Meanwhile, the cop I've just evicted from his vehicle is signalling to his colleagues and they come to a halt, realize what's happened, and speed up again, sirens blaring. By this time I'm at the junction and I don't slow down. Instead, I put my foot flat on the floor and go straight across, glimpsing as I do a couple of armed officers on foot taking aim at the car's tyres.
I'm through and out of sight before a shot's fired, but time's not on my side. There are three police helicopters on permanent standby for the London area. They're based at Lippitt's Hill Air Base, not much more than three minutes' flying time from where I am now, and as soon as one of them joins the pursuit, I'm effectively finished. There's no escape from the flying eye and, unfortunately, the cop car behind me is catching up fast. He comes up right behind me until he's so close I can see the hairs up the driver's nose, and I can't help thinking that it's just my luck to have Stirling Moss on my tail. By the number of occupants, I'm guessing it's an ARV – an armed response vehicle – and that I'm going to have to get rid of these guys pronto if I don't want to end up in the cells, or the morgue. So as I come to another junction I change down to second and take a hard left that sees me almost wipe out a parked car on the corner. I swerve like a drunk at closing time, straighten up like a Methodist on Sunday, and my foot hits the floor again.
But the ARV's still with me, and it's time for more radical action. We're still in a residential area, but the road's a little wider now and as I come round a bend, a car appears ahead of me, travelling in the same direction and crawling along so slowly he'd be better off walking. There's another car coming towards me, and it's slowing down as it sees me approach with my lights flashing and sirens wailing. The gap between them is narrow to say the least, and narrowing all the time, but beggars can't be choosers, so I change down to third gear, slam my foot to the floor and pull out onto the wrong side of the road, heading straight at the oncoming car and sucking up the distance like it's a thread of spaghetti.
Thirty yards, twenty yards, ten… I pull in just before I hit it head-on, still flooring the accelerator and almost losing control of the car as I fight to straighten it up. Almost, but not quite, and I've bought myself precious seconds as the ARV gets held up further back.
There's a T-junction with traffic lights, which leads back to the main road. The lights are on red and there are four cars lined up in a queue, so I veer once again onto the wrong side of the road, passing them like they're not there. I'm braking a little by this time, and it's a good thing, because a minibus is turning into my path. Thankfully the driver sees my lights and slams on his brakes, giving me enough of a gap to drive straight through.
I am still doing forty when I shoot out onto the main road, causing cars to skid and horns to blare, but somehow I don't hit anyone and my momentum keeps me going onto the other side of the road where I do a hard right and join the traffic, weaving in and out of the cars. It's an exhilarating feeling, I have to admit, being king of the road. You have a real sense of power, and the more dangerous your manoeuvres, the more confident you become. If I wasn't so desperate, I'd be really enjoying this.
I snatch a glance in the rear-view mirror. The ARV is twenty yards back but has taken advantage of the fact that all the traffic stopped to accelerate out onto the main road, and is already making up the distance between us. It's police procedure to terminate high-speed pursuits when they become too dangerous, but it looks like the rule book's been thrown out of the window today. But then I suppose I am leaving the scene of four violent deaths in a hurry, so I can see why they're keen to keep me in their sights.
I come to another set of lights, and once again they're on red. This time, however, there's no obvious way through. I slow a little, pull on the seatbelt, and as the ARV races up behind me, I do an emergency stop. The ARV hits me right up the arse, shunting me forward several feet, but I was expecting the impact and they weren't, so they now have a couple of seconds of shock in which their reactions are slowed to almost nothing. My head hits the windscreen, but as I bounce back into my seat I shove the car into first, pull into the nearside lane and, like the worst kind of joyriding delinquent from one of the 'Eye in the Sky' police pursuit programmes every channel seems to love, I mount the pavement and drive along it, blasting away on my horn and scattering confused and occasionally angry pedestrians in all directions. I drive off again on the other side, having passed the junction now, then turn the wheel hard left, merging with the passing traffic and aggressively forcing it out of my way as I at last put some space between myself and my pursuers.
After about twenty seconds and a quarter of a mile, I see a Sainsbury's superstore looming up like an architectural monstrosity on my right-hand side. Behind me, the ARV is nowhere to be seen. Neither is any other sign of pursuit, so I veer across the central reservation, drive down the wrong side of the road for twenty yards, once again making everything in my path come to a screeching halt, then park up half on and half off the pavement. I've lost the cap I was wearing when I arrived at the apartment, so I keep my head down as I shove the Glock back in my jeans and pick up the briefcase.
Ignoring the looks I'm getting from other drivers, I walk rapidly into the superstore car park. I move along the lines of cars, going slower now so that I don't attract attention, and keeping as far away from the main entrance as possible. I'm looking for a suitably old car that won't have a sophisticated alarm system, and since this isn't the poshest end of town, it doesn't take long to locate a couple of likely candidates. There are plenty of people around, mainly in the process of loading up their shopping, and I use them as cover as I hear the first telltale whirr of rotor blades. It seems the airborne cavalry have arrived.
But the problem with all these real-life cop shows is that you learn how the cavalry operates and can therefore always second-guess them. For instance, they're already circling the area, so it's obvious they're talking to the guys on the ground, which means they haven't picked me up on their infra-red cameras yet. And the yodel-like shriek of emergency service sirens is such a part of London life that no-one takes a blind bit of notice as I stroll along, trying the doors on the cars I've singled out as potential theft material.
The first two are locked, but in my experience there are always people around who are careless about security, and the door on the third opens when I try the handle. I don't bother to check whether an eagle-eyed member of the public has spotted me. If you act casually enough and cut out the furtive looks over the shoulder, most people will assume you're bona fide. I clamber inside and shut the door, putting the case down on the passenger seat.
Now that I'm out of view I can move a bit faster. Bending down low, I put the gearstick into neutral and remove the steering column's plastic sheath, exposing the maze of wires beneath. I locate the two I need, touch the ends together, and the engine kicks into life. Just like that. Working in the used car trade has its compensations, I think, as I put the shitheap I've picked into reverse and back out.
There's a second entrance to the car park on the other side of the superstore, and as I follow the road round and join the line of traffic slowly filtering out of it, I can hear the sirens continuing to approach from all sides. My heart's beating like a hammer drill and beads of sweat are running down my face, but I wait my turn patiently, and within a few seconds it comes and I'm out on the road heading east with no sign of any flashing lights showing in my rear-view mirror.