by J. D. Weston
Harvey made his move.
In four long steps, he made it to the car door and tore it open with his right hand, reaching in with his left.
But in that terrible moment as the door opened and daylight lit the interior, Harvey saw the old man at the wheel, he saw the look of horror on his wife’s face, and he realised his mistake.
It was the wrong Jaguar.
“What the bloody hell!” said the old man, but Harvey slammed the door and straightened to see Julios a few meters from the gate walking toward him and pulling a weapon from inside his jacket.
It was wrong. It was all wrong.
Julios gave him a quizzical look and removed his hand from inside his jacket just as the driver of a sleek, black Jaguar beside him gunned the engine. The rear wheels sprayed gravel, the front end raised with the torque, and the Jaguar shot through the gates with its tyres squealing on the country lane.
The sudden burst of energy caught Julios by surprise. In a flash, he saw the Jaguar beside Harvey, saw the Jaguar speeding away, and knew Harvey’s mistake.
He fired three shots after the car, but to little effect. By the time the car had disappeared from view, Harvey was beside him.
“Where have you been, Harvey?” said Julios, his voice low and bitter.
“No time. Give me the gun.”
There was a second-long delay while Julios searched for something in Harvey’s expression, and noted the unbuttoned shirt. Harvey revealed nothing. He held out his hand in urgency. Julios made the gun safe, then slapped it into his palm.
“I’m going after the Jaguar,” said Harvey, and he ran towards his little cottage beside the gates.
He opened the garage door, tore the cover off his motorcycle, and started the engine, giving the oil time to heat while he pulled on his helmet. Then, before he climbed on, he ripped off his suit jacket and pulled on his old, leather biker jacket.
He revved once, hearing the growl of the engine in the confined space, found first gear, and shot from his garage and through the gates, leaving the chaos behind him. He reached the end of the narrow lane in a few seconds, where there was a T-junction. To his left, he saw the tail end of a black car disappear around the long, sweeping bend at least half a mile away. The main road connected Theydon Bois with a neighbouring village, Abridge. It was a three-mile stretch of wide and winding road, and Harvey was already nearly a mile behind.
He glanced right to find the road clear, revved the engine, and put the bike to work. The Jaguar, with its four-point-two litre V8 engine would have the power to outrun Harvey’s BMW GS1200. But Harvey knew the roads. He knew every bend, bump, and pothole, and could take the road at close to full speed. If the Jaguar reached Abridge before Harvey, the driver could turn left or right, and Harvey would lose them for good.
Harvey worked through the gears, watching the rev counter, checking the road, and searching for a sign of the Jaguar. He worked the bike, pulling as much performance from each gear, making each gear change fluid and fast to maintain the momentum. Every second counted. Every drop in revs or drop in power during the gear changes mattered.
There was a long downhill straight before Harvey passed beneath the M11 motorway, then the road snaked right and left in two long, sweeping bends. He emerged from the bend using all of the road and there, in the distance, was the Jaguar.
The driver was keeping below the speed limit, a sign that he was a professional. To be caught speeding after a shooting would risk being stopped by the police. In Harvey’s experience, only a true professional had the nerve to keep calm and avoid suspicion.
The BMW was not the fastest motorcycle, especially with the panniers and the back-box Harvey had added. He had bought the bike for the on and off road capabilities as well as the freedom of being able to blend in. Superbikes were heavy to handle, awkward, and turned the heads of far too many people. But with a few tweaks of the engine and exhaust and an upgraded suspension, Harvey’s bike was fast enough to catch most cars or, more importantly, evade the police.
He closed the distance to two hundred metres, but the driver must have seen him. The rear end of the Jaguar dropped as the driver kicked down and the powerful V8 roared into life. It was what Harvey wanted. The Jaguar was fast on the long straights, but clumsy and unwieldy on the bends.
He maintained the distance, gauging the driver’s ability, but as expected, he handled the power well. The long straight ended at Abridge with a small humpback bridge over the River Roding and a busy T-junction on the other side. But the driver seemed to either not know about the T-junction or was more skilled than Harvey gave him credit for.
Sensing a large collision, Harvey eased off. He couldn’t take the bridge and the T-junction in excess of one hundred miles an hour. At the last minute, the driver braked. At the crest of the bridge, he tore the wheel left, forcing the long saloon into a slide. He powered on again as Harvey followed, now just twenty metres behind. The driver controlled the slide, playing the steering wheel to keep the Jaguar under control, and the rear wheels kicked in under a riot of blaring car horns and shouts from other cars that had swerved out of its way.
Harvey pulled his clutch in, found second, and dropped his left knee, taking the sharp turn as fast as he could and relying on the chaos the Jaguar had caused to leave him space. He was already climbing through third gear when he straightened, leaning forward to keep the front wheel on the ground. The Jaguar was just one hundred yards ahead and accelerating just as hard as Harvey. The landscape passed by in a blur of green trees, yellow rapeseed fields, and the winding River Roding that ran parallel with the road. To Harvey’s right, the traffic in the other direction seemed to be moving in slow motion. The colours of the cars were the only discernible detail.
