by Peter Helton
There was now no sign of them. He stopped, turned off the engine and lights. For a moment all he heard was distant street noise. The helmet didn’t help. A flicker of light and the sudden echoing amplification of a scooter engine’s whine from below and to the left. Of course, the underpass. Sorbie restarted the engine and rode fast along the snaking, dipping path, avoiding drifts of broken glass and sodden, slippery takeaway cartons.
Before the entrance of the tunnel he braked hard. Its square mouth gaped darkly. Around it huge spray-paint tags like heathen warnings, red, blue, black. Sorbie directed the headlight into the opening and flicked to full beam. The uneven concrete floor was puddled and strewn with litter, the grey tiled walls glistened with damp and the spray of mud. Halfway along the tunnel’s length sat a nest of sagging bin-liners spilling rubbish, beyond it lay the frame of a child’s bicycle.
Sorbie suddenly felt cold. Shouldn’t be going in there without back-up, not even on a bike. It’s what he would be telling any constable. But they had come through here and were getting away. Inhaling deeply Sorbie thought he could smell the sweet rotting fumes escaping from the rubbish bags. He shrugged off a shiver: what the hell. As he twisted the throttle the bike leapt forward eagerly. Just a few seconds and he’d be through it. Eyes fixed on the exit. The cavernous space boomed to the sound of his engine, amplifying it. Halfway through now. A headlight appeared just beyond the exit and halted. Black scooter, black-clad rider and pillion. He checked his mirror knowing what he would see: another headlight in the darkness behind. He braked too suddenly, the back wheel stepped out, but he caught it and came to a skewed halt in the centre of the tunnel.
Behind him the other scooter crept nearer. Gunning engines echoed as they sized each other up. Now much depended on how tooled up they were. There was no point in waiting until they both managed to get close to him. He had to joust with the one facing him. Sorbie moved the handlebars to direct his headlight and to line up the bike. The scooter’s lights were on full beam, making it hard for him to see. Engine fumes fogged the beams of light.
Then it began. Both scooters started their race towards him but he concentrated on the one ahead. The pillion was swinging something, a stick, no, too straight, a length of piping. ‘Ah, fuck. Fun and games.’ Sorbie closed his visor and revved up his engine. ‘Let’s do it then, you wankers.’
With the door pulled shut behind her the darkness was complete. While most of the lock-ups had a narrow slit of window on the wall opposite their entrance, usually covered with galvanized wire on the inside, not even a glimmer of the streetlight reached inside this place. Fairfield turned on her pen light. Its beam was woefully inadequate in this darkness. A big darkness. It was too feeble to reach the end of the lock-up but she knew that the window had been painted blind and partially blocked. There was a light switch on the wall yet she preferred to rely on the torch. One chink of light escaping outside might be enough to advertise her presence.
She knew she didn’t have much time. One or two of the lock-ups were in use at night. Someone might pass and notice the absence of the padlock on the hasp outside and decide to investigate. Or worse, call the police. As she let the beam of her torch travel over the high double row of shelving that ran along the centre of the cavern some of her determination evaporated. The place hadn’t changed much since the official search; if anything it was piled even higher with junk. A lot of this stuff had to have fallen off the back of various lorries but Mitchell’s paperwork had been quite convincing. And of course according to him whatever he couldn’t account for came from car boot sales.
Yet that was over sixty muggings and countless burglaries ago. Mitchell had had plenty of time to get careless and the bastard had complacency written all over him. She remembered it well. Fairfield opened a box at random. It contained a lava lamp with a Continental two-pin plug. The next was tightly packed with vinyl records, Abide With Me — Fifty Favourite Hymns, Christmas with Des O’Connor … The next box contained a jumble of cables and several clock radios. This could go on all night. There was no system here, it would take Mitchell hours to find a specific item unless he had a photographic memory. Most of it was junk too, he’d never afford the flat in Clifton and a Jaguar, however naff, on selling old tea kettles.
