Borreson said that he understood. He said it over and over.
‘I know you do, Mr Borreson,’ she said.
Outside Borreson’s mansion, Betina and Adidas Man could hear distant sirens, but the surrounding foliage was too high for them to see any accompanying blue lights. Betina instructed Adidas Man to bin the clothes he was wearing and head back to his bike. He asked about letting ‘the woman’ go, but Betina insisted that there was no time. ‘They’re on to us. We need to run. Now. Leave them both for the police to find.’
The CCTV officer flicked from camera to camera, following the pre-determined escape route back past Ascott-under-Wychwood train station, via the temporary traffic lights.
Nothing.
Jack shook his head. ‘No, they won’t leave the same way they came in. Not now they know we’re on to them.’ All he could think of was that with every passing second Betina, Alberto and Adidas Man were getting further away. ‘Find me another route out!’ The cameras flicked between shots until — ‘Stop!’ Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Betina’s white Mercedes! ‘Track that car and keep sending the coordinates to my mobile. Have we got a helicopter?’ Gifford looked sheepish and said that it had been diverted to a higher priority case at the last minute. ‘Then contact the tourist helicopter that was using the far field,’ Jack snapped. ‘I need it on the ground by the time I get there!’
Jack ran as if his life depended on it. He was not going to be outsmarted by Betina and Alberto Barro, and whoever the hell Adidas Man turned out to be. He lurched from dizzy to clear-headed and back again as he ran. His skull throbbed beneath the bloodied bandage and his mind raced as fast as his body. How the hell did De Voe’s gang get ahead of the police? Did they know they were being watched or was De Voe just playing the odds? What if Betina had seen Jack in the Cotswolds — not today, but days or even two weeks ago — and then recognised him when he went undercover as Richard Delaware? What if De Voe had always known that Jack was a copper and this fiasco was all his fault?
Up ahead, Jack saw the helicopter circling and turning into the wind before and smoothly descending in a vertical hover, until it danced to a halt on the grass.
A sky-blue Ducati Panigale approached a T-junction on an empty back road. To the rider’s left was a sharp bend so even though he thought the road was clear, he had no option but to stop. Before he could pull away again, Alberto stepped into the road in front of him, with his hand in the air and a smile on his face. The rider instinctively lifted his visor, assuming Alberto needed help. Alberto looked apologetic, as though he was lost and needed to ask for directions, but when he got within arm’s length of the rider, Alberto quickly punched through the open visor. The rider’s body shuddered, as though having a seizure. When Alberto pulled his hand away, a small knife could be seen protruding from in between his forefinger and middle finger. Alberto deftly caught the bike as the rider slid lifelessly from it, then removed the helmet, shook the blood from inside it, climbed onto the bike and sped away.
In Jack’s pocket, his mobile phone started pinging as the requested coordinates for the Merc updated. Jack climbed into the back of the helicopter and put on his headphones. The pilot had no clue what was going on: all he’d been told was that he’d been commandeered by the police and was to follow the instructions of the officer who’d meet him at the helipad. But Jack, with his head wound and blood-soaked collar, was not what he was expecting.
Jack handed over his mobile phone and said three words that, in seventeen years as a police officer, he’d never actually uttered before: ‘Follow that car.’
Chapter 24
Bjarne Kristiansen was a Norwegian Army Reserve helicopter pilot who, in recent years, had earned his living from flying around the same patch of sky, repeating the same script about local landmarks and places of interest, or ferrying people from A to B like a taxi. He couldn’t complain about the money, but he found it frustrating when his EC12 °Colibri was capable of so much more. He was proud of his skills and could make her dance; he just never got the opportunity. Until tonight.
Bjarne tucked Jack’s mobile securely between his thighs, so that he could see the screen, and took off, feeling a surge of adrenaline he hadn’t experienced for a long time. As soon as he was off the ground, he tipped the nose down and accelerated forwards, flying so low that Jack could have sworn his blades were going to decapitate the crowd. Bjarne followed the constant positional updates along the back roads running parallel to the A429.
‘I reckon they’re headed for the M4,’ he said.
‘That’s what we expected. But get a bit higher. I don’t want them to know we’re here,’ Jack told him.
‘Don’t worry, she’s as quiet as a mouse. They won’t know what’s hit them,’ Bjarne reassured him.
Once Betina’s Mercedes hit the M4, CCTV back at the church hall began to receive clearer footage of the car. Jack instructed Bjarne to share his own contact details with Gifford, so that Jack could take his mobile back in order to make a phone call.
Ridley was in one of four unmarked police cars near the westside junctions of the M25. He’d also been getting updates relayed directly to him from Gifford, and although it was currently looking as if the Merc might stay on the M4 all the way to the M25, Ridley certainly wasn’t committing all of his resources to that option until he knew for certain; there were simply too many opportunities for Betina to turn off and disappear. After their brief strategic catch-up, Jack swiftly changed the subject. ‘Do me a favour please, sir...’
But Ridley already knew what Jack was going to ask him.
‘DI Mason is in an induced coma. His skull’s fractured — well, shattered really; it’ll need a plate putting in. But he’s stable. They’ll keep him sedated until the swelling on the brain goes down, then they’ll be able to see what’s what. Bevan’s with him. She’s fine.’
From the doorway, Lee watched Mason being worked on in resus. Bevan was tucked into the corner, out of the way. An array of machines monitored Mason’s vital signs, one pushing air into his lungs and another keeping him hydrated. His body didn’t have to do anything except heal.
Lee’s anger was impossible to hide. This case had got away from him because he’d been distracted by stupid personality clashes. That was all Jack’s fault because... well, if it wasn’t, then it was his own fault and Lee couldn’t live with that. Mason almost dying could not be Lee’s fault.
As a nurse scurried into resus with a portable X-ray machine, Lee spotted Hearst coming down the corridor towards him.
In an instant, Lee was back in professional mode. ‘I’d better get back to the station,’ he said as she approached. Hearst put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not here to drag you back. You stay as long as you need to.’
In truth, Lee didn’t want to stay any longer with Mason, because it just made him feel guilty. And angry. He wanted to get back to work. He shook his head.
‘Bevan’s got the bedside vigil thing pretty much covered. I’m sure he’d rather wake up to her face than mine.’
Hearst nodded. ‘OK then.’ As they headed out together, Hearst brought Lee up to date. ‘We have seven vans, each with two full cages, sitting in the car park waiting to be processed. We’re having to double up in the cells, but what the hell. We’ve got a couple of runners, who we’re following towards London. But between us and the Met, we’ll scoop them up.’