And then there was the flash of blue lights.
Harvey pushed down harder, crouching as low as he could behind the tiny windshield, trying to gain distance inch by inch. His side mirror vibrated with the speed so that any details were imperceptible, but he could see the blue lights at least half a mile behind him. The average police car would stand little chance of catching Harvey or the Jaguar at high speed, but they would call for back up and the road somewhere ahead would be closed.
He had to make the long straight to Stapleford count. It was less than a mile to the end of the road where a roundabout formed the junction. The Jaguar would need to slow from one hundred and forty miles per hour at least three hundred metres before the roundabout to hit it at a manageable speed.
Spying a gap in the traffic, Harvey moved into the opposite lane, anticipating the driver’s next move, which would be to slam on his brakes so that the bike crashed into the rear of the car.
Harvey’s bike crossed the dotted white lines just in time. Red brake lights flashed. The roundabout loomed ahead and the blue lights behind grew even closer.
Harvey shot past the Jaguar, braking hard, and fought as the bike snaked. He slid the rear wheel around and came to a stop at the entrance of the roundabout, giving Harvey just enough time to retrieve Julios’ gun from his jacket, pull back the slide, and fire three times into the wide-eyed driver.
Chapter Seventeen
“What did you find?” asked Myers, as he wound the car through the little maze of back streets, leaving Hussein’s house behind for somebody else to pick up where he had left off.
There was unfinished business there, and he hoped to be back at some point.
“Nothing an ordinary young man in his first rented home wouldn’t have. He was actually quite clean.”
“You thought he’d live like a slob?” asked Myers.
“Yes. Yes, I did. It’s a cliché, I know, but from what I found downstairs, he could have passed as a respectable guy. He took care of himself. Either that, or he didn’t use the place from day to day and only went there to…”
“To what, Fox?” said Myers.
“To use the spare room.”
“Nice idea, but I don’t think so. He was unemployed. He didn’t have much and fr
om what I saw, there were enough personal effects there for him to call it a home.”
Myers pulled onto the main road and flipped his notepad open to see the address that Allenby had mentioned over the phone. There wasn’t a house number, only a road name.
“Look up Coopersale Lane in the A-to-Z,” said Myers, and reached across her to pull down the glove compartment. “The thing you have to consider with men like Hussein, Fox, is that there’s two of them.”
Fox was flicking through the index of the little map book for the letter C but stopped when Myers’ statement registered. He saw her look across at him in his peripheral and kept his eyes on the road, indicating to take the next right.
“One of them,” he continued, “lives a normal life. Just an ordinary guy going about his business. He might have a hobby. He might have a few friends, but they know nothing of his alter ego.”
“You think the change is that distinct?” asked Fox, as she flicked for the right page number. “So Hussein was an ordinary guy but had this kind of Jekyll and Hyde thing going on?”
“Not quite Jekyll and Hyde, Fox. But he would have urges. The normal Hussein might even have been ashamed of the other Hussein. But urges are urges.”
He glanced across at her as she found the road and placed her finger on the page, then returned her attention to him.
“And when those urges come, Fox, it’s like a drug. A powerful drug. I think he sat there alone but the urges grew stronger. But he hated himself. And then, one day, the desires grew so strong he had to do something. He had to reveal himself. He had to show the other Faisal Hussein.”
Fox took a breath and exhaled long and slow through gritted teeth as Myers braked and joined a queue of traffic.
“There’s something I don’t understand, sir. If what Jennifer Standing said is true, and we have no reason to believe otherwise, then how did the suspect know that Hussein would be there? Unless, of course, he was with him when Hussein snatched her. But that theory doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Why?” said Myers, letting the car roll forward with the speed of the traffic. He opened the window fully and leaned out to see what the hold-up was, and saw the flashing blue lights, yellow jackets, and white-capped hats of traffic police.
“I don’t know. He just didn’t seem to be the type.”
Myers raised his eyebrows and gave her a look as if to question if she’d listened to anything he’d said.
“I know,” she said. “I know it takes all sorts. But I have a feeling. I can’t explain it. Hussein’s killer was-”
“An ordinary guy?” said Myers.
“No. No, not an ordinary guy. Far from it. But he just didn’t have that look. He didn’t look deprived. I think you were right before, sir. I think he’s a vigilante. Some kind of psycho that goes after sex offenders. I think he followed him.”
Myers smiled as Fox fell into his way of thinking, then braked to stop beside the traffic police. They had reached the front of the queue and saw ahead of them the twisted and smouldering remains of an expensive looking Jaguar on its roof. There was an ambulance at the scene and the fire brigade were wrapping up their hoses.
Myers flashed his ID.
“Anything we can do?” said Myers.
The traffic cop nodded a greeting and waved the car behind to go around them.
“Sir, do we have time for this? There’s been a shooting,” said Fox. Her concern, if Myers was correct, was based on what Allenby might have to say for their delay in arriving late at the shooting scene.
“Pull up over there, sir,” said the traffic cop, and he pointed to a space on the grass verge.
Myers did as he was instructed but felt Fox’s quizzical stare.
