by Paul Finch
THE CHASE
Paul Finch
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
The Chase
Read an extract from Paul Finch’s new book The Killing Club
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Chase
A short story by Paul Finch
Alex was somewhere between Oxford and Daventry when she met the Traffic cop.
He should have been a godsend.
Darkness had fallen an hour ago, and it was two hours since she’d diverted from a log-jammed M40 motorway in an effort to navigate her way north via different routes – and okay, she had her sat-nav so it shouldn’t have been a problem, but sat-nav systems weren’t infallible as hers had since proved. Alex had now turned the useless thing off and dropped it into the passenger footwell; in fact, she’d been tempted to rip it from its socket, smash it face down several times on the steering column, and chuck what remained of it out of the Corsa hatchback’s window. It wasn’t just that the damn thing had issued instructions bearing no relation to geography, but its voice facility was on the blink. So as well as trying to steer her way along looping, twisting country lanes, she’d also had to keep glancing at the tiny glowing screen. None of this made it any easier to play back the last couple of meetings she’d recorded that afternoon on her Smartpen, or add the occasional afterthought or footnote as she’d been planning to on the journey home. The Smartpen at least was operating properly, but Alex was barely paying attention to it because she no longer had a clue where she was. This area could hardly be classified as wilderness, but all she was seeing at present were hedgerows, woods and farmland that seemed to run on forever. So, at roughly nine-thirty, the sight of a spinning blue beacon in her rear-view mirror ought to have been a blessing. But then she noticed her speedgauge, which said that she was pushing close to fifty – when stressed at the wheel, Alex had the habit of putting her foot down (back home, Joe went mad about it) – and when the pursuing Traffic car flashed its headlights at her with more than a hint of belligerence, she realised that a shitty evening had just turned a lot shittier.
She pulled up in a lay-by, powered down her window and waited. Soles crunched on gravel as an indistinct figure approached from the Battenburg-patterned car that had cruised in behind her. He shone his torch directly into her face. It was a rude thing to do, but Alex understood why he did it – she could have been any kind of maniac. In addition, it might help her. Alex had just turned forty, but with her natural blonde hair – a little wild and shaggy at present, though that in itself could be fetching – and her bright blue eyes, always rimmed with mascara, she was the sort of woman blokes tended to do favours for.
‘Any idea how fast you were going back there, miss?’ He was a tall man – she could make that much out behind his bright light. It gave him a stern aura.
‘Yes … I’m sorry. Look, I know it’s not an excuse, but I’m lost and I’m late.’ This was always the bit where the wheel might come off. As a sales manager who needed every break she could get, Alex never had a problem with exploiting her looks. But she was well aware that outside Merseyside her Liverpool accent could be a disadvantage. As a rule she tried to play it down, but she doubted she’d be able to play it down sufficiently to impress an irritable police officer. So she added quickly, ‘And all these dark roads, with no signposts anywhere … to be honest, I was getting a bit jumpy.’
‘What name is it?’
‘Alexa Goddard.’
‘And where are you from, Alexa … as if I didn’t know?’
That irked her, but she kept it polite. ‘Liverpool.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Tell me about it. I’ve been at Life Science 2013 in Oxford. I sell pharmaceuticals. It finished at six o’clock. I should have been home ages ago, but there’s a big smash north of Bicester and I was trying to make my way to the M1.’
‘Have you had a drink this evening?’
‘No … like I say, I’ve been working.’
‘Got any ID with you?’
‘Only my driving license. I can present my insurance and MOT certificate at a police station up north … is that okay?’
‘You’re no stranger to this procedure, I see.’
That irked her again. She tried to visualise him properly behind his light, glimpsing a white Traffic Division hat and a white shirt under a black stab-jacket, with a radio affixed to one shoulder. She could discern short, dark hair and a firm jaw. His accent was neutral, with a slight Midlands lilt.
‘The license will do for the moment,’ he said.
She reached into the passenger seat footwell to fumble in her handbag, now aware that he’d dipped his torch slightly, his eyes roving over her.
She found her purse, took out her license with attached paperwork and handed it through the window. He examined it for what seemed like several minutes.
‘I see you’ve already collected six points for speeding offences this year,’ he said.
She gave a contrite smile. ‘I’m on the road an awful lot.’
‘So you drive for a living. You should know better than the average motorist.’
‘It’s the speedcameras. You can’t go anywhere without one of them clocking you.’
He handed the license back. ‘The speedcameras are there for a reason. I’ve followed you for over four miles, and all the way you were doing nearly fifty along thirtymilesperhour roads. If you’d knocked someone down at that speed, you wouldn’t be looking at a fine right now … you’d be looking at prison. So in some ways I’m doing you a favour, aren’t I?’
This was probably true, Alex reflected, feeling a tad guiltier than she had.
He paused. Though the beam of torchlight was angled into her face, Alex again had the distinct and rather creepy feeling that he was looking down at her thighs, which her knee-length skirt had exposed a little.
‘f I issue you with a fixed penalty notice now,’ he said, ‘that’ll be another three points on your license. That means you’ll have nine. One more strike after that and you’re disqualified.’
