The car skidded again, great geezers of mud spraying up behind it, but Dexter, his face covered by a thin sheen of sweat, kept control and sped on across the field.
Finn, his face set in an attitude of concentration, followed. The Citroen hit the bank and hurtled through the air, banging down in the muddy field.
The police car wasn't so lucky.
The driver, either because of misjudgement or fear, eased up his speed and the car hit the bank. But instead of sailing through the air, it nose-dived into the mud, the rear end toppling over until the entire vehicle crashed onto its roof, metal buckling under the impact.
Finn saw in his rear-view mirror that the other car had come to grief but he was more concerned with the Sierra now, roaring away from him across the field.
Surely, he thought, Dexter would have had more chance of outrunning him on an ordinary road. The muddy field could only slow him down.
What the hell was he playing at?
The cars roared on.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
How easy it would be to turn the gun on himself. To push the barrel of the.357 into his mouth and squeeze the trigger.
End the pain forever.
So simple.
Scott sat behind the wheel of the Rover, his head spinning, his vision clouding. And all the time there was the pain, gnawing away at him like some parasite feeding off his brain.
Take the gun and bite down on the barrel, taste the gun oil and the metal, then fire.
He could picture his own head exploding as he fired. Could feel the blissful oblivion. Could see himself at peace.
Could…
Fuck it.
No. He would not die yet. He refused to give up now. He had come too far, gone through too much to get to where he was now.
He gazed across the road towards the block of luxury flats where Ray Plummer lived. The one at the top. The penthouse flat. The pinnacle.
What had Cagney said in that film? 'Made it, Ma, Top of the World'. And then…
Scott pulled the Smith and Wesson from his belt, worked the slide and chambered a round. Then he jammed the pistol back into his belt and reached for the.357, flipping out the cylinder, checking that every chamber was filled with its deadly hollow-tipped load.
He was satisfied.
So it had come to this. His quest was almost over. He felt like some kind of medieval adventurer, some searcher after a lost treasure who could see that prize just yards away.
His prize was revenge.
It had kept him alive so far. Now he needed to claim that prize.
Scott swung himself out of the car, leaning against it for a moment as a fresh wave of pain hit him.
Keep me alert.
Stop the pain. Just for a while.
If he'd believed in God he might well have whispered a prayer.
Stop the pain.
He began walking, heading towards the entrance to the small block of flats.
Just for a while.
Just until…
He walked with his head down, gazing at the floor, only looking up as he reached the opposite pavement.
Had he looked up he might well have seen Ray Plummer watching him from the top window.
Scott reached the main entrance and slipped inside, pausing as he looked first towards the lift, then the stairs.
Which way to approach the penthouse?
If he took the lift he would be a sitting target as soon as the doors slid open. At least the stairs offered a modicum of cover.
He began to ascend.
Scott moved slowly, to minimise the sound of his footsteps. As he reached the second landing he pulled the 459 from his belt.
The doors on the other landings were closed, shut tightly like the eyes of onlookers at an accident who don't wish to see the carnage.
He reached the third landing.
One more left and he would have reached the penthouse.
He paused.
***
One floor above him, crouching at the top of the stairs, was John Hitch.
He had the Beretta 92S loaded and ready.
He listened as Scott ascended.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
'Get out of the fucking way.'
DI Frank Gregson banged the steering wheel furiously and roared at the car in front of him.
The learner who was driving the car had stalled at traffic lights and was now endeavouring to get the vehicle restarted as traffic built up behind.
Gregson glanced up and saw that the lights were about to change to red.
He would be stuck.
'Come on, come on,' he snarled.
The car in front remained stationary.
The lights were on amber.
Gregson reversed a few feet, almost bumping the radiator grille of an Audi behind him, whose driver now shouted at him. He then swung the Ford Scorpio around the back of the learner and, as the lights changed to red, shot across the junction, beating the oncoming stream of vehicles, ignoring the chorus of indignant hooter blasts that accompanied his move.
He floored the accelerator and drove on, swerving to avoid some pedestrians who had stepped out into the road.
The car sped on towards Kensington Road.
Gregson didn't know if he would be in time; he could only try and reach Ray Plummer's flat before Jim Scott.
The helicopter had landed back at New Scotland Yard less than twenty minutes ago. Gregson had gone straight to the armoury and checked out a Taurus PT-92 automatic and three magazines of 9mm ammunition. He'd been told that Commissioner Sullivan wanted to see him but he'd ignored the order, saying he must get to Plummer.
Scott, he already knew, had destroyed one of Plummer's restaurants and one of his clip joints. It seemed only logical that he should now go after the man himself.
Gregson tried to coax more speed from the Scorpio, but ahead of him, coming into Kensington High Street, the traffic was slowing down again.
He had called once already for armed back-up, given the address of Plummer's flat.
Would he be too late?
There had been no answer yet.
He snatched up the radio, banging the hooter with his free hand as a car turned left ahead of him without indicating, causing him to brake hard.
'This is Lima 15, do you read me?' he rasped.
'Lima 15, go ahead.'
'I asked for back-up, armed back-up to some flats in Kensington. Where the hell is it?'
Silence for a moment, just the hiss of static.
'What address was that, Lima 15?' he was asked.
Gregson gave the address again.
'What the fuck are you playing at there? I need those men fast. Do you understand?' he added angrily. 'Affirmative, Lima 15. A unit is on its way…' Gregson snapped off the handset and replaced it, speeding on, cursing again when the traffic came to a standstill. He glanced to his right and left, thought about guiding the car up onto the pavement. No, too many fucking pedestrians about.
He looked at his watch again.
Something told him he was too late.