“We have a shooting three miles away,” said Myers to Fox. “And I don’t believe in coincidences.” He opened the door. “What happened here?” asked Myers, as they walked from the car.
The cop held the traffic back so they could cross the road, then waved a more junior colleague over to take his place keeping the traffic moving.
“The car was involved in a high-speed pursuit,” said the cop, and he pointed toward Abridge with a well-seasoned hand. “The car hit the roundabout side on and flipped.”
“How many casualties?” asked Fox, as they made their way toward the wreckage.
“One. The driver. Thankfully, there were no passengers.”
He shared a grim expression with Myers while Fox was looking at the scene.
If the officer had been younger and hadn’t held such a command over the scene, Myers may have been tempted to guide him and offer his insights into the crash. But from what Myers could tell, the traffic policeman was experienced. He talked with authority and a calmness that only comes from seeing hundreds of incidents and fatalities.
They approached the scene as two paramedics were loading the ambulance with a gurney. There was a sheet covering the body and their movements were slow and careful out of respect for the dead, as opposed to the urgency they might have had if the man had still been breathing.
“Take a look around the car, Fox. I’ll examine the driver,” said Myers.
“Don’t touch anything,” said the officer. “I have a forensics unit on its way.”
A fireman escorted Fox, a security measure to ensure she didn’t get too close to the still-smoking wreck. The traffic cop followed Myers and stood beside the rear doors as he climbed in.
“The officer in pursuit managed to pull him out before the fire took hold,” said the officer, as the paramedic pulled back the sheet to reveal the man’s face.
The victim was Asian. Blood and splinters of glass in his face made his exact ethnicity unclear. But what was clear was the hole in the man’s face.
“Why was he being pursued?” asked Myers, as he pulled the sheet back further and found two more holes in the man’s bruised and battered chest. “Was the pursuing officer armed response?”
“The pursuing officer is one of mine, sir. Traffic police,” said the officer. He flicked his head at the victim. “He was being pursued by a man on a motorcycle.”
Myers looked down at him. He covered the man’s face with the sheet again, nodded a thanks to the paramedic, and stepped down from the ambulance.
“And where is this motorcycle now?”
“The rider left the scene before the pursuing unit arrived,” said the officer. “They were travelling in excess of one hundred and twenty miles per hour. The pursuing unit was more than half a mile away when this happened.”
“Sir?” said Fox. “I found something.”
The two men approached her, and she dropped to a crouch in the grass twenty feet from the wreck.
Myers restrained his smile when he saw what Fox had found.
“We’re on our way to a firearms incident a few miles away,” said Myers to the officer. “I think you just found our suspect.”
Fox pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. She flipped the weapon over and, without picking it up, checked the safety was on. Myers was surprised at her familiarity with the gun and her approach to a crime scene. She barely touched the weapon but managed to release the magazine and hold it up with two fingers lightly gripping the very tip to avoid any fingerprints being disturbed. She bent and smelled the weapon in situ, then looked up at Myers.
“It’s a full magazine, sir,” she said. “This weapon hasn’t been fired.”
Chapter Eighteen
Skirting around the edges of fields and meandering through small forests, Harvey found a series of paths and trails that led him off-road back toward Theydon Bois. He came to a ditch at the edge of a field and cruised along the path searching for two things.
The first he found beneath an overhanging tree. The drainage ditch connected with another via a nine-inch pipe. It was deep enough for Harvey to hide the weapon inside, after he’d wiped it clean. He pulled in a few handfuls of mud to cover it. It wasn’t a permanent disposal, more of a precaution.
The second thing he was looking f
or was at the far edge of the field where two fields connected. The ditch had flattened out and there was a space for him to cross to reach the narrow country lane that led to the estate.
After a short stretch of tarmac, he rolled through the iron gates to a scene that was far removed from the grand wedding he’d seen earlier. It was hard to even know if it was the same estate.
Julios was on the gate. He nodded once to Harvey, who raised his visor and nodded back. It was all the information Julios would need to know that he had succeeded.
The last of the guests were being ushered from the grounds. And while Donny sat by Julia’s side with his head in his hands, John was focusing his attention on a man who was pinned to the ground by four of his men.
Harvey rolled the bike into his garage and closed the door. He crossed the driveway and the lawn and stopped beside Donny. In the distance, approaching sirens sang through the village below; their tune was a far cry from the quartet’s finesse.
“I’m sorry, Donny,” said Harvey, and placed his hand on his foster-brother’s shoulder. Donny dropped his hands to his lap, stared at Julia’s body, then looked up at Harvey through bloodshot eyes.
“Harvey?” called John from the other side of the lawn.
But Harvey held Donny’s stare.
There was loss in the stare. Nothing Harvey could say would ease the feeling.
“Harvey?” called John, for the second time.
Harvey nodded once to Donny and let his hand slip from his shoulder. All four of John’s men turned their heads to watch Harvey walk across the grass. John issued no command, but they all stepped back as he arrived and glanced at each other. They were fearful and loyal men, some of John’s best. But they knew their place.
The man lay flat on the ground. He tried to turn to see what had caused the men to let him go, but John’s foot pressed his face into the grass.
