Tango Four was quite speedy when it got going, but none too quick off the mark. On the floor in front of the passenger seat I had a present for Tim — a box-kit of solid wooden figures, pieces and blocks with sockets cut out of them which built up into a fire engine, with a crew riding on top and a ladder perched above them. The smooth solidity of the kit appealed to me, and I felt sure he’d like it too. My only worry was that it might be a bit young for him, he was growing up that fast. I’d managed to go over several times, and I could see him changing from week to week.
Maybe I was thinking too much about him, or about the procedures in court. Maybe I had just dropped my guard because I was off duty. Either way, I had reached Holywood, only a few miles short of my destination, before I became aware that I was being followed. For some time I’d been half-noticing an odd pair of headlights behind me, the left-hand or kerb light showing much yellower than the right. Sometimes they were one car behind, sometimes two. Suddenly I realized that they had been there for an unhealthy length of time.
I thought, Shit — I should never have taken that short-cut. Whoever they are, they must have picked me up in West Belfast. Ahead on my left I saw the bright lights of a line of shops, facing on to the main drag but set back from it in a small road of its own. I flipped on the indicator, pulled in and cruised slowly along, peering out sideways as if in search of some particular shop. Several had closed already, but a few were still open.
The uneven lights copied my move. The car came into the lay-by and crawled along, hanging back. Out on the main road again I accelerated hard, only to see a big roundabout ahead. I went into it fast, using gears and engine to brake. As I decelerated, the lights closed rapidly from behind. Instead of going straight on — as I’d been planning — or turning off, I held the gear-lever in second and kept the car in a tight right-hand turn, tyres squealing, all the way round. Glancing to my right across the mound of the roundabout, I caught a side-on glimpse of my tail. Under the street lights it looked a sickly mid-green, and pretty much beaten up — an old banger. It could have been a Cortina, but I wasn’t sure. There were two guys in the front.
As I popped out on the Bangor road again, the lights were still behind me. No doubt about it now. Bloody hell! My neck began to crawl. I was after them — or rather, one of them — but they were also after me.
What were they trying to achieve? The simplest explanation was that they hoped to find out where I was going. That ditched my evening’s programme, for a start. Maybe the registration number had been blown, and they’d picked me up from that. Like all the troop’s cars, this one had five or six sets of plates for use in different areas. But still they could have recognized the number I had on that day. Another possibility was that I’d been spotted as I came close to the demo in the Falls Road. Or maybe these were just two dickers at large, up to their usual bullying tricks. If they spotted a car which they thought was new to an area, they might easily harass it, purely to annoy the driver. They might also try to overtake and stop me, just for the pleasure of telling me to fuck off. The worst scenario was that they were organized players, with colleagues up ahead, and that they were already trying to position a second car for an ambush.
I felt for the pressel-switch of the radio, down by the gear-lever, and called, ‘Tango Four.’
‘Zero Alpha,’ the desk answered.
‘Tango Four. I’m out past Holywood and getting a hard follow. Can you help with a back-up?’
‘Roger. What’s your location?’
‘On the A2, inland from Helen’s Bay. Heading eastwards for Red Seven. Just past Craigavad.’
‘Roger. Stand by.’ Then, a moment later, ‘I have two Indians on orientation training not far south of you. Are you sure you’ve got a tail?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve just done a 360 round a roundabout, and they’re still behind me. I don’t know if they’re trying to lift me or what, but I can’t get rid of them.’
‘Roger. Keep heading for Red Seven, and whatever you do, stay on the main.’
‘Roger.’ Red Seven was the next big junction ahead, on the outskirts of Bangor, the seaside town. I could either carry on into the town or hang a right, heading south for Newtownards. My instinct was to keep out of built-up areas until I got help. The Indians were our intercept cars, and once they were in support, things would be different. On my own I didn’t fancy getting lost in a maze of side-streets. Even to be held up at traffic lights would be bad news. Above all, I didn’t want to get caught in a cul-de-sac.
For the time being I drove steadily, to show no sign of panic. A few seconds later I called, ‘Tango Four. Proposing to turn right at Red Seven.’
‘Zero Alpha,’ replied the desk. ‘Affirmative. Turn right, and right again at Red Eight.’
‘Roger.’
‘Confirm two Indians mobile towards you. What make of car are we looking for?’
‘It’s a crappy old banger. Mid-green. Could be a Cortina, but I’m not sure. I’m identifying it from its uneven lights. The kerb-side headlight’s yellow, the outer one white. You can’t mistake it if you get ahead.’
‘Roger.’
As I drove with one hand, I was holding the map over the wheel with the other and trying to check my route. It was dangerous and difficult, because the interior light tended to dazzle one and reduce forward visibility.
Still, in the mirror, I could see the lights two vehicles back. I thought I’d better stand down my in-laws before things got any hotter. I felt for my mobile phone, dialled, waited, and got Den.
‘Hi, Den. It’s me, Geordie. I’m sorry, but I’ve had a call-out. I’m going to have to postpone my visit.’
‘Oh, that’s too bad. Tim was really looking forward to it.’
‘I know. So was I. Tomorrow, maybe?’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.’
‘You in a car?’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘It sounds noisy.’
‘It is. Look, I’ll speak to you soon. Sorry about this. Give Tim a hug from me.’
Everything was far from all right. I came to Red Eight, another big roundabout, and took the main road to the right. The lights stayed with me.
‘Tango Four,’ I called. ‘Passing Red Eight now.’
‘Roger,’ came the answer. ‘You’ve got Red Nine a mile ahead. Hang another right there, for New-townards. Confirm two Indians closing on your location.’
‘Roger, and thanks.’
So far I hadn’t heard the desk talking to the intercepts, who must have been on a different net. But suddenly they switched over and came through loud and clear. The first thing I heard was India One calling his location as Red One Six. I recognized the voice: it was Matt Matthews, a long, thin Yorkshireman. I couldn’t get a proper look at the map, but as far as I remembered, that was the junction in Comber, a small place five miles south of Newtownards. Then he confirmed, ‘India One mobile towards Red-One-Five.’ That was in the centre of Newtownards. They were heading straight towards me. I thought of them as a pair of cheetahs, coming up country in immense bounds.
I managed a quick glance at the map, and saw that a left turn in Newtownards would take me out towards the shore of Strangford Lough, away from civilization.
‘Tango Four to India One,’ I called. ‘I’m mobile southwards towards Red-One-Two. Proposing turn left there, on to the shore road. Can you get something planned down there soonest?’
‘India One,’ said Matt. ‘Wait out.’