What if…what if…what if Chilcott shot his target, who, by the type of coincidence that you only find in cheap fiction, just happened to be Annette’s friend? Would I be pleased? Would she turn to me for consolation? Yeah, probably, I thought, to both of them. That’s when I dropped off, just before the cold breath of a new day stirred the curtains and the bloke in the next street who owns half of the market and drives a diesel Transit set off for work.
Saturday is his busiest day, and I had a feeling that this one might be mine too. I had a shower and dressed in old Wranglers, cord shirt and leather jacket. I put my Blacks trainers on my feet, designed for glissading down scree slopes. You never know when you might need to.
According to the electoral role, the tenants of Ne’er Do Well Farm were Carl and Deborah Faulkner. According to the DVLA, the series seven BMW that picked Chilcott up at the station belonged to Carl Faulkner. According to our CRO, Carl Faulkner had a string of convictions long enough to knit a mailbag and Deborah had a few of her own. His were for stealing cars, bikes, household items and bundles of bank notes, plus GBH and extortion. Hers were for receiving, causing an affray, and a very early one for soliciting. The one thing that they certainly weren’t was farmers.
“Nice couple, aren’t they?” Dave said as I returned the printout to him. He sat in the spare chair and placed his coffee on my desk.
“He saved her from a life on the streets,” I commented, sliding a beer mat towards him.
“Blimey, you’re in a good mood,” he said.
“And why not? It’s a new day, the weekend.”
“Chilcott might be the Met’s,” he responded, “but these two are ours.”
“They haven’t done anything.”
“Well that’ll make it harder, won’t it,” he declared. He had a sip of coffee and continued: “There’s harbouring a fugitive, for a start. And conspiracy. And probably stealing a bike. And I bet they don’t have a TV licence.”
“First time they poke their heads above a windowsill they’ll probably have them blown off,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s a strong possibility,” he agreed.
Word came through that strange policemen were congregating in our canteen and eating all the bacon sandwiches. They were the Met’s Regional Crime Squad. At nine o’clock Mr Cox came in to my office on a courtesy call, to tell me that they were having a meeting in the conference room and they’d be very grateful if I could make myself available to answer any questions that might arise about local conditions, whatever they were. He looked as if he’d spent the night on a bare mountain, which he had. I said: “No problem,” and followed him downstairs.
They were an ugly-looking bunch, chosen for their belligerence in a tight situation and not their party manners. Any of them could have moonlighted as a night-club bouncer or a cruiserweight. A couple wore suits and ties, some wore anoraks and jeans, others were in part police uniform, bulging with body armour. I gave them a good morning when I was introduced and settled down to listen.
It was the usual stuff: isolate; control; maximum show of power, minimum violence. There was only one road going past the farm, with junctions about half a mile away to one side and two miles away at the other. A bridlepath crossed one of the roads. I told them that it was not negotiable by a car but a Land Rover or a trail bike might do it.
They would set up roadblocks on the lane, either side of the farm, and the local force would create an outer ring of roadblocks, just in case. This last comment raised a few sniggers, because they all knew it to be superfluous. Nobody would get past them. Mr Cox asked the various teams to acknowledge that they were clear about their duties and said: “OK, gentlemen, let’s bring him in.”
I was guest of honour, invited to ride with him. Our carpark was filled with their vehicles, haphazardly blocking the regulars in or out, and others were parked outside, straddling the yellow lines and pavement. We slowly disentangled ourselves and moved in a convoy out of town, towards the moors. I suspected that some of them had never seen a landscape devoid of houses, billboards and takeaways.
A steady drizzle was percolating through the atmosphere as we crossed the five hundred foot contour, blurring the colours slipping by our windows to a dirty khaki. Just how I like it. Superintendent Cox turned his collar up in an involuntary action and switched the windscreen wipers on.