A rustling sound near her feet made her flash her light that way. A cockroach scuttled under the shelf. She moved on, glad she was wearing trainers. Towards the end of the space against the right-hand wall stood a large metal locker with double doors. She turned the black iron door knob and pulled. It opened quietly on well-oiled hinges yet the two shelves inside displayed nothing but oily rags, a few computer magazines and a chain of outdoor Christmas lights. A sudden eddy of cold air around her calves made her shiver and she closed the door.
Against the damp back wall stood a warped table supporting a grimy electric kettle, plastic bottles of water, a carton of tea bags and a tower of polystyrene cups. The plastic bin next to it was heaped high with used tea bags and cups. Fairfield examined a pint of semi-skimmed for freshness. It was well within its use-by date. A lot of tea was being drunk in these less than salubrious surroundings, half a stone’s throw from the cafe. It didn’t constitute a punishable crime but seemed a strange economy measure. Unless a lot of tea was being drunk outside cafe opening hours.
Fairfield prodded a few more boxes in the centre aisle. Strictly speaking it was she who was committing a crime here. This is where her stupid obsession with one unimportant lowlife had got her: standing in a mouldering lock-up with nothing but cockroaches for company. It was time to get out of here. It was definitely time to get a life. Perhaps she would go and take those lads up on their offer and have a quick drink in the pub. Or have a lot of quick drinks in the pub and leave the car. And should anyone ask, she could be an aromatherapist or a postie or something else people didn’t have issues with.
The sound of the neighbouring lock-up being opened up seemed unnaturally loud. Time to go. Fortunately, because the entrances alternated end to end, the neighbour would be unaware of the missing padlock on Ady Mitchell’s door.
Despite the thick walls Fairfield felt compelled to tiptoe along the shelves. Yet she was wholly unprepared for the sudden movement right by her side when the entire locker she had examined earlier swung inwards with a metallic groan. Light from the lock-up next door flooded in. Fairfield dropped on to the dusty cement and lay still. No wonder they’d never found anything in here. The two lock-ups connected.
Fairfield lay on the floor listening to the footsteps moving to the end of the lock-up. Water was being poured and the kettle began to hum. So far Mitchell had not turned on the strip lights, making do with what illumination fell through the hole in the wall from the lock-up next door. The increasing noise of the kettle gave Fairfield the confidence to retreat backwards, in a crouch, to the furthest aisle where it was practically dark. Reminding herself that she was on the right side of the law made no difference: she knew that if she was discovered it would jeopardize any chances of convicting Mitchell and put the brakes on her career forever. But she had to get a better view. Slowly she advanced up the aisle until she found herself opposite the open metal locker on the other side. Through a chink between boxes she could just make out a van parked in the lock-up next door. A greengrocer’s van. So that’s how it was done, it had to be. The scooters were launched from the van and, after the muggings, disappeared into the back of it. Greengrocer’s van … you wouldn’t even register it if what you were looking for was a couple of scooters.
Fairfield moved back to the darkest corner while Mitchell’s distorted shadow jumped jerkily across the back wall as he made his tea. Mitchell’s mobile chimed. ‘Yeah, what the fuck happened to you, where were you? I waited for you … Oh, for fuck’s sake. On a motorbike? What did you have to mess with him for? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Stay where you are and I’ll pick you up. What a complete fucking mess.’ A change of tone suggested the phone call had been terminated and Mitchell was on the move and
talking to himself now. ‘Fucking morons. Brainless stupid thugs. Psycho fucking junkies. You just can’t get the fucking staff.’
A scrape followed by a metallic groan and clang left Fairfield in darkness once more, yet breathing more easily. Almost immediately the van’s engine started next door. As soon as she was sure Mitchell had driven off she switched on her pen light and let herself out at the front. The original padlock clicked into place. She gave it a quick wipe, snapped off her gloves and walked towards the Railway Tavern. Even as she dialled the CID room’s number she was beginning to feel as though she had unexpectedly recovered from a long illness. There seemed to be more oxygen in the air, too. ‘Dearlove, just the man I was looking for. DI Fairfield. Listen, Deedee — yes, I know it’s the end of your shift but speed is of the essence here. Listen, I had an anonymous tip-off about the Mobile Muggers …’ She rattled off a list of what she wanted, from the officers required to form a welcome committee at the warehouses to an arrest warrant for Ady Mitchell. Then she tried DS Sorbie’s mobile and got a service message — his number was unavailable.
