by Jack Slater
‘Uh… Which one?’
‘Shafiq Ahmed. I need to talk to him about a friend of his who’s sadly died.’
‘Oh. Well… in that case, I suppose…’ He heard the tapping of a keyboard as he reached the bottom of the stairs and let himself through into the back corridor. ‘He’s on the taxi rank on Sidwell Street at the moment. Shall I let him know you’re on the way?’
That was the last thing Pete wanted. ‘No, best not. It’s kind of delicate, you know? Best approached in person. And if he’s on a rank, I don’t want to cause any unnecessary problems.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Thanks, anyway. I’ll see him shortly.’ Pete ended the call, hoping she wouldn’t contact Ahmed regardless. Not that he suspected the man of anything, but it was always best to catch someone off-guard. You got a much more honest response that way.
Sidwell Street was a narrower continuation of the High Street, leading up to a roundabout on the inner ring road, just past the multiplex cinema. The taxi rank was nearer to the High Street end, outside a supermarket. Pete approached from the city end of the street, coming up behind his target. There were only four cars in the rank when he got there. As he approached, he could see Ahmed’s black Prius, second from the front. He pulled up behind the fourth car in the line, a white Skoda saloon, and stepped out. Crossing to the pavement, he drew out his warrant card and showed it to the man in the Skoda as he walked past. A young woman with a pushchair and several carrier bags of shopping had emerged from the supermarket and was approaching the cab at the front of the line. Pete heard an engine start. He passed the third taxi, warrant card still in hand, its leather cover closed.
Ahmed’s engine was idling.
In front of him, the young woman opened the rear door of the leading taxi as the driver stepped out to help her. Pete tapped on the roof of Ahmed’s car and leant down at the open passenger window.
‘Shafiq Ahmed?’
Something flashed in his eyes. ‘Yes.’
He held up his badge. ‘DS Pete Gayle. I need to talk to you about…’
Ahmed’s head turned quickly away. His hand flicked the selector in the central console as his foot hit the accelerator and the car’s engine roared as it lurched away.
‘Shit.’
Pete turned, tucking his warrant card away as he ran for his own vehicle. Jumping in, he started the engine with one hand while the other hit the blues and twos in the front grille and the back window. He slammed it into reverse, shot back a few feet, then launched himself after the fleeing taxi, which was already too far ahead.
If he reached the roundabout before Pete closed the gap, he could go anywhere. Pete would have lost him.
Sirens blaring, engine roaring, Pete sped up the narrow street as the black Prius shot across the crossroads up ahead and on towards the big cinema.
What the hell was the bloke thinking? Clearly he was scared, but why? What had he done, that he would be scared enough to leg it from the police on sight?
There was nothing in his recent record: just the drug conviction from a few years ago. So, was he still dealing? Was that the reason?
Pete crossed the junction with York Road. He had gained maybe thirty yards on Ahmed, but the taxi was still over a hundred ahead of him and fast approaching the Blackboy roundabout. He jammed his foot to the floor. Reaching for the radio, he keyed the mike. ‘DS Gayle. In pursuit of suspect Shafiq Ahmed, headed north-east on Sidwell Street. Report any sighting or stop and detain if possible. He’s driving a black Toyota; registration…’ He glanced down and read it off Dave’s note as the Prius was still too far away to read the plate itself. ‘Driver wanted for questioning regarding the murder of fellow taxi driver, Ranjeet Singh.’
He released the mike and concentrated on the road ahead and on the black cab as it entered the roundabout. He had to try and see which way it went. There were too many options from here. He could go north towards Pennsylvania or Stoke Hill, north-east towards the County Showground and Beacon Hill, east on the Pinhoe Road, or even cut back south through Polsoe or down the Western Way.
The black car vanished from sight into the traffic on the roundabout.
‘Shit.’
One option down: he wasn’t going north.
Pete slowed as he approached the roundabout, scanning the roads to his right.
There. Was that him? A black car was heading north-east up Blackboy Road. But then the car behind it slowed to turn right, letting it pull away, and he saw it wasn’t the right shape.
