Déjà Vu sb-1

by Ian Hocking

  Saskia said, ‘I realise, sir, that we are not in a position to verify or falsify Proctor’s charges. But we are also not required to accept them. I mean, we must not accept conclusions unless we make them ourselves from available evidence. Nobody, so far, has been able to produce evidence to show that Proctor is responsible for anything. It is conjecture. A jury might not convict him.’

  The DSI was grim. ‘You should attend more trials.’ Seeing Saskia’s expression, he pulled a face, as if to dismiss his own comment.

  ‘If Proctor is an innocent party, then I believe he will wish to gather more information about his predicament. At the very least, more information would bolster his defence against the charges. Under EU law, it is not illegal for an innocent person to attempt an escape.’

  Jago gave her a warning look but the DSI nodded. ‘Well, I can’t argue with your research, Detective.’

  ‘Kommissarin,’ Saskia said. She felt her voice strengthen. ‘Proctor is a university professor. It is a comfortable existence. We know from his e-mails that his relationship with his daughter is strained. The last few days will have proved to be very difficult, even life-altering. Proctor will undoubtedly feel the need to leave the country. Here he is hunted. In America he is not. His daughter is in America. In addition, she gave him the warning. If he is indeed innocent, then his search for answers must begin with her. Flying out would “kill two birds with one stone”. We must assume it is within his capability.’

  The DSI said, ‘I’m with you. Jennifer is his daughter. The person who helped organise his escape is someone who would risk everything for him. Jennifer fits the bill. Was she the woman who broke Proctor out of the Park Hotel? Who knows, maybe her employers—if they are the US government, like you say—helped to falsify her passport and formulate Proctor’s escape plan. If we get her, we get Proctor. But is she still in the country?’

  ‘I think it is unlikely,’ Saskia replied. ‘If you are correct and she has the backing of the American government, they would advocate a plan with minimum risk. Perhaps she has already risked a great deal by personally overseeing her father’s escape. If they were to attempt an escape together, the probability of their apprehension would increase. In that case, I would suggest that she left immediately via the nearest airport, Edinburgh.’

  Jago shook his head. ‘I don’t know. If the Americans really wanted Proctor, why not smuggle him out by military transport?’

  ‘Secrecy,’ the DSI said. ‘And cost. How much do they want him? What can he be worth?’

  Saskia replied, ‘Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. However, with the correct advice and documentation, there is no reason why Proctor should not be able to leave the country through an airport.’

  ‘Edinburgh?’ Jago asked. ‘You think he showed up in Northallerton to throw us off the scent?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No,’ said the DSI. ‘We had Edinburgh locked down tight. To get lost in the crowd he would need somewhere bigger.’

  ‘Like where?’ Saskia asked.

  ‘Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted,’ Jago said. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘Which is the largest?’

  ‘Heathrow,’ said the DSI. ‘And its surveillance is poorest due to the volume of traffic. We’ve had a team researching this scenario. If he took a car or a train, he would have left the country by now. If he’s still on the bike, and using minor roads, he could catch a flight at midnight—if he rides hard. Personally, I think he’ll lie low for a week.’

  ‘Those flights need to be checked, sir,’ said Saskia.

  ‘I agree with you, Brandt. Check each person who flies to America between midnight and 6:00 am. Check them by hand. If you don’t find Proctor, we can assume he’s already gone or he’s lying low. We have other people working those leads.’

  Jago said, ‘There are about thirty-five thousand people who can do that for us, sir. They’re called the Metropolitan Police Service.’

  The DSI shook his head. ‘Think. If Proctor takes his holiday tonight, I want us to nab him, not our Cockney friends. No sense having the Met solve our cases.’

  ‘But Saskia is a neutral party.’

  The DSI grinned, revealing a gold canine. ‘It’s that kind of clear thinking that stops you advancing through the ranks, Phil. Saskia is a neutral party accompanied by a Lothian and Borders liaison officer.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jago said quietly.

  ‘You two can hitch down to Heathrow with a friend of mine, Sam Langdon. He comes here for the golf. My secretary will give you his number. Have a nice trip.’