‘I know …’
‘That means every trip you take, not just on work time, but every time you go for a ride with your husband and kids, you’ll be on a kind of probation. You’ll be scared to death in case you get pulled over again. Be constantly worried about losing your job.’
Alex was well aware of this, but she couldn’t help wishing he’d get on with it. Okay, she’d crossed the line and would now have to pay the consequences, but she could have done without a lecture from someone who, by the sounds of him, wasn’t yet thirty.
‘Course, there’s one other possibility,’ he added.
‘There is?’ She tried not to sound too hopeful.
‘There are ways to pay your dues without having to cough up cash or speed points.’
‘I see …’ Alex’s heart sank. She immediately knew what he was implying. Somehow she could tell it from his body language, the way he was suddenly leaning towards her. She realised she ought to be outraged, but frankly she was just too weary. ‘And I wonder what those might be?’ she said.
‘No you don’t.’ His tone had softened, though there was still a degree of firmness there. ‘Worldly woman like you. Been here, there, everywhere. Who’s done it all … and probably more.’
She looked up at him, glimpsing a pale sickle of grinning teeth behind the torchlight. ‘Quite a charmer on the side, aren’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘I meet so many ladies in need of company. My heart bleeds for them. I just can’t help it … I always want to give them a second chance. Of course, some of them are too dumb even to take that. But it’s your choice.’ He reverted to ‘business mod
e’ with indecent speed. ‘The alternative is you go it your own way … and pay the price.’
‘And just out of interest,’ she said, ‘where were you planning to give me this second chance?’
He shone his torch past her into the back of the Corsa, but its rear seat was cluttered with boxes spilling leaflets, not to mention her suit jacket and the patent high heel shoes she’d worn for three toe-throbbing days on the conference stand. ‘Not much room back there.’ He grinned all the more. ‘Fortunately, there’s plenty in my car.’
‘So let’s get this absolutely clear,’ she said. ‘I mean, let’s not beat around the bush … though I suppose that’s what you’re planning to do?’
‘Well yeah, sort of.’ He chuckled, perhaps pleased to find that she was every bit the knowing lass he’d hoped for.
‘Just to be absolutely sure what kind of deal we’re making here … I get into that police car with you and let you have sex with me, and in return you don’t issue me with a speeding ticket? In fact, you forget this whole thing ever happened?’
‘That’s usually the plan.’
‘Usually? I see … so you make a habit of this?’
‘Helps pass the long, boring shifts.’
‘Okay … hmmm …’
‘One stipulation.’ He chuckled again; a hard, humourless sound. ‘You have to wear the high heels in the back there. I’m not interested if you’ve got those passion-killers on.’ He speared torchlight at her feet, which were currently clad in the tatty white sneakers she always wore for long-distance drives.
‘Well we can’t have you uninterested …’
‘And just in case you’re having trouble making your mind up …’ For the first time he shone the torch on to himself, revealing dark brows, a sharp, aquiline nose, green eyes, a lean, wolfish smile; no matinee idol, but somehow it worked. ‘This is what you’ll be getting.’
‘Cool,’ Alex replied. ‘And just so you know what you’ll be getting …’ She held up her Smartpen, the red light on the end of which revealed that it was on ‘record’. His grin collapsed like melting jelly; that alone was worth all the inconvenience he’d so far put her to. ‘Every single word of the conversation we’ve just had now exists for posterity!’
It was almost comical the way his mouth had sagged open, the way his eyes had half-glazed. He’d gone from man to goldfish in the space of a second.
‘So let’s me and you now make a new deal,’ Alex said, reverting to full on ‘Liverpool 8’. ‘You cocky little shit! You walk back to that fucking police car of yours. You don’t even look at me again, never mind say another word to me. And you drive away from here, and you keep on fucking driving for the rest of the night, and you never mention to anyone else, for any reason, that you caught me speeding. And maybe … maybe, I won’t feel the need to send a copy of this conversation to your superiors. PC …?’ She checked his epaulette. ‘PC 3841. So what do you say, eh?’
He mumbled something inarticulate.
‘I can’t fucking hear you!’
He mumbled something again. But now his expression was changing. A little of his youthful truculence was returning; but he was still pale-cheeked with shock, and that might not be a good thing. Not wanting him to do anything impulsive, Alex didn’t wait for his response. She switched on her ignition and threw the car into gear.
As she spun back out onto the blacktop, she glanced into her rear-view mirror. He was standing by the roadside, gazing after her, not – to her relief – dashing to his car to give pursuit, or putting his radio to his mouth to send a message ahead. It was difficult to imagine that any arrogant young pup like that, cop or otherwise, could be taught a lesson so easily. But she had him by the short and curlies – by Christ she did. She glanced again into her rear-view mirror. He was still on the roadside, now with hands on hips – still not following.
Did that mean she’d won?
Of course you’ve bloody won! What else would you call it?