‘Dammit,’ he muttered, following the flow around. He had to be going down Western Way then. Pete pushed through the late-afternoon traffic, using his lights and sirens, and accelerated south down the main road.
Free of the bulk of traffic on the roundabout, he pushed the Ford hard. In seconds, he cleared the long right-hand curve and could see down to the roundabout at the end of Heavitree Road.
There was no black Prius.
‘Bastard!’ He slammed the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. Ahmed must have gone all the way round the Blackboy roundabout. He could have gone back down Sidwell Street or carried on round again and gone anywhere. ‘Shit.’
Easing off the accelerator, he killed the lights and sirens and keyed the radio again.
‘DS Gayle. Subject lost. Repeat: subject lost. Any unit seeing the car or driver, please report and apprehend. If an excuse is required, use the traffic violation of going twice round Blackboy roundabout. I need officers attending his home address and the office of City Cars urgently.’ He quoted both addresses, released the microphone button and used the Bluetooth to make another call to City Cars. The same girl answered.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Gayle,’ he said. ‘Did you speak to Shafiq Ahmed after I called you?’
‘Uh… no. You said not to. Why?’
He turned left into Heavitree Road. The traffic was queueing solidly down towards the roundabout but his side of the road was clear.
‘Because he saw me and sped off. Dangerously. Which makes me wonder why. So, as soon as you see him or hear from him, I want to know about it. Clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Another taxi driver was murdered four days ago. A man Shafiq knew. When I spoke to you before, Shafiq was just someone I needed to talk to about the victim. His flight now makes him a suspect.’ He made the turn into the station car park.
‘In a murder?’
‘Exactly. So, as I said: as soon as you know where he is, we need to. Failure to adhere to that would make you an accessory after the fact. You’d be charged with aiding and abetting a suspected felon.’
‘There’s no need for that! I’ll call. I promise.’
‘Good. 101 and ask for me. It doesn’t matter what time.’
‘All right.’
Pete ended the call and took his phone with him into the station. Heading through the custody suite, he was stopped by the sergeant on the desk.
‘Pete. It just came over the radio. That cabbie you’re after – he was seen turning west at Eastgate.’
So, he had gone full circle and back where he came from, using the traffic and the size of the roundabout to hide from Pete. ‘Is anyone in pursuit?’
‘No, it was a foot patrol that saw him.’
‘Gimme the radio.’ Pete reached over the high counter for it. ‘All vehicles, all vehicles, this is DS Gayle. Suspect vehicle spotted west-bound on New North Road from Eastgate. Stop and apprehend. Repeat: stop and apprehend.’ He reached over again and replaced the handset on its clip. ‘Cheers, Bob.’
There was little point in rushing out again. The man could have gone anywhere from there.
The radio hissed again abruptly. ‘Papa Charlie 4072 for DS Gayle. Did you say black Prius, registration ending yankee Charlie foxtrot?’
Pete exchanged a look with Bob, who passed him the handset. ‘Affirmative.’
‘Just spotted, headed north into St David’s. In pursuit.’ Pete heard the sirens just before the transmission cut o
ff.
‘Received. On route.’ Pete passed the handset back again. ‘Change of plan. Again.’ He hurried out and back to his car. Starting the engine and the lights and sirens, he headed out as fast as he safely could, passing the traffic queue on the wrong side of the road and heading straight over the roundabout and up past the city council offices towards Eastgate and the New North Road. He was far enough back that he would be able to turn off as soon as the pursuit car told him which way to go.
As if on cue, his radio hissed. ‘Subject turned right, right, right onto Cowley Bridge Road. That’s northbound on Cowley Bridge Road.’
Heading out of the city, Pete thought. Of course, there were plenty of places he could turn off and cut back, maybe hoping to evade pursuit in the side streets if he knew them well enough. Which, given his job, he should do. Or maybe he was planning a long way around back to where he lived. There was a turnoff just up the Crediton Road that led all the way back down through the area where he lived. He keyed the mike again. ‘DS Gayle. Is anyone attending the suspect’s address in St Thomas yet?’