  He held open the door. Saskia and Jago walked through. In the waiting room, Jago said, ‘I was his mentor when he joined the service.’ He checked the time. ‘Right, we’d better find this Langdon character. Saskia?’

  She was watching Besson and Garland at the coffee machine. They looked up and smiled. Even the loneliest person has the memory of company, but she did not even have that.

  ~

  David glanced at the bike’s dashboard. It was 4:00 p.m. He had been riding for nearly nine hours. It was time to gather the elements of his disguise. He took his lead from Ego, who had downloaded three SAS survival guides and related them to David in a digested, if sensational, form. Ego wanted him to change his vehicle and his clothing. David disagreed. Clothing, yes; vehicle, no. The bike was uncomfortable but it was fast, all-terrain, and easily camouflaged.

  Now he stood next to the parked, cooling Moiré and considered Ego’s advice. He leaned towards the microphone in the helmet, which he had secured to the petrol tank. ‘Bike, change to green,’ he said. ‘Do it gradually, over the next hour.’

  David walked into town. The pedestrians cut unpredictable zigzags in front of him. After only two days on the bike, he had forgotten how to walk in a crowd.

  Inside the first shop, the owner’s smile froze on contact. To be sure, David had a thickening beard and grimy clothes. His head was bowed to avoid surveillance cameras. And he paid cash. Physical money was risky, but he had to assume that the credit card, issued in the name of David Harrison, had been blown since his escape from The Poor Players. Prudently, his passport carried a different name.

  He abandoned his old coat in a public toilet and walked on. He purchased new clothes and, item by item, left their predecessors about the city centre. In a gentleman’s outfitters he bought a suit. In another he bought a beige briefcase, a pair of tinted glasses, a shaving kit, some paper overalls, a wedding ring, and a startlingly expensive belt. In each shop he lamented the loss of his bank card and shrugged wistfully at the need to carry so much cash. The shopkeepers made clicking noises and were sorry to hear that, sir, and said no more. Finally, he bought some aftershave and a universal storage crate for the bike. At the invitation of the last sales assistant, he stuffed his shopping into the box. Both he and the assistant stared at the crumpled suit for moment.

  ‘Travel iron, sir?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  Shopping completed, David returned to the bike. The universal box was not as universal as its manufacturers had enthused. It took fifteen minutes to attach. He rode away with his new clothes and a bike that was nearly green. He rode away a different person.

  Different enough?

  He was still a man on a bike.

  ‘Ego,’ he said, pulling out into traffic.

  ‘David.’

  ‘Does it strike you as odd that I haven’t been captured?’

  ‘Yes, you have been lucky to an extent, but it is not surprising that you have evaded capture. Though there is an All-Points Bulletin out for your arrest, the description is rather average. I have read two more espionage novels in the past hour and, judging by these, I do not believe that the British police have the manpower to find you unless you make a serious mistake: that is, break the law. They do not know your location, your destination, your purpose; nor do they have a current physical description. If you continue to ride under the speed limit and use minor roads, your chances of reaching lock
er J327 are good.’

  David snorted. ‘I’m sure I broke the speed limit once or twice.’

  ‘No, you did not.’

  ‘Maybe up near Sheffield. I was going pretty fast.’

  ‘I have global positioning and accelerometer data that proves you have not broken any speed limits.’

  He turned onto the southerly road. In the sunshine, his visor darkened. ‘You’ve saved me,’ he said glumly.

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Like a data file. Saved.’

  ‘It is a precaution designed to provide an objective source of information in the event of a trial. It will guard against tampering. Perhaps I may also act as a black box if you have an accident. The probability of my survival is far greater than yours.’

  ‘Ego, how much battery life do you have?’

  ‘Eight weeks.’

  ‘Switch off for now.’

  ‘I am still monitoring radio stations and Internet sites.’

