Carver pulled on the helmet, released the clips that held the bike to the floor of the van, pressed the ignition button, and drove the bike straight out the back of the van. Its shock-absorbers easily handled the impact as it landed on the grass outside, and then it spun on a sixpence as Carver pointed it towards the direction in which his quarry was travelling. But he didn’t head for the car park exit on to Church Road. Instead he revved the engine to a furiously loud chainsaw buzz as he steered between the lines of parked vehicles, racing over the grass, dodging pedestrians, squeezing so tightly between cars that his handlebars seemed to brush the paint-work on either side; all the time following the line of the road and keeping one eye out for any sign of Malachi Zorn.
Next door to the debenture holders’ car park was an area given over to the marquees used for corporate hospitality. Carver kept going, ignoring the outraged shouts of drunken businessmen as the nimble Honda zipped between the huge white tents. A man in a waiter’s uniform emerged from one of them, pushing a trolley laden with crates of empty wine bottles. He looked up in wide-eyed terror as Carver bore down on him, and let go of the trolley, which tipped over, spilling crates and bottles across Carver’s path. He slalomed and skidded through the sudden avalanche of glass and plastic, fighting to retain control as the rear wheel spun against the grass, before rocketing forward again as it regained traction.
He passed the last tent and headed into another one of the giant car parks, turning towards the exit this time and riding past a line of cars patiently waiting to leave, before forcing his way through the exit and left on to the road. As he passed the end of the tournament grounds, the road rose again up towards St Mary’s Church. The traffic was beginning to move a little faster. Carver swept past the church on to a road that ran between ranks of large suburban houses — hiding behind high brick walls, thick shrubs and trees, as if concealing their cosy, complacent prosperity from the passing hordes. He peered ahead, trying to spot the dove-grey Bentley. No joy. Then he heard a voice in his ear: ‘I’ve got visual contact, boss. He’s turning into Southside Common. Got to be less than two hundred metres away from me, maybe one fifty. What do you want me to do?’
‘Let him get closer. Jam the road. Then wait for my signal. On my way…’
‘Got it, boss.’
By Carver’s reckoning he was about four hundred metres from the turn into Southside Common. He needed to be there fast: fifteen seconds, twenty at most. He upped his pace still further, running flat out between the lines of traffic. Up ahead a bus had stopped, blocking the cars behind it and bringing the traffic to a crawl. Carver didn’t hesitate. He mounted the opposite pavement and kept moving, dodging metal bollards, waste-paper bins and another bus stop, muttering, ‘Sorry,’ as a mother pushing a stroller screamed and scrambled herself and her baby out of his way. On the far side of the bus the road was a little clearer, and Carver swung back down on to the tarmac. The houses on either side of the road were getting much smaller: little terraced cottages with lines of shops, galleries and estate agents scattered between them. He swung right, across a mini-roundabout and on to the crowded high street of Wimbledon Village, cutting up a yummy mummy in a BMW X5 and receiving a loud blare of the horn in exchange.
Almost there. He could yet make it. But only if Schultz and his mate did their bit.
75
Schultz spoke to Cripps. ‘You hear that, Kev? Get to work, son. Just act like a twat. Shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Ha-ha! I’m on it.’
Southside Common is a two-way street. For much of its length parking is allowed on either one or the other side of the road, but never both. So the traffic is inevitably slowed somewhat, as it has to swing first one way and then the other to get round the parked cars which form a series of bottlenecks. Cripps was halfway along one of these bottlenecks. And now he was going to put a cork in it.
Cripps looked in his rear-view mirror at the line of traffic coming towards him from behind. He could just see the Bentley, five cars back.
Another line of traffic was coming towards him in the opposite direction, slowing down to allow for the narrowed road where Cripps and the other cars were parked.
There were no obvious gaps in either line.
Cripps started his engine and signalled right. Without waiting for any response, he then swung the Mazda out into the traffic. The two cars nearest him slammed on their brakes. They came to a halt, barely a hand’s breath away from either side of Cripps, who had now got his car almost broadside across the road. The cars behind them braked, bumped into one another, blew their horns and flashed their lights. In a matter of a few seconds, a calm and steady flow of traffic had been reduced to chaos. Cripps grinned sheepishly at the drivers on either side of him and mouthed the word, ‘Sorr-eee…’ Then he put the car into reverse and attempted a three-point turn. Except that the road was too narrow and the cars around him too close to allow it.
So now he started shuffling the car back and forth, nodding idiotically at the driver in the car closest to him, who was screaming, ‘Turn the fucking wheel!’ through his windscreen and miming extravagant turning gestures. Cripps just ignored him, shuffling his car back and forth so that neither he nor anyone else could get anywhere.
In the Bentley, the chauffeur turned round to Malachi Zorn and said, ‘Sorry about this, sir. Some idiot’s trying to turn round in the middle of the road. Shouldn’t be long, and we’ll be on our way.’
Carver sped past dinky little restaurants for ladies who lunched, and fancy fashion boutiques for those who shopped. He ignored two red lights on pedestrian crossings and left a trail of startled, angry citizens in his wake. Up ahead he saw the Wimbledon war memorial, an obelisk topped by a cross that stood by the left-hand turn on to Southside Common. A line of cars was waiting to make the turn, but no one was moving. The traffic had come to a grinding halt. Carver kept going past the cars, barely slowing at all. He bore left past the memorial. The common was almost upon him. Time to get things moving.
One of the drivers being blocked by Kevin Cripps had got out of his car, and was walking angrily towards the Mazda. Cripps watched him come, smiling at the thought of the shock the man would get if he tried to pick a fight. Then he heard a voice in his ear.
‘This is Carver. Move!’
Now Cripps turned the wheel. In a couple of seconds he had floored the gas, turned hard right, and was racing away down the road, missing Carver by millimetres as he came the other way, gunning his bike down the middle of the road.
Schultz narrowed his eyes as the traffic started to move. In his hand he held a detonator switch, connected to the wire that led to the Krakatoa. One car came past the empty space where the Mazda had been. Then two… three… four… now he could see the Bentley. It was nosing forward cautiously, the chauffeur conscious of both the bulk and value of the car he was driving. The last thing he wanted to do was scratch the bodywork.
Now the Bentley was almost filling Schultz’s line of sight.
Schultz pressed the switch.
The high-explosive powder blew, destroying the grey plastic canister. At the same time, the intensely focused heat and power of the blast worked a terrible magic on the copper disc, transforming it into a slug of near-molten metal that speared through the air and hit the front of the Bentley with the force of an artillery shell. It punched a hole the size of a fist in the car’s side-panel, then smashed into the engine with a brutal power that instantly reduced a marvel of precision engineering to mere shrapnel and scrap metal.