by Steve Reeder
“’Ere,” he shouted with indignation. “I told you to wait here.”
“Bugger off,” I shouted back at him and when he didn’t let go I butted him in the face. He went down, poleaxed and bleeding profusely from his nose. Before anyone else could interfere, I was back on the road going hard, the rear tyre spinning as it fought to find grip - when it did, the front reared up like a mechanical stallion.
The M26 on-ramp was coming up a kilometre ahead. The motorway went right towards Maidstone and Ashford and left towards Sevenoaks and eventually London. I could see the motorway from the road I was screaming down and was surprised to catch sight of the van going towards Ashford. At least I knew where they were and that I was on their trail.
A half a kilometre to the turn now and there were three cars ahead of me and one coming the other way. I couldn’t afford to lose any more time so I moved into the centre of the road and hoped no one would do anything silly.
I missed the car coming towards me but hit the mirror of the middle car on the left with my hip, sending a searing pain up my side. The mirror broke off and clattered onto the road. A siren immediately began shrieking behind me. The middle of the two cars was a police cruiser, now minus a mirror on the driver’s side.
Blue roof lights flashed as he tried to keep me in sight. It would not be easy for him, but I hoped he could manage it. When I caught the van I would need all the help I could get.
I reached the turn for the motorway and the traffic was kind to me. Turn right, short blast under the motorway before braking hard. Right again and I was accelerating up the on-ramp. The police cruiser was fifty to sixty metres behind me, all squealing tyres and over revving engine. This guy could drive.
As I rocketed up the on-ramp I could see the cars on the motorway above me on my right. Judging the traffic just right I slotted into the slow lane; threw a glance over my right shoulder and accelerated past the car ahead into the right-hand lane. Within seconds I was doing a hundred and fifty plus, and still accelerating. Cars seemed to flash past me in reverse. The van couldn’t be much more than two kilometres ahead now. The problem was that there was an off-ramp for the Medway and Chatham road not far past that. Would I have them in sight before then?
The cops behind me had been on the radio. Ahead of me, perhaps twenty cars ahead, was a second police cruiser, blue lights flashing and siren howling. He was travelling slower than I was, but not by much. The traffic ahead was scattering, creating a pathway for me in which he hoped to catch me. I closed on him within seconds and ignoring his attempts to halt my headlong flight, I slipped past him on the yellow line doing two ten plus. Two cars full of beefy policemen were just what I needed. I was outnumbered three to one by the guys in the van, and at least one of them had a gun.
The off-ramp was within sight now, but the van wasn’t. Decision time; do I carry straight on or take the exit? And if I do turn, which way do I go; left or right?
Straight on, I passed the beginning of the off-ramp then purely by chance I caught sight of the blue van going left towards Medway village. I grabbed a handful of front brakes and stamped hard down through the gears. The bike’s tyres lost grip, the rear end hanging out as I struggled to keep it all upright while the cars behind let me know what they thought of the stunt. Once slowed enough, I bumped over the grass verge onto the off-ramp nearly getting clouted by a Volvo S60 along the way. The second police cruiser came straight up the off-ramp and was within twenty metres of me now.
Stop sign at the top of the ramp, into first gear and scared the life out of two middle-aged women driving past as I took off in pursuit of the van again with the front wheel in the air.
The terrain was rolling hills with the single lane road twisting gently left and right between the fields. The van was sometimes in sight and at other times out of sight below a rise. I was gaining hand over fist now. I should be with them before they reached Medway some twelve kilometres ahead. I slowed to allow the police to catch up. I didn’t fancy tackling the occupants of the van on my own.
Did they know I was behind them? I wondered. What would they do when they saw me, and more importantly, the police cars?
I looked over my shoulder. The police cars were gaining but not anywhere quickly enough. Traffic was slowing them down. Medway was coming up and they were still more than half a kilometre back, stuck behind a tractor-trailer with no way of pulling over for them to pass.
As I turned to face the front again I saw a head poked out of the van’s passenger window looking back at me. They had spotted me and probably the police too. Damn. I kicked it down a gear and twisted open the throttle all the way. The bike surged ahead; the engine screaming through to the red line repeatedly as I snicked up through the gears.
The driver of the van struggled to overtake two cars, almost colliding with an oncoming truck but there was no way he could hope to lose me. By the time I caught up to him, he had realized this too and tried to run me of the road by stamping hard on the brakes as I drew up behind him. The truth is that a motor bike is just too manoeuvrable and can certainly out-brake a van.
I swerved right and powered forward alongside the driver’s window. The passenger leant across and pointed his gun at me. I braked sharply and dropped back as the van veered dangerously towards me. Now that I was with them I had no real idea as to how to stop them. Where the hell were those police cars?
Medway was just over the rise now. What was he going to do? Surely he wouldn’t risk getting trapped in the small roads of the village. I thought about overtaking the van and trying to slow it down, to let the police cars catch us, but the risk didn’t seem worth it. He would very likely just have driven over me. The best I could do was distract and annoy them hoping the cops would arrive soon.