“That’s the lane to the other side of the farm,” I told him. He slowed and jabbed his arm several times through his open window. I swivelled round in my seat and counted five vehicles turn in that direction. Two miles further I said: “And this is our lane to the farm.” He turned off the main road and set his trip odometer to zero.
“I reckon we make the block in about one point three miles,” he stated, slowing to a crawl. Three minutes later, with the farm still not in sight, he stopped and switched the engine off. “This’ll do,” he said.
Three vehicles from our side and two from the other were going to approach the farm and make the arrests. The others would act as roadblocks in case someone made a run for it. Our three moved ahead and parked in single file. Doors swung open and black looks were cast at the sky. Stooped figures opened boots, lifting out pieces of equipment: waterproofs; body armour; weapons. They donned hats and baseball caps, or pulled hoods over their heads. I stepped out and felt the cool rain on my face. Beautiful.
Cox was on the radio, calling up the observation post. I heard them report that the farm was as quiet as a grave. About half an hour earlier the curtains in an upstairs room had opened, and that was the only activity they’d seen. He made contact with the other section of our small army, code name T2, but they hadn’t turned into the lane yet. The chopper was standing by, he informed us.
T1 was us, or more precisely the three cars that would do the job. When the snatch teams were kitted up they squashed themselves into the cars and waited, steam and smoke rising from the open windows as they waited for the call. Every couple of minutes a cigarette end would come curling from one of the windows to sizz out in the wet grass. Our remaining three cars arranged themselves at angles across the narrow lane, completely blocking it.
“The trap is set,” Cox told me with a satisfied grin. He produced a half-empty hip flask of Famous Grouse from the depths of a pocket and took a long swig. I shook my head when he offered it to me, so he had mine, too.
He was on the radio again, chasing up T2 when there was a crackle of interference and a voice shouted: “They’re moving, they’re moving!”
“Quiet please! Come in OP,” Cox said.
“Activity at the farm, Skipper,” came the reply. “Three figures have dashed out of the house. In a hurry. I reckon they’ve rumbled us.”
“T2, acknowledge.”
“T2 receiving.”
“Are you at the lane end yet?”
“We’re at a lane end, Skip, but it’s only a dirt road.” “That’s the bridle path. The lane you want is about half a mile further on. For fuck’s sake get there, now! OP, come in.”
“OP receiving.”
“What’s happening?”
“They’re in the garage, I think. Yes, the big door’s opening and a motorbike’s coming out.”
“My team, T1, did you hear that?”
“Yes, Skip.”
“He’s making a run for it. Stand by.” Car doors opened and they tumbled out, brandishing their Heckler and Kochs.
“OP, OP, which way’d he go?”
“He’s not reappeared yet from behind the house. A Land Rover and the BMW have also just come out of the garage and gone round the house. I can see the bike now. He’s turned left, heading east.”
“That’s towards us. Good.”
“And the other two are heading west.”
“Right. Did you clock that, T2?”
“Yes, Skip.”
“Are you at the lane end yet?”
“Not sure, Skip. There’s a dam and a reservoir with a lane…”
“That’s the wrong way!” I yelled at Cox. “
They’ve turned the wrong friggin’ way!”
“You’ve turned the wrong way,” Cox told them, trying to read the map that was draped over his steering wheel. “You need to be about three miles the other way, and get a move on.” He turned to me, saying: “Fortunately Chilcott’s coming towards us.” I rang Heckley control and told them to let our boys know that he’d made a run for it. It looked as if we might have to do the job for them after all.
The road ahead undulated like the spine of the Loch Ness monster and bent to the left. I climbed out of the car and peered at the furthest crest in the road. After a few seconds the bike appeared, rising into view then falling out of sight as it sank into a hollow. Then it appeared again, nearer and bigger, travelling quite cautiously, and dropped out of sight. In front of me the RCS crew spread out across the road and adopted kneeling positions, firearms at the ready. The bike rose into view again and fell away. One more brow left. We could hear it now. They pressed rifle butts against shoulders and peered down sights.
