“Fuck sake,” said Carmichael, then to Breen, “What if she’s dead?”
“Shut up, John, for Christ’s sake.”
“OK. I was just saying, that’s all.”
They went back to Walthamstow and drove round aimlessly for a while longer. “I could drop you home,” said Carmichael. “It’s not far from here.”
“What about you? Are you turning in?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m OK. I don’t feel like sleeping.”
“Me neither. I wish we could bloody do something. This is driving me nuts.”
“If I hadn’t told her to keep an eye on the back of the shop, this would never have happened.”
“You can’t say that, Paddy.”
On Billet Road they were flagged down by a middle-aged woman in a fur coat. When they pulled over she asked, “Have you seen my husband?”
They both got out. Her breath reeked of brandy. She was tottering on patent leather heels. “Where do you live, love?” said Carmichael.
“London,” she said.
“Can you be a bit more precise?”
The radio crackled. “Delta Mike Five?”
Breen ducked back into the car.
A brief crackle, then: “Delta Mike Three just called in. Have a message. Over.”
Breen checked his watch in the green glow cast by the radio’s light. It was half past midnight.
“Is Mrs. Briggs back at the house? Over.”
“Negative. Delta Mike Three says her husband has just got into his car. Requests urgent instructions. Over.”
“Follow him.”
“Say again.”
“Follow him,” shouted Breen. “Tell him not to let him out of their sight.”
The operator went silent while she relayed the message. When she came back on the air, Breen said, “Tell them to let us know where they’re heading.”
“Will do. Out…”
“Wait. What about Constable Tozer?”
“Nothing so far. Out.”
He called through the window. “Get in.”
Carmichael returned to the car. “What?”
“Briggs is on the move,” he said, replacing the handset in its holder.
Carmichael got in and started the engine. “That toff in the pink shirt? Bloody hell. He’s gone looking for her?”
“It looks like it.”
“Where?”
“They’re following. They’re going to let us know.”
“Hey,” said the woman in the coat. “What about my husband?”
“Go home, love,” shouted Carmichael.
“I’ll report you,” called the woman. “I’ll bloody report you buggers.”
Everything else she said was lost to the roar of the engine.
Thirty-two
The next call they received told them that the professor was driving a blue Daimler Sovereign heading out on Whitechapel Road. “Registration Golf Romeo Tango One Nine One Foxtrot.” Breen scribbled it down as they roared off down the Chingford Road.
“Bloody hell. He’s coming our way,” said Carmichael.
“That’s something,” said Breen. “It means he’s heading in the same direction as whoever got Tozer.” He could lead them to her still. Breen was flicking through a road map and traced the A11 towards where they were headed. “Can we make it to Leyton High Road in five minutes?”
“You bet.” Carmichael gunned the car southwards, slowing only for red lights, but not stopping.
They were there in good time; Carmichael swung a U-turn, reversed the car into a side street and turned off the headlights.
“If it’s coming our way.”
“Delta Mike Five. Quarry stopped for petrol on Bow Road. Over.”
“Reckon he’s going far, then?” said Carmichael. “If he needs a full tank?”
“If he’s heading out of London it’s going to be harder once we have to relay the radio with Essex.”
A moment of stillness as they waited in the car, watching the traffic pass. Carmichael lit another cigarette and belched. “My guts are killing me. Bet it was those bloody sausages. If he’s heading out of London we might lose him. We should pull him up.”
“Could do,” said Breen. But if they stopped him they might lose the chance of finding out where he was heading.
“I mean, odds on, if it’s out of London he’ll spot he’s being followed.”
It was true, thought Breen. In the dark, on country roads, you noticed if you were being followed.
“So should we pull him?”
“Let’s wait and see what he does.”
He switched on his torch and shone it on the road atlas. If Briggs wasn’t heading for East London itself, he could be heading anywhere farther north or east.
“Delta Mike Three now heading up…”
The radio faded away to nothingness.
“Say again. Over,” said Breen.
Nothing. Breen and Carmichael looked at each other. “Bloody hell,” said Carmichael.
“Say again. Over,” said Breen. “We’re losing you.”
“I don’t feel that well, to be honest,” said Carmichael.
“Say again.”
Nothing.
“Bloody mess.”
The receiver fizzed and buzzed; ghost voices from some ham-radio conversation drifted into the police frequency.
“Get off the airwaves.” Carmichael thumped the radio in frustration.
“Quiet,” said Breen.
The operator’s voice faded back in. “Rom…Road. Over.”
“Say again.”
Again the interference obliterated the reply.
“Jesus.”
“Say again,” Breen repeated.
And then the voice cut through: “Romford Road.”
Breen studied the map. “There.” He pointed. The car had turned east.
“Shit,” said Carmichael, switching on the headlights and putting the car into gear.
He turned on the blue light and roared out of the side road, right in front of a milk float, which had to swing out of the way, a milk crate toppling off onto the tarmac. Carmichael blared his horn and spun away on down the road.
Water Lane was thankfully deserted. Carmichael turned off the police lights as they approached Romford Road. “Right,” shouted Breen.
Carmichael swung the car round a red traffic light and slowed down to a less conspicuous speed. “We’ve got to be behind them both now,” he said.
“What’s the latest from Delta Mike Three? Over.”
No answer; just the crackling of static.
“Bollocks,” said Carmichael. They tore through junctions and zebra crossings and past closed shops and pubs.
In the center of Ilford he stopped in the middle of a junction. “Where now?” The road divided. “Quick, Paddy.”
“Hold on.”
Breen peered at the map, his finger tracing the yellow lines. Where? He had to make a guess which route they would have taken. North or east?
“Right, then first left.”
“Got you.”
If they had come this far they would still be heading east, Breen was hoping. The A12 was beyond them, stretching out towards Essex and beyond. Postwar semis lined either side of the road ahead, each house like the last. London edging ever outwards.
“Bingo,” cried Carmichael, braking suddenly.
Ahead of them, stopped at a red light, was a police car. And about 150 yards beyond that a Daimler, moving away on the far side of the lights. They were following at a distance, letting it stay well ahead of them.
Carmichael pulled up alongside the police car, and Breen wound down his window. A pair of young uniformed men sat in the car, grinning broadly, thrilled by the chase. “Hey-ya,” the driver said, and waved.
“We’re pulling him over,” shouted Breen from the passenger seat.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Do we have to?” said the constable. “We’re having fun.”
“We’ll get in front.”
The moment the lights changed Carmichael shot up the road. They caught up with the Daimler easily; Briggs had had no idea he was being followed. Breen caught a quick glimpse of Briggs’s face as they passed, hands clutching the wheel, and then Carmichael had the siren on and the lights blazing, brakes on, forcing the car to a stop as the other policemen’s Austin boxed it in from behind.
Breen was out of the car, torch in hand. He shone the torch in Briggs’s eyes.