There was not much time for strategy. Sorbie’s bike leapt forwards, the front wheel briefly lifting as the acceleration pushed it towards his adversaries with a satisfying growl. The higher the speed the more stable the machine. He raced up through the gears. The overloaded scooter screamed towards him on the clear strip of concrete in the centre of the tunnel, the pillion brandishing a piece of lead piping in his right hand like a mace. Nothing in his left though, he was holding on with that. As the gap rapidly closed between the two machines each occupied the left margin of the centre as though traffic rules still mattered. ‘Tales of the unexpected, morons!’ At the last possible moment Sorbie cut across the oncoming scooter’s path, causing the rider to swerve to his right. His pillion swivelled to get a right-handed swing at him on the wrong side. It was enough. The scooter bounced into a pile of rubbish at 30 mph, spat off its passengers and crumpled as it slid along the wall.
For a few breathless seconds Sorbie’s own bike snaked and bucked in the rubbish until the wheels regained the tarmac of the path at the exit of the underpass where he braked hard. His hot breath had steamed up the visor. He flipped it up and looked back into the dusk of the tunnel. The other scooter rider was performing a wobbly turn, abandoning his crashed team mates. ‘No honour among thieves.’ His own turn was hardly less ragged but once back on tarmac there would be no contest. He’d kick the bastards off their scooter and run over their sorry arses if they still had a mind to get up afterwards. He stopped beside the crashed riders, noting with satisfaction that both of them remained on the ground. It looked like broken ankles to him. For a moment he hesitated. He had two in the bag, not a bad night’s work. But his adrenalin demanded the chase go on. These two wouldn’t scoot much for a while anyway. He left them lying in a cloud of his exhaust.
By now there was no sign of the other scooter. Back in the sodium light of the road he stopped again, visualizing the streets, putting himself in the other rider’s shoes. He rode off, sprinted along for a bit, then circled a roundabout, still thinking. He’d only get one shot at it … Then he knew: they’d be running north on Clanage Road then sneak back on the cycle path along the river. It was what he would do. He opened the throttle and dialled through the gears in pursuit. Traffic was light. Easily overtaking several cars he quickly reached the access point for the cycle path, a narrow stone bridge across the railway cutting.
Like magic their solitary rear light came into view after only a few moments on the cycle path. ‘Shouldn’t have stopped to chat, boys.’ They were running fast from the sound of the pursuing bike. Despite his efforts he lost direct sight of his quarry several times, such was the speed at which the fleeing rider negotiated the turns of the narrow path. Surely the guy had to crash out any second now even without his help? Should he let him go, return to the crashed riders and make sure of those two? He slowed down. Call an ambulance? They might need one. At least he hoped they needed one.
What was he thinking? They could use a bloody mobile and call their own. He speeded up again. Here the cycle path skirted the river which was at high tide and swollen from weeks of relentless rain. There was no exit until the harbour basin, they didn’t stand a chance, he would soon catch up, just had to concentrate now. Vegetation to the right, the river close to the left, Sorbie knew at these speeds there was little margin for error. He put a spurt on, getting flayed by the vegetation crowding the path. He nearly had them now, bouncing along at panic speeds. Sorbie opened the throttle further. Each time the fleeing rider looked over his shoulder to measure the ever-closing distance to his pursuer the scooter weaved dangerously on the narrow path. Nearby streetlights now illuminated parts of it and the dark, muddy waters of the turgid river. He closed the gap. Twenty … ten … five yards, this was it, he had them now. Sorbie got ready, his foot itching to deliver the kick that would destabilize the scooter. The pillion turned round, his face invisible behind the visor, but his panic obvious as he slapped the rider’s shoulder. The rider looked back and in doing so swerved right. Trying to straighten up he overcompensated and ran out of road. As the scooter carried rider and pillion over the water’s edge at over 40 mph each assumed a separate trajectory. The scooter buried itself in the black waters with a crash and hiss, followed by the rider’s somersault. The pillion hit the surface in a helpless tangle.