He reached the roundabout and turned left past the prison.
‘Papa victor zero seven. On route, Sarge. Four minutes out.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled. He might be planning to cut back down through Exwick.’
‘Received.’
As Pete slowed again for the clock tower, the radio hissed again. ‘Subject turned right, right, right into West Garth Road.’
So much for looping back homeward. Pete put his foot down, passing the sixties-looking art college on the left, followed by the technical college. He pictured the black car’s location in his mind, streets of seventies- or eighties-built redbrick houses, many with their own garages, looping around and feeding off each other before emerging onto Wreford’s Lane.
Pete pressed the Transmit button again. ‘Received. Continue pursuit. I’m two minutes behind you.’
Hopefully, Ahmed was going to try to be clever. If so, he’d come unstuck if Pete could get there in time. His sirens seemed to get louder as he emerged onto Cowley Bridge Road, passing the low, brick-built flats on the left. Now he had walls on either side of him, the road feeling uncomfortably narrow at the speeds he was travelling. Cars and vans pulled over to let him through. Moments later, he passed the filling station on his left, a cyclist pedalling past it. He checked the mirror briefly. The cyclist had set one foot to the pavement as he wobbled in the unmarked car’s unexpected slipstream.
The radio sounded again. ‘Papa victor one two one. We’ve just turned onto Wreford’s Road from Pennsylvania. If he comes this way, we can stop him.’
Pete reached for the mike. ‘Thanks, Papa victor one two one.’
‘Papa victor zero seven, arrived at target’s address.’
‘Don’t crowd him, papa victor zero seven. Let him stop and get out of his vehicle, then apprehend.’
‘Will do.’
Pete touched the brakes gently, slipping down the gears on the approach to West Garth Road.
‘Subject turned left, left, into Ridgeway. Now approaching West Garth again.’
Would he meet him at the top of the hill? He made the turn. Keyed the mike. ‘Turning into West Garth now.’
‘He’s gone left, left, towards Wreford’s.’
Pete could hear the other car’s sirens up ahead now. He put his foot down once more up the hill, the road curving left then right.
‘Left, left,’ came over the radio again. Would they trap him between two cars on Wreford’s Lane? Surely he was planning to head for Pennsylvania and back down into the city?
‘Left, left. Subject turned left, left on Wreford’s Lane.’
‘Shit,’ Pete cursed.
He was doubling back.
Pete stopped at the end of a side road, reversed in and turned the car around, heading back down the hill, the way he’d come.
‘Papa victor one two one, I can see papa Charlie four zero seven two ahead.’
‘I’ll be coming up Cowley Bridge Road to meet him,’ Pete told them.
‘Right, Sarge.’
He slowed at the bottom of the hill. The sirens were a warning to other road users, but you couldn’t guarantee their reactions. Seeing it was safe, he pulled out, turning right. Now, hopefully, Ahmed was coming back around in a loop and they could trap him between them.
‘Jesus, that was close! Turning right, right, right onto Cowley Bridge Road. Subject nearly got taken out by an artic. Barely missed it. Shit! Lorry skidding across the junction: possible jack-knife.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Pete muttered. How lucky could this bastard get?
‘Whoah! Two northbound cars on the pavement. I see his wheels turning.’
Pete was slowing as he approached the location. He could hear the juddering screech of tyres on tarmac. The lorry’s engine roared as the driver tried to pull it back in line. Now he could see the big truck in the distance, trailer bouncing. Car tyres squealed as brake lights lit up, more vehicles mounting the pavement, trying to avoid the struggling lorry. It straightened on the wrong side of the road, then eased back over to the left carriageway.
‘Target visual lost. You take the Stoke Road, we’ll go left.’ He heard the patrol cars continuing the pursuit. Saw the flash of blue lights beyond the slowing lorry.
The road wasn’t really wide enough here for the guy to stop without causing traffic issues, but Pete couldn’t blame him for doing so. He buzzed his window down and raised a hand in salute to the shocked driver. Passing him, he saw that, although four cars were up on the pavement, the only damage was a crushed bollard in the middle of the road on the approach to the roundabout beyond.