  David revved the engine and accelerated. It was time to break the speed limit. ‘Switch off. Now.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Saskia reached into the pocket behind the driver’s seat and found a blister pack of travel sickness pills. Three seemed a good number; four a better one. She crunched them to a bitter dust. Her head still pounded. Jago was beside her, gripping the handle above the door, unconcerned as the back tyres locked briefly. The two police officers in the front of the car shared a smile. In the back, Jago gave Saskia a nudge and flourished his eyebrows.

  The airport was ten kilometres from the station. In the early evening traffic, it would take half an hour. The co-driver activated the siren intermittently but they were soon slowed by congestion.

  ‘How are you armed, Saskia?’

  ‘This,’ she said, showing her gun.

  ‘I should have got you something more modern from the armoury. Like a bow and arrow.’

  ‘A revolver is preferred for…ideological reasons.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  Silence as Saskia counted the kilometres.

  ~

  When they reached the airport, Jago said, ‘Straight through, they’re expecting us.’ The car drove into a huge, fenced enclosure where private planes were parked in rows, then stopped hard.

  ‘This is where you get off,’ said the driver. He reached back to shake Jago’s hand, but the DI had already left the car.

  Saskia shook it on Jago’s behalf. Her smile was crooked.

  Outside, the cold air was rank with fumes. Lights defined the terminal building, the roads, and the fences. As she watched, a jet landed with mesmeric slowness. Its exhaust blurred the air. She felt the vibration in her belly.

  ‘Saskia, get a shift on,’ Jago called, jogging backwards.

  They climbed into a small four-seater aircraft. Jago settled in the back and Saskia sat next to the pilot. It was too dark to see his face. ‘Put these on,’ he said. He handed Saskia a pair of headphones. ‘Sam Langdon.’

  ‘Saskia Brandt.’

  ‘Did we make it?’ rasped Jago.

  ‘Your timing is impeccable,’ said the pilot. He gunned the engine. Through her headphones, Saskia heard him say, ‘Control, this is Golf Tango Foxtrot Two-One-Two requesting clearance for take-off, over.’ There was no audible reply. ‘Roger, Control, I’m taxiing to runway two, over.’

  ‘We appreciate this,’ Jago said.

  ‘No problem. I was flying back anyway.’

  Saskia relaxed. The darkness was reassuring. ‘There’s a blanket under your legs,’ Sam said as they rolled forward. ‘Careful not to touch the control column.’

  ‘Foodibles?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Behind you.’ Langton turned to Saskia. ‘Latest weather report shows poor visibility over the southeast. There’s a low pressure front moving north. Expect a bump in the night.’ He switched on a red reading light and noted the time in a paper logbook. He held the column between his legs.

  ‘How long to Heathrow?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘We’re not going to Heathrow, sweet heart.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’d need to sell the plane just to afford the landing. No, we’re going to Farnborough.’

  Jago tapped her shoulder. ‘Sandwich?’

  Saskia looked around. Obligingly, Jago peeled back the white bread to display the filling. Sliced sausages.

  ‘English sausages?’

  ‘The finest. Plenty of brown sauce.’

  ‘What is brown sauce?’

  ‘Good question.’ Jago took a bite. ‘Must be one of the fun things about foreign travel. New foods.’

  Langton said drily, ‘How long have you two been married?’

  ‘Too long.’ She tapped his log book. ‘Please tell me where Forbrough is.’

  ‘Farnborough,’ the pilot corrected. ‘Three hundred miles to the south. In new money, five hundred kilometres. They expect us for 9:00 p.m. Sit back.’

  She watched the runway lights stream by as they took off. The acceleration made her drowsy. She became aware of a crowd of English nonsense voices inside her head. All ths and ruhs. She fell asleep in their company.

  ~

  Later, the pilot explained that the Grantham, being a light aircraft with no oxygen cylinders, could not climb above the weather. It flew low where the winds were thick and the rain constant. They touched down at 9:30 p.m. Saskia had not moved since climbing aboard, but when she stepped onto the wet concrete of the holding lot, she felt ready to collapse with tiredness.

  ‘Thanks, Sam,’ shouted Jago above the propeller noise.

  ‘I have to park. See you.’

