suspender straps against my legs. Despite the situation, I can’t help noting the gym-hard firmness of her body, the tiny waist and the scent of whatever it is she uses on her hair.
We’re still in second gear, so the car slows down dramatically while there’s no foot on the accelerator. I correct that and soon we’re doing over fifty and avoiding the highly distressed lunchtime traffic once more. Two teenage girls point at us, but they’re soon a blur.
This is a wide road, but parking is allowed on both sides, so we’re basically dealing with two lanes. There’s a cab parked on my left. I have to get past it while avoiding the bright yellow Peugeot on my right that’s on its way to a head-on collision with us. I miss both with about two inches to spare on each side and take a deep breath to extinguish the big surge of adrenalin that my body just decided was an appropriate response.
I stay in second, playing the brakes against the accelerator from moment to moment in this breathtakingly mad obstacle course. My arms are straight, elbows locked, pushing against the steering wheel, my back pressed hard against the seat. If we avoid getting hit, it’ll be an absolute fucking miracle.
I’m barely aware of the trees, houses, cars, window boxes and road works that are flashing by on each side. In a millisecond, I spot three Japanese girls taking photographs of us with their mobiles and a scaffolder dropping his Starbuck’s coffee cup on the floor and swearing.
I keep my eyes burning into the back of the SUV, not giving him an inch of slack, speeding when he speeds, stopping when he stops, swerving when he swerves, avoiding when he avoids. I already feel exhausted.
‘Her camisoles are marvellous, though,’ Eve Cook continues, clicking her seatbelt on and readjusting her glasses. ‘I find the touch of silk against my body such a sensual sensation.’
The SUV screeches to a halt, face to face with a people carrier whose driver swears and refuses to budge. It reverses a few feet, almost hits a motorcycle courier and a surprised pedestrian and continues on its way. I just catch sight of Blond Hair turning and looking straight at me. He doesn’t seem concerned, but I bet he is. I’m catching up, but only because he’s created a slipstream that I can follow. He’s probably wondering where I got the car from. On my left, a woman in a fur coat has opened her handbag and is looking down into it. Bikes are tied against railings.
I still don’t know where he’s going, but it occurs to me that he must be heading towards Marylebone Road, where he can make a speedy escape to the west or east. He’s got to be stopped before then; though as yet I have no idea how I’m going to do it. I can’t really use offensive driving techniques with someone else’s expensive car and driving in a built-up area on the wrong side of the road makes it a virtual impossibility anyway.
‘Are you wearing any silk now?’ I say. What am I talking about? I really must seek therapy. I can’t help myself. An old black guy points angrily down the road, letting me know the proper direction I should be travelling in. Thanks for that.
‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ she says, crossing her legs. She’s wearing red high heels, the same shade of red as her glasses. Black stockings. I wonder if her suspender belt is red with black straps.
The SUV takes a hard left into New Cavendish Street and I follow. It’s a relief to be driving in the proper direction and I take another deep breath. Eve Cook runs a hand through her hair, looks at me and grins. She’s having fun and genuinely can’t give a shit about the car. Must be rich, I suppose. Or it’s a company car.
The speed of both vehicles is attracting attention from pedestrians who stare in amazement. The SUV rips past a cyclist so closely that he falls off his bike onto the floor and I only just avoid driving over his bike and him. There’re a couple of cars and a FedEx van up ahead of Blond Hair, but they’re not slowing him down that much.
Then, in a flash of inspiration, I take a tyre burning right into Wimpole Mews. Hopefully, he’ll check in his rear view mirror and wonder what the hell’s happened to me. The mews road is wide and totally empty. I put my foot to the floorboard and I’m at the other end in a matter of seconds. This is a great car.
I take a stomach lurching left into Weymouth Street to be met with the usual loud objections and flashing headlamps you find when driving up a one-way street the wrong way at high speed, but fuck it; I’m starting to be an expert on this now.
‘What is it you’re wearing?’ I ask Ms Cook. ‘You don’t have to answer if you feel it’s too personal a question. I mean – we’ve only just met.’
I zigzag around a silver Toyota Yaris and a black Range Rover.
‘Not at all. Remarkably, I’m wearing a pair of French knickers from Sara Holt’s Oread line. Are you familiar with it? Two seasons ago now. The softness of the silk is like a caress.’
Weymouth Street also has car parking on each side of the road, but unlike Harley Street, it isn’t quite wide enough for this kind of thing. I lurch to the right to avoid hitting a black cab, then swerve back to the left side to dodge a white Escort van. Eve Cook gasps, presses back into her seat and grabs my thigh. She has sharp fingernails, painted blood red.
As I pass Upper Wimpole Street on my left and jump a set of red lights that are facing the oncoming traffic, I’m gambling that I’m going much faster than the SUV, which had a couple of cars in front. I’m also gambling that he thinks he’s given me the slip.
The two cars waiting at the lights rapidly move forward at awkward angles to give me the space to get past them. Perhaps they’re used to this sort of thing around here.
‘No. I’m not really familiar with Sara’s lingerie lines, but obviously I’ll have more of an interest now.’ I keep forgetting that Sara is in the vehicle I’m in hot pursuit of.
I suddenly get the sensation that I’m in some insane, fast-movi
ng computer game like Gran Turismo, except I’m facing the oncoming traffic rather than racing against it. I continue in second gear, my knuckles white on the wheel, turning it with small economic movements.
I’m focussing on the cars I’m trying to avoid so intensely it feels like I’m hallucinating. I can smell the clutch burning. There’s a woman in a green top pushing a pram on my right. A man sprays the flowers in the window boxes on my left.
‘Do you mean you’ll have more of an interest because I’m wearing her lingerie?’ She turns to look at me, waiting for my reaction.
I turn left into Westmoreland Street, which is thankfully two-way, and accelerate until I’m doing over seventy. A private ambulance starts to pull out from the parking bay of a small hospital until I give it a long blast of the horn.
‘Well, that and the fact that I now know Sara.’
‘Oh.’ She gives a little moue. ‘Could you introduce me to her? I’d love to meet her.’
Right turn only at the end of this road. I can see a zebra crossing. I open both windows so I can listen out for the SUV. I hear its engine about twenty feet to my left. A blue Ford S-MAX and the FedEx van pass by.
‘Brace yourself.’
If this fails, Eve Cook will be the first casualty, not to mention her Audi R8. I’m depending on Blond Hair having good driving skills and speedy reactions. Let’s hope he has both. I’ll try and position the car so if he hits us, he’ll hit the rear and not the passenger door.
Ignoring the right turn command, I drive straight ahead as if I’m aiming for the dining room of the house across the road then jam the brakes on hard. We both jerk forward and then backwards in our seats and I’m surprised the air bags didn’t engage. I turn my head to the left and there’s the SUV bearing down on us fast. For a second, I think he’s going to hit us, but he screeches to a halt with a foot to spare.
There’s a big John Lewis delivery lorry behind him, so he’s blocked in. I pat Eve Cook on the leg, as if I’m just going to post a letter.
Death is the New Black Page 18