Sorbie braked hard then looked back. In the gloom he could see very little on the water. He turned and directed his beam at the crash site. The scooter had disappeared. One helmeted shape frantically splashed and thrashed about, shouting something. Sorbie turned off his engine but kept the lights on.
‘I can’t swim! Help! I can’t … fucking … swim!’
There was no sign of the second mugger. The helmet dipped under water, arms thrashed, a wordless scream. Even a proficient swimmer might have trouble swimming after a crash, clothes and boots heavy with water and wearing a helmet, probably injured. The figure bobbed up again, coughing, screeching. ‘Help me!’
Still no sign of the other one. And all that was holding this one up was probably the expanded foam in his helmet. Sorbie swung the handlebar to direct the light here and there but nothing was visible on the surface apart from bits of plastic debris from the scooter and the thrashing figure of the drowning man. He had sounded like a teenager. Now he was just gurgling and retching. Sorbie looked about him. Just when you needed some rubbish to throw in the water for the bastard to hold on to there was none around. He took off his helmet. ‘Ah shit.’ The black, oily water didn’t look inviting. ‘Tell me it’s nice and warm in there, you bastard.’ Quickly he shrugged off his jacket and grappled with the zips of his boots. He dropped them disconsolately just as the mugger’s helmet disappeared under the surface. ‘Oh shit. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.’ DS Sorbie jumped feet first towards the empty spot where the man had slid under.
Chapter Fourteen
Eleni. Gary loved the name. It suited her. A simple name, old-fashioned, unpretentious, yet classy. He was glad the new owners hadn’t insisted on renaming her. Not only would he have considered it bad luck for a boat to be renamed but a modern name would not have fitted a classic motor yacht like the Eleni. Laid down in 1915, completed in 1920, she was a gentleman’s yacht and every one of her seventy-three feet and seven inches a lady. Loved, abused and neglected in turn, she had been at home in the Adriatic, had languished in a lonely berth in the thirties, had seen action in WWII on harbour defence patrol and had survived a near miss off Dunkirk. Gary tapped the soft soles of his shoes on the wooden deck. Beautiful women had sunbathed here under tropical skies, soldiers had huddled here after having been picked off the beaches. Both tanning lotion and history had soaked into these planks and would stay sealed inside them now for as long as she stayed afloat, no matter who walked on them. He would miss her, missed her already. The refurbishment had taken six months and he had worked on her almost fr
om the beginning.
In the light of the setting sun the Eleni inspired nostalgic dreams. Here, moored at the very end of the harbour basin, surrounded by nothing but boat sheds and the gutted hulls of barges and houseboats waiting for a second chance for a useful life, it was easy to forget which century you lived in. You could lean back against the woodwork and dream.
Almost as soon as the press had finished scribbling notes and taking pictures of smiling people holding aloft glasses of champagne everyone had packed up and left. Gary was not important enough to have been invited along to the celebration dinner, only the project leader, engineer, vendor and new owners went. He himself, along with Dave the mechanic and Sharon the general dogsbody, had been given money to celebrate in the pub. But he’d declined and Dave and Sharon had left without him. All day sadness had crept up on him, and more than sadness. Not far below it nagged an irrational anger as though the yacht had been stolen from him. Sold into slavery. Like a beautiful woman the Eleni could inspire jealousy as well as love.
The fact they had chosen to celebrate in a restaurant rather than here, probably for fear someone might spill champagne on the polished fittings, simply added to his resentment. If they felt any real connection to her they’d have celebrated on board, started up her two Gardner engines and taken her out to sea, where she belonged. But the new owners were not really interested in her, she was a business tool now, to be used for corporate hospitality around Majorca. He wasn’t likely to see her again let alone be allowed on board. In the end he had chosen to remain behind and say a quiet, undisturbed farewell.
