Grace smiled distantly, his focus entirely on his thoughts about Batchelor. He was distracted by a voice on the Ops-1 patch. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five. We have visual on subject vehicle entering the Shoreham flyover roundabout. Off at three. Now heading towards Shoreham.’
Then he heard Sherwood direct local division cars down to the coast road.
A male voice, presumably in the pursuit car, was calling out the speed. ‘Seven-zero in three-zero limit. Eight-zero in three-zero limit.’
Grace knew that stretch of road well. It was two-lane, residential, cars parked on both sides, only just room for two vehicles to pass each other in opposite directions. A 30 mph limit, and Batchelor was hurtling down it at eighty.
The officer’s voice suddenly shouted out, ‘Jesus, near miss, he’s driving like a lunatic, he’s passed an oncoming vehicle on the wrong side, driving along the pavement!’
‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Ops-1 said. ‘It’s too dangerous. Discontinue the pursuit. Maintain your course, but discontinue the pursuit.’
‘Yes, yes. We have pulled over and switched off our lights.’
‘Ops-1,’ Grace said, ‘is the helicopter available?’
‘I’ve already checked, Roy, it’s attending a serious injury RTC in Kent at the moment. Won’t be available for an hour, on their best estimate.’
‘What about the drone?’
Brighton Police used a drone to supplement their network of CCTV cameras around the city.
‘I’ve just alerted the duty Gold Commander and requested it. But we have CAA flight restriction issues — it can only overfly the coastline, not the city itself.’
‘Can you get it directed towards Shoreham?’
‘Yes, it’s being dispatched now.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Packham exclaimed.
‘What, Ray?’
‘He’s making a pretty explicit threat to her in this one.’
Then Kim Sherwood spoke again. ‘Subject vehicle has just pinged an ANPR camera on Albion Street, heading east.’
Into Brighton, Grace thought.
‘I have another divisional car that’s sighted him. He’s gone the wrong side of an island and run a red light.’
Just what was going on with Batchelor, Grace wondered? This was so utterly out of character — complete madness — if indeed it was him driving, and they still did not have confirmation of that. It was still possible someone had stolen the car, or kidnapped the DI. He just could not believe this was Batchelor. No way. This was not the gentle giant, Guy Batchelor, that he knew.
And it sounded like it was going to end badly.
He stood up, pulled on his jacket and grabbed his car keys. ‘Ops-1, I’m on my way into Brighton, will keep my radio live.’
‘He’s now passing Hove Lagoon, travelling on the wrong side of the Kingsway dual carriageway. Two oncoming vehicles have been forced off the road and crashed.’
Shit.
Leaving Packham in mid-sentence trying to tell him something, Grace raced out of his office.
108
Saturday 30 April
He just wanted to get home. To explain to Lena. But that wasn’t an option, he knew. He had to hide, lie low, lie doggo. Let it all calm down.
Lights were coming at him. Headlights straight at him. Street lights above him. He heard a siren wailing.
This is not me.
This is not happening.
In a minute I will wake up. All will be fine. I’ll be in bed, at home.
My nice luxurious bed.
A glass of wine and a cigarette. We’ll be laughing.
Oh yes!
We’ll just be laughing.
Why did I ever get involved with Lorna in the first place? I was having a good life with Lena. Why? Why? Why?
He leaned forward and switched on the Mondeo’s blue lights and siren, wondering why he hadn’t thought to utilize them sooner.
He swerved past a taxi, then undertook a car in front of it. A speed camera flashed at him.
Great, send me a ticket, do. I’m on a shout!
His speedometer read 70.
He was passing the King Alfred. Memories — Vallance Mansions directly across the road, to his left, where this nightmare had begun.
Moments later Hove Lawns were on his right. The darkness of the English Channel beyond. Brighton. His city. The place he worked to keep safe. Now he was a fugitive. It was all a mistake.
They’ll realize.
Oh, you are so smart, Roy Grace. I thought you were my friend. You’ve got to understand we can all make a mistake. Any of our lives can turn on a sixpence. Or whatever the damned smallest coin is now.
Headlights in his mirror.
Red traffic lights ahead.
Suddenly the engine spluttered.
No, no, no!
It picked up. A car was crossing the road ahead of him. He swerved right, around the front of it, ignored its angry horn.
Then spluttered again.
Don’t do this. Not yet. Please, not yet. I need a plan.
Plan B. Plan C. Plan D.
Keep moving.
Plan E.
Find a hiding place.
Plan F.
His radio crackled. All the radio chatter had been white noise up until now, but suddenly he heard a familiar voice. Except he didn’t sound the warm, friendly way he usually did. He was all cold, formal. Like the stranger he really was, and always had been.
‘Guy? This is Roy. Are you OK?’
The engine picked up. The car spurted forward, then slowed again. Then spurted.
He looked at the fuel gauge.
Flashing blue lights. Two police officers at the roadside signalling him, frantically.
He felt a rumble beneath him as if he had gone over a cattle grid. Heard four explosions, like gun shots, and the car veered, crazily left, then right.
He gripped the wheel, kept the accelerator floored. The car was snaking along the road, bumping along, the back end trying to come round and overtake the front. He fought the wheel, spinning it right, left, right. There was a loud flapping, slapping noise.
Bastards.
He’d driven over a stinger. All four tyres gone. Now he was driving on the rims.
The engine spluttered again and then picked up once more. 50 mph. He hurtled over another red light. The Metropole Hotel was coming up on his left. Followed by The Grand.
To his right, the latest addition to the Brighton landscape. The i360. The 162-metre-high observation tower. The world’s tallest moving observation tower, or something like that. It had a huge glass doughnut-like thing, an observation room, that rose up towards the top. A lot of people hated it. He thought it was cool.
It looked really cool right now.
Jump off the top of it? That would teach Roy Grace a lesson about—
About something.
You have to realize, Roy, that people make mistakes. OK? Didn’t you ever make a mistake?
Traffic was backed up in front of him.
There was a street coming up, to the left, just past The Grand.
Shit. A police car was parked across the entrance.
His engine died.
He pressed the accelerator, several times.
The car was coasting. Bumping along on the rims.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
He unclipped his belt, opened the door and rolled out onto the road — and hit the hard, wet surface with far more force than he had anticipated. He was flung over, rolling, rolling, rolling. Heard a massive bang. Then as he came to a halt and lay winded, he caught a glance of his Mondeo slewed at an angle, and another car, just ahead of it, almost sideways across the road, its rear end stoved in. The Mondeo’s blue lights were still flashing.