The rider’s head appeared, then shoulders, windscreen, wheels: a splash of colour — red, white and fluorescent green — in the murky landscape.
“Here he comes,” a voice said at my elbow. It was Cox, his eyes bright with excitement. In the next few minutes he’d be reciting the caution to the most wanted man in Britain or zipping him into a body bag. Either would do. The bike stopped, a hundred and fifty yards down the road. I could sense the fingers tightening on triggers, and I desperately needed a pee.
“Easy boys, he’s not going anywhere,” Cox shouted.
The biker tried to do a U-turn, but the road was too narrow. He paddled the bike backwards a few feet and completed the manoeuvre, driving off back towards the farm with a new urgency. The engine note rose and fell as he went up through the gears, the bike and rider bright as a tropical fish as it crested the brows.
“T1 to T2,” Cox yelled into the radio. “He’s coming back your way. Where are you?”
“T2 receiving, at the lane end,” I heard them confirm. “Forming roadblock now.”
“Have you seen the other two vehicles?”
“Negative, Skip.”
“He’ll be with you in about two minutes.”
The same thing happened at their end. The biker stopped, turned round, and headed back this way.
“OK, let’s tighten the net,” Cox ordered. We climbed back into our seats and moved half a mile down the road, until the farm was clearly in view. We’d just reassembled into a roadblock when the biker came burbling round the corner, the rider sitting up, only one hand on the handlebars.
“He’s a cool customer,” I said.
“Bravado,” Cox explained. “He knows the show’s over.”
The biker turned round, went back, saw the others blocking his flight and turned towards us yet again. He accelerated, front wheel lifting off the road, as if about to do an Evel Knievel over our heads, then slowed to a crawl. Cox was right: he could handle a bike. T2 moved forward, shrinking his playground.
There was a gate in the wall about a hundred yards in front of us, marking the beginning of the bridle path. The rider stopped, leaned the bike on its side stand and made a dash at the gate. Cars from both sides accelerated towards him, tyres spinning on the wet road. We held back, maintaining the roadblock. He pushed the gate open and leapt back onto the bike, gunning it towards the gap as the car from our side swerved to a standstill feet from him.
I’d started to say that he wouldn’t get far on a bike like that when events made my words redundant. The motorcycle bucked, a leg tried to steady it but the bike spun sideways and shot from under its rider. Policemen were running towards him, guns pointing, shouting orders across each other.
The leather clad figure rolled over onto his back, one leg smeared with mud.
“Stay still!” Someone shouted.
He stayed still. In seconds he was surrounded by enough guns to blow a battleship out of the water, except we’re taught that you can never have enough. And I’d proved it to be true, once, a long time ago.
“Don’t move.” Hands reached down, pressed against him, passed over his limbs and torso, feeling for hard objects.
“Now, sit up, slowly.”
The figure sat up, very slowly.
“Now, very slowly, remove your helmet.”
A gloved hand moved deliberately towards the chinstrap and fumbled with the fastening. Then the other hand came up and started to ease the helmet over the rider’s head, twisting it from side to side, forcing it upwards over flattened ears. A chin emerged, then a nose and eyes as it lifted clear. The rider’s hair was still inside the helmet. When it was high enough the hair fell down, a cascade of shoulder-length peroxide — blonde locks that would have looked good on any Page Three girl. “Was that slowly enough?” she asked with a smile.
“Oh fuck!” Cox exclaimed. I couldn’t have put it any better myself.
I phoned the nick and told them what had happened. T2 stopped the BMW, driven by Carl Faulkner, which meant that Chilcott was in the Land Rover and had probably fled cross-country, bypassing our roadblocks. Deborah Faulkner, the motorcyclist, was handcuffed and taken to Leeds, her husband to a different nick in that city, but they both played dumb, refusing to answer questions. The helicopter came thumping over the hill, somewhere up in the clouds, and made a wide banking turn before heading back towards the valley and civilisation.
