Weatherley looked awkward. ‘I can tell you it’s not DS Exton. I’m afraid the images were not brilliant, as you said. If it’s OK with you I’d like to take them back to my office and see how much further we can enhance them.’
‘Yes, we can burn them on a disk or email them to you.’
Weatherley glanced at his watch. It was 6.45 p.m. ‘Email is fine and I’ll work on them first thing in the morning.’
‘Thanks, Tim, I really appreciate your help.’
Batchelor stood up. ‘Tim, I’ll show you back out to your car. When you get to the gates the barrier will open automatically.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
As the two men left his office, Grace sat down at his desk, puzzled. Weatherley had definitely seen something in the footage, but why, he wondered, was he being so reticent?
Five minutes later he got an answer, but not the one he was expecting. A text pinged on his phone that stopped him in his tracks. It was Weatherley’s number, he recognized it from earlier.
Roy, you asked me to be discreet, which is why I said nothing after the meeting. Call me as soon as you are alone in the office.
Grace read it with growing panic. What did he mean by this? Did he mean that it was someone else he had seen here at Police HQ — or, God forbid, one of his team?
He immediately dialled Weatherley’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. He left him a message asking him to call him very urgently, and sent him a text as well.
97
Saturday 30 April
Before joining the Super Recognizer Unit, Tim Weatherley had spent seven years in the Metropolitan Police Road Policing Unit. Like most of his fellow officers during that period, he attended his share of ‘fatals’ — as collisions resulting in one or more deaths were colloquially known. And he had come to learn which vehicles stood up best in accidents, in terms of protecting their occupants. That was the reason he drove a sturdy Volvo, which he always chose from the police car pool, and insisted that his wife, who ferried their young children to school and back daily, drove them in another large slab of Volvo.
He had discovered his Super Recognizer skills whilst out on patrol, where a big part of the job was observing the occupants of passing cars, checking to see if they were known villains, or not wearing seat belts, or on their mobile phones. His colleagues began to realize, gradually, that he had an almost uncanny ability to spot wanted villains, in almost any light and even in heavy rain. It earned him the nickname Catseyes. A couple of years later, word of his abilities reached Detective Chief Inspector Mick Neville who was recruiting for the Scotland Yard Super Recognizer Unit.
Now, as he followed the snaking ribbon on the TomTom on his dash, taking him away from the Sussex Police HQ, over a couple of junctions and several roundabouts, through a long tunnel, where the pelting rain momentarily stopped, and then onto the A27, he was feeling conflicted and very distracted by the footage he had just viewed.
He was as certain as he could be who the man in the video was, just from the shape of his nose and chin. The implications were immense.
The wipers swished across the screen in front of him, barely keeping up with the rain that was coming down even harder now. He was very distracted by his thoughts, and concentrating so hard on what he could see through the rain and spray of the road ahead that for some minutes he did not look in his mirrors. If he had, he might have noticed a car had followed him out of the Police HQ, and was now a discreet three vehicles behind him in the rapidly falling dusk.
He heard the ping of an incoming text and saw the screen of his phone, in the well behind the gear lever, light up. But, having attended too many accidents caused by people looking at texts whilst driving, he ignored it, despite his curiosity. He would pull over when he saw a layby and check it then, in safety, he decided. Then he yawned.
It had been a long week. He looked forward to a relaxing evening with Michelle. Earlier, whilst he had been waiting to see Superintendent Sloan, he had downloaded the menu of the restaurant they had decided on for their anniversary dinner, and had chosen what he would eat. Scallops with black pudding, followed by aged Black Angus rib-eye. Or possibly the rack of spring lamb.
He was salivating at the thought.
They were going by taxi, and he looked forward to having a few drinks. A glass or two of Prosecco, then a rich red wine — perhaps a Spanish Rioja.
Stopping in a line of traffic at a roundabout, he glanced down at his phone, which was plugged into the hands-free, and hit the speed-dial button.
Moments later, accelerating away from the roundabout, he heard the ringtone, followed by his wife’s voice.
‘Hi, love, how are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m on my way, baby. Satnav says ETA of 8.23.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘I love yooooooooooo!’
‘Drive safely.’
‘I thought I’d drive like one crazy sonofabitch craving his wife.’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘That’s why you love me, isn’t it?’
Suddenly, approaching a left curve at speed, he heard a massive bang right behind him, that resonated through the car, and simultaneously felt a violent jolt that shook every bone in his body. The steering wheel spun right, windmilling through his hands.
Shit! Shit! What had happened? What had he hit? Had someone hit him?
The car was lurching sideways, the seat moving beneath him.
The steering wheel was spinning the opposite way now.
Then it reversed again.
The Volvo was fishtailing; it slewed sideways, heading towards the crash barrier in the middle of the road, struck it and bounced off.
He fought the wheel and the car fishtailed left this time, then right, then left again, in a massive tank-slapper, hurtling now towards the side of the road, throwing him against the door.
Straight at a hedge.
And suddenly.
Oh shit.
The howling of tyres.
The hedge hurtling towards him.
He was no longer the driver, he was a passenger.
The hedge.
The tyres were biting.
Gripping.
He felt the door against his shoulder again. Shit, shit, shit. They were going over. Rolling. Rumbling. He saw tarmac. Heard drumming. Saw sky. Tarmac. Grass. Sky. Cracks in front of him. Cracked glass. Like spiders’ webs. Sky. Tarmac. Grass.
Jesus.
He was going to die.
Metallic rumbling.
Sky.
Rumbling.
Then silence.
Complete silence. Just a ticking sound. He felt dazed. Lay still. Blinked.
I’m alive.
He was hanging from the seat belt.
‘Tim? Tim? Tim?’
His wife’s voice, faint and panicky. Where was she?
‘Tim, what’s happening, Tim? Tim? Are you all right, love — Tim?’
Above him. Was he hallucinating?
Then he realized. His mobile phone was lying on the roof lining. He tried to reach it but he was restrained by his seat belt and it was too far away. ‘I’m OK!’ he shouted, his voice sounding shaky as hell. ‘I’m OK, darling. Just a — bit of a—’
Need to get out, he thought, beginning to panic. In case of fire. Although he knew that cars rarely caught fire when they rolled, that was in movies only.
‘Darling, I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes,’ he shouted, fumbling for the seat-belt catch. Then he stopped. Idiot! Do not release it.
He’d seen people needlessly paralysed after roll-over accidents because they panicked, unclipped their belts and dropped six inches onto their heads, breaking their necks in the worst place.
He heard the ticking again. A steady tick-tick-tick.
The fuel pump. He reached across and turned the ignition off. Then he raised his right hand and braced himself against the roof of the car. Only when he was confident he was taking his weight did he fumble for the catch with his left hand and pop it. Then, as he gently lowered himself down onto the roof, he heard his wife’s voice again. ‘Tim? Can you hear me? Tim?’