Suddenly the van was slowing dramatically; smoke pouring from the tortured tyres. Taken by surprise, I had been looking desperately behind me for any sign of the police cars closing on us, and very nearly hit the back of the van. He turned savagely left down a dirt road, into an entrance to an old farm. The right hand bumper connected with the gatepost and sent it sprawling into the ditch by the roadside. I overran the entrance by thirty metres or so and stopped so sharply that a speeding Rover 75 almost hit me.
Ignoring his angry hooting I raced back to the gateway, sliding on the gravel after the disappearing blue van.
The farm road ran for a hundred and fifty metres past a dilapidated barn and then off to the left out of sight behind the huge building. The van disappeared from view as the first police car skidded through the gates eighty metres behind me.
The Kawasaki screamed repeatedly as the rear wheel bounced into the air; no matter, I almost had them. Around the barn, both wheels sliding dangerously, I found the van stopped twenty metres ahead. With nowhere to go I flung the bike down, sliding into the left-hand rear wheel. I felt the bone in my arm come apart again. The bike jammed itself under the van.
I scrambled to my feet in a series of awkward moves and rushed around to the right of the van where the side door slid open and a tall ginger-haired man clambered out, dragging Tarryn with him until she knelt at the open doorway. He had Tarryn by the hair in his left hand and a pistol in his right. The gun was pointed at her head, the barrel touching her temple.
I stopped and we stared at each other. In the background I could see his two companions departing hastily in different directions on foot. I remembered him from Knock Hill. He noticed my plastered arm and smiled.
“You don’t bloody learn, do you, mate?” he snarled at me.
“I just want the girl,” I said. “You can go for all I care.”
He let Tarryn go and she fell to the ground at his feet. The pistol pointed at me now, the hammer fully cocked. I was suddenly sweating profusely.
The sirens were edging closer as the police cars fought their way down the heavily rutted track. He looked past me in the direction of the soon to appear cars. Considering his predicament for a moment he finally uncocked the pistol.
; “Some other time,” he said, turning on his heel and sprinting further down the track where the police had no hope of following, except on foot, because the van totally blocked the dirt road.
I knelt down beside Tarryn. She was sobbing softly as I gathered her into my arms.
“It’s all right now, Tarryn. It’s all over, sweetheart; you’re going to be just fine.”
Chapter 25
The door banged open and the two of them strode into the interrogation room. The younger of the two pulled up a chair on my right and sat, taking a note pad and pencil out of his top pocket. The elder dropped a pile of files on the table and sat facing me.
“So, Mr Roberts. How’s the arm?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.
“It’s broken, but then I suspect you know that.” The younger of the two smiled slightly, turning his head so that his companion couldn’t see it.
“The medical people reset it all right then?” he said, ignoring my jibe.
“It’s fine. Who the hell are you, and for that matter, where the hell am I?”
He continued to flip through the file. Not looking up, he said, “Detective Inspector Boone. This is Detective Sergeant Ellis, Scotland Yard,” indicating the younger man. “You spent some time at the Medway hospital, and now you are in the Medway village police station.”
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t realize the British authorities took speeding and reckless driving so seriously.”
Finally, he looked up. “You think this is about speeding, do you? No, Mr Roberts. What you did today was stuff heroes are made of. Isn’t that right, Ellis?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir. Hero stuff all right.” Ellis at least looked like he meant it.
“I have no problem with what you did today, Mr Roberts. If traffic wish to charge you with speeding and dangerous driving that is up to them, but I hardly think it likely that they will.”
Considering the reasons why the police might want to talk to me, not least the death of five or more men and the kidnapping of Hussein, I forgave the small knot of fear forming in my guts.
“How do you know this man?” Boone asked as he slid a photo in front of me, just the head and shoulders of a man in his mid thirties. It was Ginger Hair. First seen at Knock Hill car park and last seen waving a gun at me yesterday.
“It’s the guy from the van,” I replied.
“Yes, we know. What I need you to tell me is where you know him from, how you know him, and his name.”
“I have no idea what his name is, Inspector.” Which was true, I’d never been introduced. “And I only met him yesterday. Why don’t you just ask him?” Boone said nothing, instead he watched me as I stared at the photo. There was something wrong with the guy in the picture. Suddenly I knew what it was.
“This guy’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked, startled.
“Well, well, well. He recognizes dead men when he sees them, Ellis.”
“It is interesting, sir. Not many people could tell from a photograph that a person is dead.”
“Seen dead men before, Roberts?” Boone asked.
“Yes.” Two sets of eyebrows went up.
“Really?” Boone asked sceptically. “Where?”
“Two years in the South African army, with combat experience in Angola. Yeah, I’ve seen dead men before. I killed three of them myself.”
The two detectives exchanged looks and changed track.
“What were you doing in Algeria?” Ellis asked.
“What’s your redheaded corpse got to do with Algeria?” I asked. There was an extended silence. I was determined not to leave them anywhere to go with this line of questioning, but the knot in my stomach grew larger and colder. “And how did he die? He looked extremely well last time I saw him.”
“He opened fire on armed officers in Medway and was killed when they returned fire,” Ellis told me.
“Thank you, Ellis. I didn’t realize we were running an information service,” Boone snapped at his sergeant.
“Inspector, am I under arrest or something?” I asked.