A sense of exhilaration flooded through her. She laughed, but more with relief than glee. Despite the tough ‘Scouse girl’ persona, Alex’s heart had been thumping back there. She again glanced in the mirror. Thanks to a sweeping curve in the road, the cop and his car were no longer in sight. Meanwhile the country lane spooled out ahead, briefly straightening so that she could see at least as far along it as her headlights penetrated. It was early September, so everything was still in leaf. Bugs flitted across her path, bright blobs in the glare of her lights.
But where exactly was she going?
She still didn’t know. With her sat-nav on the blink, she realized that the only road map she had was lying in crumpled, oil-smeared tatters somewhere in the loaded boot.
She eased her foot off the gas, wondering if she’d been too hasty in her flight.
That cheeky bastard had been asking to get his nose pushed out. But instead of running like a frightened rabbit once she’d got him to back off, she should have asked him for directions; demanded to know where she was and which was the quickest way out. Instead, she was driving blind again, along tangled roads which seemed to exist without rhyme or reason, still a hundred miles from home, and – she glanced at her clock – it was now almost ten.
Alex swore under her breath.
She filched the mobile phone from the side pocket in the door – but calling Joe would serve no real purpose. He couldn’t consult a map on her behalf, or even go online and try to pull off an AA road guide, because she had no reference points to give him: she’d seen occasional huddles of farm buildings, but there’d been no lights in their windows and no village signs. The net result of calling home now would be to set Joe pacing the house – and with his blood pressure that wouldn’t be good.
She slowed the Corsa and pulled in against the side of the road, before flicking on the interior light. She felt incredibly isolated, her car a glowing capsule in a sea of empty darkness. She checked the sat-nav again, but dropping it into the footwell hadn’t helped. Its screen had cracked, and now she couldn’t even activate the power switch.
The way she saw it, she had two choices: she could carry on ploughing through the night, hoping to see something that might guide her. Or she could go back and ask the Traffic cop for directions.
She didn’t like the latter option, but increasingly, it looked like her only choice. No doubt he’d be stewing in his own juice by now, getting angrier and angrier about being bested by her. But what was he going to do? Confiscate the Smartpen? In effect rob her? He might fancy himself a Lothario, but she’d seen no sign that he was violent. If anything, when she’d first turned the tables on him he’d looked like a scared little lad. But just in case. she slid the Smartpen under her seat; he wouldn’t be able to put his hands on it even if he tried. Jesus, he might be glad to see her return, might be grateful for a chance to negotiate. Either way, she’d brazened it out with the officious little wanker once, so she could easily do it again.
Unhappily, she put the car back in gear and swung it around in a three-point turn.
By her reckoning she’d come about a mile since leaving him. He might not be there now, of course – she’d told him to piss off. But after driving nervously for several minutes, the road ahead curved to the right and she recognised several clumps of trees. This was the spot. As she rounded the bend, his vehicle came back into view in the lay-by. His interior light was on, but he was standing alongside his driver’s door – or at least somebody was. Alex was about forty yards away and approaching fast when she realised that the cop was actually in the driving seat. Whoever was standing on the road conversing with him through his window must have arrived since she’d left, because now she could see the sleek outline of another vehicle parked about ten yards behind his.
Good! In fact, ideal! He won’t try anything with someone else here.
Three bright flashes inside the police car suddenly distracted her.
Alex didn’t realise what they were until she heard the belated trio of gunshots. And even then sh
e at first dismissed the idea, or tried to. Numbness seeped through her as she drove forward. For the next few seconds she viewed events in staccato fashion, seeing the world as a procession of blurred freeze-frames:
The Traffic car and the standing figure approached on her right.
The figure was clad head-to-toe in black.
Its left arm was poked through the Traffic car’s window.
There was now no sign of the cop – had he slumped down?
The inside of his windscreen was filmed with crimson spatters …
Alex unconsciously decelerated, almost slowing to a halt as she glided incredulously past. The figure pivoted slowly around to watch her. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her approach because of the full head rapist mask he was wearing, complete with narrow slots for his eyes and a zipper where his mouth should be.
Then he was behind her, falling steadily away again.
Alex’s heart juddered in her chest. Her hands were like claws on the wheel.
They were playacting – they had to be. It was a game, some kind of rehearsal.
There was another flash and a loud report, and a massive impact on her rear window, one whole side of which spider-webbed. Even this failed to jerk Alex from her daze. She yelped and ducked, but it was pure instinct. Only when a second report followed, her right wing mirror exploding in shards and splinters, did she scream aloud and slam her foot down. The Corsa lurched forward as she worked up through the gears. At the same time she fumbled for her mobile, but her hand was slick with sweat.And as she caught a swirl of movement in the rear-view mirror, a long, sleek vehicle spraying gravel as it swung around on to the blacktop, the phone slipped from her grasp, bounced off the handbrake and landed somewhere in the darkened recess behind.
Alex screamed again, panic-stricken.
It was amazing how it concentrated your mind, knowing that one tiny slip could end your life. For all her fast driving at home, Alex had never taken hairpin bends at ultra high speed. But that was what she did now, tyres shrieking as she fishtailed around corners, a stench of burnt rubber filling her nostrils.