Cox liaised with our control, with number three district RCS and with the Met RCS before admitting: “That’s it. It’s out of our hands, now.”
“I’m going to the house,” I said, walking in that direction. I’d almost reached it when the depleted convoy overtook me.
Barry Moynihan and the rest of the observation team had already arrived, walking across the moor from their overnight position. He’d borrowed a waterproof coat and leggings, but was still wearing the sandals with the rugged soles and more buckles and straps than an S amp; M salesman’s sample case. His colleagues were brandishing guns as if they were no more lethal than walking sticks, and the whole scene could have been newsreel footage from the latest East European war zone.
“We’ve swept the house, Mr Cox,” a tall guy with a bristly moustache and a military bearing said as he came out of the front door, “and it’s clean.” He was carrying a Remington pump action shotgun, probably loaded with CS gas cartridges.
“Thanks, Bruce,” Cox replied. “Let’s see what we can find, then.”
“Gentlemen,” I called, raising my voice above the hubbub. They all turned to me. “Can I remind you that this is a crime scene,” I continued, “and ought to be inspected with that in mind, by the appropriate people.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Cox said. “We’ll be careful.” He wandered inside followed by his acolytes, and after a few gestures of helplessness I followed. They moved through the kitchen and into the living rooms. I headed for the fire burning in the iron range and stood with my back to it. They could trample on as much evidence as they wanted, but this was as far as I was going. The house had triple glazing, but any attempts at modernisation ended with that. The kitchen floor was stone-flagged, and ashes from the fire had spread away from the hearth, crunching under your feet as you moved around. All the furniture was bare wood, working class antique, and the sink was a deep stone set-pot.
Barry Moynihan came in and looked around. “They’re all through there,” I told him.
He joined me by the fire, saying: “I’m perished,” as he balanced on one leg and tried to dry a soaking foot against the flames.
Suspended from the ceiling by a system of strings and pulleys was a rack filled with clean washing, hung up to dry. I pulled a wooden chair from beneath the table and stood on it. The washing was dry. I removed a threadbare towel and a pair of hiking socks from the rack and handed them to Moynihan. “Put them on,” I told him, “or you’ll catch pneumonia.”
He took them from me and sat on another chair, drying his feet. When he’d finished he stood up, st
omped around a few steps, then pronounced: “That’s better. Thanks.”
“We got off to a bad start,” I said.
“Yeah, well.”
“Have you contacted your wife?”
“Yeah. She went home. At first it sounded a daft thing to do, but I suppose it was for the best. I’ve spoken to her a couple of times and she’s calmed down. Now I’m hoping the firm will recompense me.”
“They ought to,” I told him.
There was a shout from the next room that sounded like my name. We stood there waiting for it again, until Cox appeared in the doorway and said: “We’ve identified Chilcott’s target, Charlie. Come and look at this.”
We followed him through into what was the living room. It was gloomy, even with all the lights on, furnished with overstuffed easy chairs and flowery standard lamps. Centrepiece of the room was a highly polished table that was no-doubt worth a bob or two, and spread over it was a series of black and white photographs.
“We found them in this,” Cox said, showing me a cardboard folder. “What do you think?”
The cops around the table parted to make room for me. There were six pictures, arranged in a big square. Top left was simply the frontage of a house, such as an estate agent might produce. Next one, a male figure was emerging from the door at the side of the house. After that it was his car, focusing on the numberplate. Then the man himself, stooping to unlock the car, followed by two more of him behind the wheel.
I picked up the last print and held it towards the light. It was taken through the side window of the car, and the driver was completely unaware of it. Next time, it might be a gun, blowing his brains out. Somebody coughed.
“It’s me,” I said, looking at Cox. He didn’t reply. Everyone was silent, empty expressions on their faces. “It’s me,” I repeated. I placed the photo back on the table, carefully aligning it with its fellows. “Why would anyone want to kill me?” I wondered out loud, and I swear they all shrank back a step.
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