“No,” Boone replied, studying his files again. “Do you have any idea why Miss Rodber was kidnapped?”
“No idea whatsoever. If I am not under arrest for anything, then I can leave, can’t I?”
“Miss Rodber is worth a lot of money now that she has inherited half her father’s fortune. Do you suppose that could be it?”
“Quite possibly, Inspector. Are we done here?” I asked, standing up.
“The problem I have with that theory, Mr Roberts, is twofold. Firstly, young Tarryn’s newly acquired fortune is still in probate and she has no access to any money as yet, and secondly, the sheer number of kidnappings recently involving anyone to do with the Rodber clan seem a touch improbable, don’t you think?”
“Well, old man Josh was rich too. Maybe they are miffed that they didn’t get any money out of him and thought they would try the daughters.”
“And so they kidnapped you and took you to Algeria because you rescued the old man. Is that right?”
I sat down again.
“What - ” I began, but couldn’t think of anything intelligent to ask.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, as they keep saying on TV, shall we?” Boone said, looking directly at me for the first time. “We know about the first kidnapping, the fake Special Branch inspector Hammil, the fake Sultan Hussein and we know you were in Algeria, reluctantly, where you killed five or perhaps seven men who were holding you hostage for some reason.” He paused and stared intently at me. I felt sick. “What did they want from you, Mr Roberts?”
“They were an anti-bike racing lobby?” I said, my voice shaking. I stood up again. “You work it out, I’m leaving.” I grabbed my coat and made for the door. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Boone seemed unconcerned. “Do you know this man, Mr Roberts?” He held up a photograph for me to see as I rounded the table. It was the man I knew as Frank Brown. “I see from your expression that you do,” Boone said. “A man to be careful around, Mr Roberts. Very careful.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector,” I said, closing the door behind me.
Julia was waiting out front for me in the charge office.
“Simon, are you all right?” she asked with obvious concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get the hell out of here. We need to have a little meeting back at the farm. Things are getting a little out of hand.”
“What do you mean?” Julia asked as she half ran to keep up with me.
“I mean that I’ve just had a conversation with a Detective Inspector Boone and his sergeant, Ellis. Both were, I’m sure, with Scotland Yard, in fact they told me so. And detective inspectors with Scotland Yard don’t travel down to Medway to shoot the breeze about gossip they hear … where the hell is your car?”
Julia pointed across the road. “Over there.” She handed me the keys, ignoring my broken arm and said. “Here, you drive.”
A delivery truck had to brake hard as I pulled out, hooting and no doubt swearing as I shot off down the road, tyres squealing as we went.
“I knew I should have stayed in bloody Texas,” I said violently. “I could have been happily cruising down to California right now with some blonde bimbo on the back just waiting to do dirty and erotic things to me.” My anger was fading fast as we put distance between Inspector Boone and us. The anger was just fear related anyway. I banged my re-plastered arm on the gear stick and swore again.
“Come on, Simon, you would never have met Michele, let alone Tarryn and me. And you would have been bored stiff without all that’s been going on. Admit it.”
“Hmff,” I said unconvincingly. But Julia was right, I would go through it all again just to meet Michele, but that didn’t stop the panic I was experiencing over Boone and his line of inquiry.
We made it back to the farmhouse at a considerably slower pace than I had left it. At least there was little traffic to darken my mood.
Michele came ou
t to meet us and gave me an affectionate hug and kiss. “I’ve just this minute made coffee,” she said, “come in and have some.”
“An excellent idea,” Said Julia. “Where are Bud and Brett, Michele? And Tarryn?”
“Both in the kitchen waiting for you to arrive back. Tarryn is upstairs sleeping. The doctor gave her a sedative and she went out like a light.”
“OK, gang,” I said as we all gathered around the kitchen table drinking the freshly brewed coffee. “This is the situation. Firstly, I am sure I know where those documents are, and we can test my theory just now. Secondly, I’ve just been interviewed by a couple of Scotland Yard’s finest and they seem to know the outline, at least, of what has been going on. Unfortunately, that also seems to include my unwilling trip to Algeria.” I stopped to wait for reactions. Everyone seemed subdued and offered no comment.
“Well, how much can they actually know about, you know …” Brett asked.
“The five dead guys, you mean?” I thought about that for a second. “I would imagine they can only speculate, but it is possible they put it all together. The thing is, they are investigating Frank Brown for some reason, and if they arrest him and he talks, I could very well be up the proverbial creek. It was Brown’s men who attempted to take Tarryn and I am beginning to think that Brown was behind the Algeria thing too. And they’re serious people. The guy who led yesterday evening’s attempt was cornered by the police and preferred to shoot it out with them. He was killed.”
“So, what do you want to do, Simon?” Bud asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Bud. I think we have a couple of choices here. We could keep our collective mouths shut and hope the cops find nothing of value, or, we can come clean on the whole mess and hope it turns out OK.”
“I think that should be your choice to make, Simon,” Julia said. “After all, the two main worries we have are the police finding out about our kidnapping of Hussein and your Algerian experiences and proving anything. And both unfortunately involve you almost exclusively, at least from amongst us here.”
