Fairfield moved back to the darkest corner while Mitchell’s distorted shadow jumped jerkily across the back wall as he made his tea. Mitchell’s mobile chimed. ‘Yeah, what the fuck happened to you, where were you? I waited for you … Oh, for fuck’s sake. On a motorbike? What did you have to mess with him for? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Stay where you are and I’ll pick you up. What a complete fucking mess.’ A change of tone suggested the phone call had been terminated and Mitchell was on the move and talking to himself now. ‘Fucking morons. Brainless stupid thugs. Psycho fucking junkies. You just can’t get the fucking staff.’
A scrape followed by a metallic groan and clang left Fairfield in darkness once more, yet breathing more easily. Almost immediately the van’s engine started next door. As soon as she was sure Mitchell had driven off she switched on her pen light and let herself out at the front. The original padlock clicked into place. She gave it a quick wipe, snapped off her gloves and walked towards the Railway Tavern. Even as she dialled the CID room’s number she was beginning to feel as though she had unexpectedly recovered from a long illness. There seemed to be more oxygen in the air, too. ‘Dearlove, just the man I was looking for. DI Fairfield. Listen, Deedee — yes, I know it’s the end of your shift but speed is of the essence here. Listen, I had an anonymous tip-off about the Mobile Muggers …’ She rattled off a list of what she wanted, from the officers required to form a welcome committee at the warehouses to an arrest warrant for Ady Mitchell. Then she tried DS Sorbie’s mobile and got a service message — his number was unavailable.
There was not much time for strategy. Sorbie’s bike leapt forwards, the front wheel briefly lifting as the acceleration pushed it towards his adversaries with a satisfying growl. The higher the speed the more stable the machine. He raced up through the gears. The overloaded scooter screamed towards him on the clear strip of concrete in the centre of the tunnel, the pillion brandishing a piece of lead piping in his right hand like a mace. Nothing in his left though, he was holding on with that. As the gap rapidly closed between the two machines each occupied the left margin of the centre as though traffic rules still mattered. ‘Tales of the unexpected, morons!’ At the last possible moment Sorbie cut across the oncoming scooter’s path, causing the rider to swerve to his right. His pillion swivelled to get a right-handed swing at him on the wrong side. It was enough. The scooter bounced into a pile of rubbish at 30 mph, spat off its passengers and crumpled as it slid along the wall.
For a few breathless seconds Sorbie’s own bike snaked and bucked in the rubbish until the wheels regained the tarmac of the path at the exit of the underpass where he braked hard. His hot breath had steamed up the visor. He flipped it up and looked back into the dusk of the tunnel. The other scooter rider was performing a wobbly turn, abandoning his crashed team mates. ‘No honour among thieves.’ His own turn was hardly less ragged but once back on tarmac there would be no contest. He’d kick the bastards off their scooter and run over their sorry arses if they still had a mind to get up afterwards. He stopped beside the crashed riders, noting with satisfaction that both of them remained on the ground. It looked like broken ankles to him. For a moment he hesitated. He had two in the bag, not a bad night’s work. But his adrenalin demanded the chase go on. These two wouldn’t scoot much for a while anyway. He left them lying in a cloud of his exhaust.
By now there was no sign of the other scooter. Back in the sodium light of the road he stopped again, visualizing the streets, putting himself in the other rider’s shoes. He rode off, sprinted along for a bit, then circled a roundabout, still thinking. He’d only get one shot at it … Then he knew: they’d be running north on Clanage Road then sneak back on the cycle path along the river. It was what he would do. He opened the throttle and dialled through the gears in pursuit. Traffic was light. Easily overtaking several cars he quickly reached the access point for the cycle path, a narrow stone bridge across the railway cutting.
Like magic their solitary rear light came into view after only a few moments on the cycle path. ‘Shouldn’t have stopped to chat, boys.’ They were running fast from the sound of the pursuing bike. Despite his efforts he lost direct sight of his quarry several times, such was the speed at which the fleeing rider negotiated the turns of the narrow path. Surely the guy had to crash out any second now even without his help? Should he let him go, return to the crashed riders and make sure of those two? He slowed down. Call an ambulance? They might need one. At least he hoped they needed one.
What was he thinking? They could use a bloody mobile and call their own. He speeded up again. Here the cycle path skirted the river which was at high tide and swollen from weeks of relentless rain. There was no exit until the harbour basin, they didn’t stand a chance, he would soon catch up, just had to concentrate now. Vegetation to the right, the river close to the left, Sorbie knew at these speeds there was little margin for error. He put a spurt on, getting flayed by the vegetation crowding the path. He nearly had them now, bouncing along at panic speeds. Sorbie opened the throttle further. Each time the fleeing rider looked over his shoulder to measure the ever-closing distance to his pursuer the scooter weaved dangerously on the narrow path. Nearby streetlights now illuminated parts of it and the dark, muddy waters of the turgid river. He closed the gap. Twenty … ten … five yards, this was it, he had them now. Sorbie got ready, his foot itching to deliver the kick that would destabilize the scooter. The pillion turned round, his face invisible behind the visor, but his panic obvious as he slapped the rider’s shoulder. The rider looked back and in doing so swerved right. Trying to straighten up he overcompensated and ran out of road. As the scooter carried rider and pillion over the water’s edge at over 40 mph each assumed a separate trajectory. The scooter buried itself in the black waters with a crash and hiss, followed by the rider’s somersault. The pillion hit the surface in a helpless tangle.
Sorbie braked hard then looked back. In the gloom he could see very little on the water. He turned and directed his beam at the crash site. The scooter had disappeared. One helmeted shape frantically splashed and thrashed about, shouting something. Sorbie turned off his engine but kept the lights on.
‘I can’t swim! Help! I can’t … fucking … swim!’
There was no sign of the second mugger. The helmet dipped under water, arms thrashed, a wordless scream. Even a proficient swimmer might have trouble swimming after a crash, clothes and boots heavy with water and wearing a helmet, probably injured. The figure bobbed up again, coughing, screeching. ‘Help me!’
Still no sign of the other one. And all that was holding this one up was probably the expanded foam in his helmet. Sorbie swung the handlebar to direct the light here and there but nothing was visible on the surface apart from bits of plastic debris from the scooter and the thrashing figure of the drowning man. He had sounded like a teenager. Now he was just gurgling and retching. Sorbie looked about him. Just when you needed some rubbish to throw in the water for the bastard to hold on to there was none around. He took off his helmet. ‘Ah shit.’ The black, oily water didn’t look inviting. ‘Tell me it’s nice and warm in there, you bastard.’ Quickly he shrugged off his jacket and grappled with the zips of his boots. He dropped them disconsolately just as the mugger’s helmet disappeared under the surface. ‘Oh shit. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.’ DS Sorbie jumped feet first towards the empty spot where the man had slid under.