The only thing she felt slightly guilty about was leaving Sorbie under the impression that she had thought up the padlock trick herself when in reality she’d remembered it from a crime story she had read years ago.
It wasn’t long until Mitchell emerged, carrying a box. Through her binoculars she could make out the picture of a DVD player on its side. Transferring the box to his left hip he hefted the heavy door shut with his shoulder, then hooked the padlock in place and snapped it shut one-handed. A conscientious tug to test it had fastened, then he walked left out of sight to where she knew his car stood. Moments later the Jaguar passed her field of vision going west in the direction of Mitchell’s home.
Once she was sure the cafe staff had all gone Fairfield didn’t waste any time. She had come prepared with gloves, pencil torch and a small digital camera that had excellent night vision. As she started across the car park, eyes fixed on the lock-up on the other side of the road, four young men heading towards the pub in high spirits called out to her. ‘You’re going the wrong way, sweetheart, the pub’s over there.’
‘Yeah, come and join us, come for a drink.’
Fairfield gave them a non-committal smile. And just in case they took further interest she kept walking until the pub was out of sight, allowing time for the lads to disappear inside, then walked back, crossed the road and sauntered up to the lock-up, making it look as though she belonged. The cold brass lock released after one turn of the key.
‘Open sesame.’
A huge, sprawling hive. A big, convoluted, up-and-down-switchback town full of noise, full of life, full of everything a man could want. Here were all the pubs and clubs, all the theatres and museums, restaurants and takeaways you could stomach. Its streets made you feel that anything might happen, to someone, somewhere, for some reason. He loved this city. He’d grown up here, knew every corner and alley as well as his adversaries did. Sometimes he knew them better, since he had made it his business to better them. He owned this place in a way an incomer like McLusky would never do, however long he hung about. Which is why he, Sorbie, would make a fist of it. An angry fist but one that served well. Career mattered, clear-up rates mattered, yet just fighting the war also mattered to him. They could never win the war, not even a police state could win this war, but you had to keep winning battles, at least some of them, keep putting the fear into them, or the streets would become unmanageable. Once that happened, ghettos and no-go areas would follow, parts of the city abandoned, handed over to the dregs of society to be administered by the criminally insane. It could happen. But it must not happen. Not here.
Which is why Sorbie was riding noughts and crosses around the areas not covered by CCTV in his spare time, listening to Control on his radio, waiting for business.
While waiting he worried about Kat. He should be there covering her back, but she had told him in such vehement terms to keep away that he had obeyed orders, reluctantly and under protest. By the same token he had kept his own crusade secret, knowing that she would disapprove, even disallow it. Now both of them were engaged in irregular warfare, by themselves, without back-up, each putting their own career in jeopardy. It didn’t make sense.
But how else …? He would never have got permission to go after the Mobile Muggers on a private bike, not without lengthy special training and as part of a wider operation. Not that he imagined himself to be as competent as a trained police rider, yet his confidence was growing. He’d ridden the bike every day for a week now and it all came back to him. Though this was only the second time he had seriously looked for business in the hours he knew the muggers operated in.
Sorbie completed another sweep that had taken him all the way from St Anne’s to Ashton Court. He was on his way back towards the centre, bemoaning the waste of petrol under his breath, when his radio spewed out the message he’d been waiting for.
The muggers had struck in an alley near a fish and chip shop, then ridden off on two scooters heading in his general direction. The victim had been badly beaten. An ambulance was on the way, a car was being routed to the area. Only the helicopter was not available again and without it they had little chance of picking them up.
Keeping his freelance status intact by leaving the radio unanswered Sorbie sped towards the area, riding just close enough to the speed limit not to attract too much attention. The last thing he needed was to get stopped by Traffic Division. If his mental calculations were right and luck was with him he might just run into them somewhere around Ashton Gate. He could already see from the absence of floodlights at the stadium that the area would be quiet apart from the main thoroughfares.
The raw noise of the engine gave him confidence. No scooter however fancy would be able to outrun him on this bike. From what he had seen of the scooter riders and their pathetic style they had never taken a bike test. Sooner or later one of them would crash and, if not, they should certainly be encouraged to.
Where the hell were they? Drab streets stretched in all directions. He hesitated at an ill-lit junction. Across the road from the midst of a rubbish landslide piled against the blind wall of a house a smouldering sofa sent up dismal smoke signals. A fine rain had begun to drift on the breeze and would soon extinguish it.
The radio under his jacket burbled. A Traffic unit had sighted them, not far from his own position. He turned right, hassling the bike towards the river. Soon he heard the disappointed voice of the pursuing officer on the airwave. ‘We’ve lost them now. Suspects drove between a couple of bollards down a footpath. We won’t catch them now on our own. Usual story. Do you want us to continue?’
‘Negative, Delta One, can you attend a disturbance in Stackpool Road instead …?’
Sorbie approved. They’d be less than useless and might get in his way. Better for the scooter guys to think they had shaken off any pursuit. Footpaths, alleys and cycle paths were a safe bet for them as long as there wasn’t a helicopter up. Even then they could split up, doubling their chances. The fact that they hadn’t been picked up so far showed that someone had given it some thought.
Tonight, without a helicopter, it would take busloads of officers to flush them out. Or one detective sergeant with a second-hand bike and a tankful of luck. Several intuitive corners and fast squirts of the throttle later, Sorbie’s luck appeared to hold.
Perhaps they didn’t know the area as well as they thought they did because there, a few hundred yards in front of him on the main road, ran two dark scooters side by side. ‘Past your bedtime, boys.’ He opened the throttle wide to catch them up.
He had underestimated the noise his engine would throw along the quiet evening streets. The already alert pillions both turned suspiciously and soon the scooters sped off around the next corner. Twenty seconds later he was there, in time to see them leave the road, cross the pavement and disappear across the grass behind a graffiti-covered sub-station. He gave chase. The grass was slippery and Sorbie was no off-road expert but the trail bike behaved impeccably and had the advantage over scooters made for city streets. Here was no man’s land, the dispiriting non-space between the tangles of uncrossable streets into which pedestrians had been forced. Nobody in their right mind walked here at night. Several streetlamps stood lightless, victims of a spate of air rifle shootings. Sorbie’s single headlight illuminated the litter-strewn paths and verges and allowed him to dodge the abandoned shopping trolleys and sagging cardboard boxes that had found their way here.