  Saskia gave him a salute and searched for a terminal. She could see none in the fierce rain. ‘Where now?’ she asked. She ducked to avoid the wing as Sam taxied away.

  Jago pulled his suit jacket over his head. ‘Look, there.’

  They watched as a traffic patrol car approached. It sharked through the aircraft and stopped before some heavy cabling. A female officer approached carrying an umbrella. She opened it over Jago. ‘Piss off,’ he said, climbing in the back.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to Heathrow. Saskia had fallen asleep against the window before the car pulled away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sharp braking threw Saskia out of her dream. She swallowed her spit and looked ahead. The car had stopped. The traffic was a crimson mass of braking lights. Her watch read 10:30 p.m.

  ‘We’re late,’ she said

  She looked at Jago. He was sweating and a vein throbbed on his forehead. ‘An accident,’ he said. ‘It happened just in front of us.’ He dabbed at the vein with a handkerchief.

  ‘Scotty?’ She put a hand to his forehead, expecting it to feel hot. It was cold.

  He grimaced. ‘Heart burn. You know, acid indigestion. The bloody sandwiches.’

  Saskia heard the co-driver talk urgently into her radio. The words were abbreviated and unintelligible. The car pulled onto the hard shoulder. Jago said, ‘They’re the closest unit. They have to secure the scene.’

  The vehicle shook as their co-driver slammed the boot, shrugged a fluorescent jacket over her shoulders and jogged ahead to the driver. Saskia gripped the handle. She felt an urge to help, but, seeing Jago’s exhaustion, she stayed in the car.

  ‘We will wait for the next unit.’

  ‘…Alright.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ~

  David thought of his daughter, Jennifer. He had taught her to ride in a cul-de-sac near the old house in Oxford. He had pushed her endlessly, a constant commentary to reassure her of his grip. Finally, he let go and she wobbled all the way to the turning space. He felt proud. He felt like a real father. At the end of the road, he heard her faint voice say, ‘I nearly did it that time, Daddy,’ and he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘You did! I’m back here!’ and she turned around and fell off with a scream. He ran down and picked her up, bike and all, and took her inside. He sat her on the washing machine and dabbed her grazes with anti
septic. Between her sobs, she smiled. ‘Did it.’ That became her catchphrase. When she passed her advanced maths at the age of nine; when she published her poems; when she got into the New York school, she always said, ‘Did it.’

  A blue light flashed on the dashboard. He glanced down. No, it was a reflection. He turned his head. There was a police car approaching at twice his speed. He indicated left and drifted from the lane.

  ~

  ‘What is it now?’ Saskia snapped at the driver. She was exhausted. They had been delayed at the accident site for over an hour and Heathrow was, at last, only minutes away. Beside her, Jago awoke and scratched his cheek.

  ‘What’s the description of Proctor’s bike?’ asked Teri, the co-driver.

  ‘Vague,’ said Jago. ‘It could be a trail bike. Green, but possibly a different colour by now.’

  The co-driver whistled. ‘That new?’

  ‘Yes, that new,’ Saskia said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Look at the bloke in front of us. Can’t be that many Moiré-types on the M4 at this time of night being ridden by a weekender. This year’s registration, too. Fair-sized luggage container on the back.’

  ‘A weekender?’ asked Saskia.

  ‘He couldn’t ride a bike to save his life. Obvious from the way he’s sitting on it.’

  ‘Pull him over,’ said Saskia.

  ‘Easy, hen,’ Jago said. ‘We can’t pull over every bike we see.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ called the co-driver. ‘He’s changing lane.’

  Saskia touched Jago’s elbow. ‘Scotty, pull him over. It will cost us five minutes if I’m wrong, but if I’m not—’

  ‘Fuck it. Teri, give him the news.’

  The siren whooped. The headlights blinked. The rider glanced back, wobbled, and changed lane. He seemed uncertain whether to pull onto the hard shoulder or come off at the next exit. Teri activated the siren once more. The two vehicles crossed onto the hard shoulder and stopped.

  Dan opened his door. The interior light was abrupt and dazzling. Saskia said, ‘Be careful. He may be armed.’