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Authors: Douglas Stewart
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recently watched the footage of a Los Angeles fire-fighter being blasted from close range while battling a blazing green saloon when the tank let rip. Somehow, the poor sod had survived. If the couple were inside the Range Rover, frankly he didn’t give a stuff. More likely they had been chauffeured away in the speeding saloon. He started to accelerate after it but then changed his mind. He was never going to catch it.
He phoned Watson. It was Jock Strang who answered.
“Not a picnic after all, Jock. More of a barbeque. Tosh could grill his burgers a treat.”
“Torched it, did they?” The Scot heard Ratso’s grunted yes. “Ye got them?”
“No. Probably whisked away in a Beamer saloon—a Three Series. Or maybe an Audi.” He checked the map on screen. “My guess—and it is a guess—is they must somehow be getting back to the M40. No, wait one. The A40 first. This piddling little lane eventually winds to it. Where are you?”
“Tosh is chatting to the Duke about the rising price of deer-stalker hats. Hang on, guv. I’m checking.” Strang ran his finger along the routes. “Shit and buggerrr-ation!”
“Spilt tea on the corgis, have you?”
“We’re too far north. We’re just turning off the M40 at Stokenchurch.”
“You’ll still spot them. Take the A40 doubling back to London. The lane from Kingston Hill joins it after about a mile. Look out for a saloon with either one or three occupants. Probably two males, one female heading for London … but it might go your way. Get the number.”
“Intercept?”
“No. Follow if you can. Get intel unit back at base to check the number. Get me a forensic team out here. A pickup truck for the remains. I’m staying put so nobody corrupts the scene.”
“Take care, boss.”
“Keep me posted.”
Ratso reversed a few meters and stopped, blocking the road. The Range Rover, almost unrecognisable now, was engulfed by a raging roar of red, yellow, gold and black. Still keeping well clear, he got out and studied the tire tracks on the verge. They could have been caused by one vehicle passing another but hopefully had been left by the saloon parked in the soggy mud and grass. He looked at the muddy track down which the car was blazing. There were footprints everywhere—plenty for the forensic boys to play with but they wouldn’t make it for another hour. At least the sleet had stopped, leaving just the icy wind that whipped over the crest of the Chiltern Hills.
He settled back to wait, wondering whether his sergeants had been too late. He grabbed his phone. There was much to do; cancelling his cricket nets for this evening, for starters. He felt pissed off about that, missing the banter and the pint afterward. He’d been looking forward to bowling to the new young Aussie who had played Grade Cricket in Melbourne. And he had to fix a meet with Lefty Denholm. And talk to Charlene—once Caldwell had sent a young PC to break the news. But first, it had to be Wensley Hughes.
Though the Assistant Commissioner had a supercilious look, with a face like an inquisitive and whiskerless gerbil, Ratso liked him. He’d been tagged as a copper’s copper. He’d had the bottle to approve Operation Clam as a totally clandestine venture.
Wensley Hughes had abandoned his stack of dog-eared files in disgust, convinced that someone—someone high up and well placed—had been leaking to Zandro. Confidential reports to the Home Office were insecure. A piss-poor bucket full of leaks had been his dismissive description of the Home Secretary of the day.
So now, as an AC, Wensley Hughes remained supportive but Neil’s murder could be the tipping point. Would Hughes hold his nerve? He was less bothered about Arthur Tennant. True, that shit would carp, sneer and look smug in that I told you so sort of way. Always the first to be in his running shoes if any shit was flying. Just the thought of him made Ratso’s toes curl. Slowly he dialled the AC. Would he be hung out to dry?
He phoned Watson. It was Jock Strang who answered.
“Not a picnic after all, Jock. More of a barbeque. Tosh could grill his burgers a treat.”
“Torched it, did they?” The Scot heard Ratso’s grunted yes. “Ye got them?”
“No. Probably whisked away in a Beamer saloon—a Three Series. Or maybe an Audi.” He checked the map on screen. “My guess—and it is a guess—is they must somehow be getting back to the M40. No, wait one. The A40 first. This piddling little lane eventually winds to it. Where are you?”
“Tosh is chatting to the Duke about the rising price of deer-stalker hats. Hang on, guv. I’m checking.” Strang ran his finger along the routes. “Shit and buggerrr-ation!”
“Spilt tea on the corgis, have you?”
“We’re too far north. We’re just turning off the M40 at Stokenchurch.”
“You’ll still spot them. Take the A40 doubling back to London. The lane from Kingston Hill joins it after about a mile. Look out for a saloon with either one or three occupants. Probably two males, one female heading for London … but it might go your way. Get the number.”
“Intercept?”
“No. Follow if you can. Get intel unit back at base to check the number. Get me a forensic team out here. A pickup truck for the remains. I’m staying put so nobody corrupts the scene.”
“Take care, boss.”
“Keep me posted.”
Ratso reversed a few meters and stopped, blocking the road. The Range Rover, almost unrecognisable now, was engulfed by a raging roar of red, yellow, gold and black. Still keeping well clear, he got out and studied the tire tracks on the verge. They could have been caused by one vehicle passing another but hopefully had been left by the saloon parked in the soggy mud and grass. He looked at the muddy track down which the car was blazing. There were footprints everywhere—plenty for the forensic boys to play with but they wouldn’t make it for another hour. At least the sleet had stopped, leaving just the icy wind that whipped over the crest of the Chiltern Hills.
He settled back to wait, wondering whether his sergeants had been too late. He grabbed his phone. There was much to do; cancelling his cricket nets for this evening, for starters. He felt pissed off about that, missing the banter and the pint afterward. He’d been looking forward to bowling to the new young Aussie who had played Grade Cricket in Melbourne. And he had to fix a meet with Lefty Denholm. And talk to Charlene—once Caldwell had sent a young PC to break the news. But first, it had to be Wensley Hughes.
Though the Assistant Commissioner had a supercilious look, with a face like an inquisitive and whiskerless gerbil, Ratso liked him. He’d been tagged as a copper’s copper. He’d had the bottle to approve Operation Clam as a totally clandestine venture.
Wensley Hughes had abandoned his stack of dog-eared files in disgust, convinced that someone—someone high up and well placed—had been leaking to Zandro. Confidential reports to the Home Office were insecure. A piss-poor bucket full of leaks had been his dismissive description of the Home Secretary of the day.
So now, as an AC, Wensley Hughes remained supportive but Neil’s murder could be the tipping point. Would Hughes hold his nerve? He was less bothered about Arthur Tennant. True, that shit would carp, sneer and look smug in that I told you so sort of way. Always the first to be in his running shoes if any shit was flying. Just the thought of him made Ratso’s toes curl. Slowly he dialled the AC. Would he be hung out to dry?
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