Which had probably helped the driver regain control, Pete guessed. It was still an impressive bit of driving, though.
‘No visual on the target,’ came over the radio as Pete reached the roundabout. ‘Repeat, no visual on the target.’
He recognised which car was transmitting. ‘Carry on up the Crediton Road, papa Charlie four zero seven two,’ he said into the mike. ‘I’ll take the left onto St Andrews.’
‘Roger.’
‘And floor it, both of you. We need to find this guy.’
‘Roger.’
‘Will do.’
Both marked cars were gone from sight as Pete took to the wrong side of the road again to pass the four cars queueing up to the roundabout, then cut left and over the bridge. Seconds later, he hit the brakes hard and swung left into the narrow, rural lane that cut back south between high hedges and stone walls, broken here and there by field gates and the occasional farm house. He accelerated again, determined not to lose the cabbie. The road swept left and right through dips and rises. Only just over one car wide, passing places were few and far between, the tarmac damp-looking in the shadows of the overhanging trees and uncut hedges. Headlights on to increase his visibility, Pete pushed the car as hard as he dared. Now and then the road straightened out so he could see a couple of hundred yards or more, but he never glimpsed the black taxi. His radio was quiet. The two patrol crews would be concentrating hard, covering ground at least as fast as he was. Faster on the wider main roads.
Ahmed had only a few options from the Cowley Bridge junction. One of them had to spot him and catch him, surely.
The entrance to a narrow track flashed past on Pete’s right, then a junction showed ahead. A small roundabout where the road split, the left fork continuing down through St Thomas, where Ahmed lived with his wife and two daughters, the right one looping up the hill and around, ultimately back down to join the main route after passing through a widespread and convoluted area of suburban housing.
Pete slowed the car.
Which way? Would Ahmed go for speed or trickery?
‘Shit.’
In the end, he had only one choice. He had to hope the taxi driver had opted for speed. If not, he could be anywhere, but if so, Pete might stand a chance of trapping him between himself and the car waiting for him in St Thomas.
&
nbsp; He took the left fork, accelerating hard. Fifty yards further and the road curved left. He saw a bus stop, a woman standing beneath it. He made a flash decision, hit the brakes and killed the siren. Winding the side window down, he leaned over. ‘Excuse me. Have you been there long?’
She was in her fifties, he guessed. A large woman in slacks and a dark blouse with tiny white polka dots. She leaned down to see his face. ‘Three or four minutes. Bus is due any time now.’
Pete hadn’t passed one, so he guessed it must be coming around through the residential area – you couldn’t call it an estate and it certainly wasn’t a village. ‘Have you seen a black Toyota Prius come by? A taxi? He’d have been driving fast.’
She shook her head. ‘Not since I’ve been here.’
Damn!
‘OK. Thank you.’
He wound the window back up and drove on more slowly. There was no point turning around to search the maze of streets and cul-de-sacs off to his right. The taxi could be anywhere. He keyed the radio. ‘DS Gayle. Any sign of the target vehicle?’
The first reply came. ‘Not on the Stoke Road.’
Then the second. ‘Crediton Road’s clear.’
Bugger. He’d gone to ground somewhere. There was only one chance of finding him now. He keyed the radio again. ‘OK. Thanks, guys. Papa victor zero seven, do you still have his house under observation?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Annie opened the front door as he locked the car and stepped away from it. ‘Daddy!’ She was actually bouncing with excitement. Then she paused, eying the package under his arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘A hard disc drive.’
‘What for?’
‘That’s a surprise. And not for you.’
‘Dad!’
‘In. I’ll tell you in a minute. How was your day?’
‘Good. We sa…’ She stopped, realising she’d said more than she wanted to.
‘You what?’ Something had got her excited.
‘We… I wanted to let Mum tell you.’
He stopped. ‘Tell me what?’
She slumped, deflated. ‘We went to see Tommy.’
