The bike was heading towards the junction of Panton Street and Whitcomb Street. Leicester Square lay just beyond.
From an underground car park ahead a van emerged, reversing in front of the bike. The rider didn't hesitate, merely gunned the engine and sent the Bonneville rocketing up onto the pavement once more, ignoring the two people who had just emerged from the Pizzaland on the corner. He struck one. The other managed to jump back but hit the window of the restaurant and the glass gave way. There was a loud crash as he fell backwards through the clear partition, sprawling across a table as glass rained down on him.
'Oh Christ,' murmured Davies.
The bike spun to the left again, up Whitcomb Street, still against the traffic.
Foster twisted the wheel and the rear of the Rover skidded on the wet ground, spinning round to slam into the side of the van. A jarring thud seemed to run the length of the vehicle, and both policemen winced, but Foster floored the accelerator and sped after the bike.
The rider did not once afford them even the most cursory glance. He was hunched over the handlebars, gripping the throttle, seemingly oblivious to the cars he sped past in the wrong direction. The wind streamed into his face, sending his shoulder-length hair flapping out behind him as he rode.
The street seemed to be filled with a cacophony of blaring hooters and shouts or screams as pedestrians found themselves forced to leap from the pavements as the Bonneville surged along, its rider oblivious to those he struck.
Ahead he saw a man snatch a child up into his arms and duck down beside a parked car, shaking as the police car also passed within a whisker of them.
Another police car was approaching from the left, lights and sirens joining its companion in a discordant melody.
The motorcyclist paused for a moment then sped off up Wardour Street, past the Swiss Centre, pursued now by two police cars.
'Units covering from Shaftesbury Avenue,' a metallic voice informed Davies. 'Give your position.'
He did just that, almost dropping the handset as Foster sent the car slamming into the side of a passing transit, sparks spraying into the air as metal grated on metal. A hub-cap came free, Davies didn't know from which vehicle, and went spinning across the road.
Many pedestrians had now stopped on the roadside and were watching the chase. Others walked on, ignoring it. More than one tourist hurried to take photos.
The Bonneville was speeding towards the traffic lights at the top of the street, leading into Shaftesbury Avenue.
They were on red.
'Right, you bastard,' snarled Davies.
The rider worked the throttle and gathered speed.
Still red.
The needle on the speedo of the motorbike touched sixty. The bike shot across the lights as if fired from a cannon.
'Keep going,' yelled Davies, watching the bike speed past an oncoming Sierra, causing the driver to brake suddenly. There was a loud crash as a Cortina close behind slammed into the back of the other car. The Sierra was shunted forward, rolling towards the onrushing police car.
Foster swung the car round and paint ripped from the rear of the vehicle as it scraped the front bumper of the Sierra. But they were clear of the crossroads, heading up Wardour Street now, the motorbike still trailing exhaust fumes, the police sirens still wailing. Behind them the second car had narrowly missed the pile up in Shaftesbury Avenue and it, too, was in pursuit. From a side street Foster glimpsed another motorbike, a white one.
A police bike.
One second was all it took.
One second of broken concentration, then he heard Davies screaming a warning.
As he looked back through the windscreen he saw a man step in front of him.
THREE
The police car was doing fifty when it hit the pedestrian.
The impact catapulted the man into the air where he seemed to hang, as if magically supported, for several seconds before crashing back to earth, bones splintered and blood pouring from several ragged gashes. He rolled over in the gutter and lay still.
Davies looked back over his shoulder to see that the second police car had pulled up and one of the officers was getting out to look at the luckless soul.
'Jesus, Jesus fucking Christ,' shouted Foster, his face a mask of horror and revulsion. 'I couldn't stop. I couldn't…' He was breathing heavily, his face as white as milk. Davies said nothing; he merely gripped the handset and watched as the motorcycle policeman cruised up closer to the fleeing Bonneville.
He was almost level with his quarry when the rider reached inside his jacket and pulled out the automatic.
'No,' shouted Davies, as if in warning.
He saw the pistol being raised, pointed at the head of the motorcycle policeman.
The rider of the Bonneville fired once.
The high velocity round powered into the face of the other rider, blasting through the right cheek, pulverising the zygoma. At such close range the lethal bullet exploded from the policeman's skull through the left occipital bone, even blasting through his helmet, which filled with blood. Portions of bone and smashed helmet flew into the air, carried on a geyser of crimson.
The bike merely flopped hopelessly to one side, colliding with a stationary car. The policeman was hurled from the seat, sprawling across the bonnet, blood spattering the windscreen.
The Rover sped past the body.
'Lima Six come in.'
The voice on the two-way, startled Davies and he' jerked in his seat, hesitating a moment before answering.
'Lima Six, go ahead, over,' he said breathlessly, still watching the escaping motorcyclist up ahead.
'Lima Six, be advised that Oxford Street and all roads leading off it are now closed by other units,' the voice told him.
Now there's nowhere for him to go, Davies thought triumphantly. Nowhere else to run, you bastard.
'Lima Six, do you read? Over.'
'Understood, we will continue pursuit. Over and out.' He jammed the handset back onto its clip on the dashboard and leant forward slightly. 'Let's get this fucker,' he hissed.
The rider had still not looked behind him. Only when he reached Oxford Street did he glance over his shoulder, to see that the Rover was gaining on him. He looked right and left and noticed that there were two police cars moving towards him from the direction of Charing Cross Road. Ahead of him Berners Street was blocked; he could see police cars and uniformed men moving about on the pavement. Half a dozen of them moved towards him.
He turned the bike to the left, revved the engine and sped off down Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus.
The Rover came hurtling out of Wardour Street, wheels squealing on the tarmac as Foster struggled to keep it under control. He succeeded and the car roared off after its prey like a predatory animal in search of its next meal.
Traffic on both sides of the road had been halted; the only vehicles moving were the motorbike and the pursuing Rover.
Pedestrians stood, immobilised by shock, staring. From the safety of their own vehicles other drivers watched the chase, some with amusement, some with irritation. Always bloody traffic hold-ups in Central London.
A thought suddenly struck Davies.
He snatched up the two-way.
Ahead of them the Bonneville was slowing down, the rider swinging it round so that it was facing the shops. Onlookers scattered in terror as he revved up, looking towards the oncoming Rover.