Rain hammered on the roof of the Toyota. A landslide overnight had dominated local news all day. A sloping parcel of Northumberland had become destabilized and had dumped itself with some force on to a railway line below it. This weather-related event did not bode well for Jessica Finch or Daniels’ team, who had been waiting all day to make an arrest.
It was already eight p.m.
Staring through the misted-up windscreen of her Toyota, Daniels felt thoroughly depressed. But she wasn’t finished yet. If she had to sit there until midnight, then so be it. She was sure Makepeace would show.
He just had to.
Naylor’s voice broke the silence: ‘7824, what’s your status?’
‘No change, guv.’
‘Is the surveillance team still in position?’
‘Affirmative. Target area secure.’
‘On way,’ Naylor said. ‘Happy to do my bit, over.’
‘Unit One,’ Robson’s voice responded. ‘Make it quick, guv. I’m bloody soaked.’
‘Dickhead! He wants to think himself bloody lucky,’ Gormley said. ‘Jessica will be feeling a whole lot worse. That’s assuming she is still feeling, poor bugger.’
Daniels stared straight ahead. The rain was relentless, no let-up in sight. The few people daft enough to be outside on such an awful night were either running or shivering under umbrellas. Heavy snow in March. April showers in May. Typical British weather. She leaned forward and grabbed her radio from the dash.
‘7824 to Unit One. Maintain radio silence unless you have news to report, over.’
A good ten minutes passed before Robson contacted them again. And this time he wasn’t whingeing.
‘Unit One. One person in sight, approaching the west gate, over.’
Daniels sat up straight, pushing her transmit button. ‘Is it the target?’
There was a long, tense silence.
‘I’m too far away to see . . . He’s wearing a jacket with the hood up, I think. He’s just a silhouette, backlit by a street lamp. Can’t make him out, boss.’
Daniels took a deep breath. ‘All units, hold your positions.’
In the churchyard, Robson crouched down as the figure walking straight towards him stopped, looked around furtively, and then moved off again.
Robson spoke quietly into his radio. ‘Subject acting suspiciously.’
‘All units stand by,’ Daniels’ voice came back.
Up ahead, the figure took a diversion from the main path. Robson could feel his excitement growing, the adrenalin pumping through his veins. A bird flew up out of a bush, startling him.
Robson took a deep breath. ‘Boss, he’s approaching target area.’
‘Hold your position,’ Daniels and Naylor both said at the same time.
In the Toyota, Daniels and Gormley could hardly contain themselves. Naylor came on the radio and gave an ETA of a few minutes.
‘7824 . . . that’s received, guv. Unit One, what’s he doing now?’
‘It’s not him!’ Robson’s disappointment was obvious. ‘This idiot’s just taking a piss.’
Daniels smacked her hand against the steering wheel in frustration.
‘Taking the piss more like,’ she said.
The radio intercept device was working perfectly. Just as he knew it would.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ the DCI said. ‘Unit One, get him out of there. If the target arrives, he’ll scare him off.’
Makepeace smiled to himself, started the ignition of his VW Golf and pulled out from the kerb, narrowly missing Naylor’s car coming the other way.
Swerving to avoid a collision, Naylor got a good look at the whites of the driver’s eyes. It was Makepeace. The guv’nor did a sudden U-turn, his brakes screeching on the wet road, and sped off again burning rubber.
‘Naylor to all units. I have the eyeball. Suspect identified as James Makepeace on Coldstream Road heading south in excess of sixty miles an hour. Black VW Golf: November-Lima-Five-Nine-Mike-Oscar-Delta. He’s turning a left-left on to Kelso Gardens. Any traffic in the area please respond.’
‘Yahoo!’ Gormley yelled, rubbing his hands together. ‘What do you reckon, boss? Dangerous or reckless?’
Daniels ignored the question. She was too busy turning round to give chase. ‘7824 to Naylor. He’s probably heading for the old sports fields, guv.’
A Traffic car responded, letting them know his position: ‘Tango 3856, heading south-east on Whickham View.’
‘Naylor to all units. He’s turned right on to Gretna Road, travelling south.’
Gormley was forced to hang on to the grab strap as Daniels shot round a corner in an area they knew well. ‘Can’t remember the last time I did this, but it’s about now my fish and chips used to slide off the dashboard!’
Daniels picked up speed passing a row of old semi-detached houses. In pursuit mode, she floored the accelerator, looking at the vanishing point in the road trying to get the eyeball herself but also watching for unexpected hazards appearing in the foreground. She could see the VW now, weaving from side to side to prevent Naylor from overtaking, clipping wing mirrors of cars parked along the road.
‘7824: I’m travelling south on Gretna Road. Right behind you, guv.’
‘Tango 3856: I’m going to wait at the junction of Whickham View/Ferguson’s Lane.’
‘Good move!’ Gormley said as they closed in.
‘Target vehicle turning left-left into . . .’ Naylor hesitated for a second.
‘St Cuthbert’s playing fields, guv,’ Gormley said, helping him out, not bothering with a call sign.
‘Jesus!’ Naylor said. ‘Pedestrians look frightened. They’re jumping out of the way. I need to pull off him.’
Another Traffic car joined the hunt: ‘Tango 3275: Fox and Hounds Lane.’
Daniels kept her foot on the accelerator. ‘7824 to Tango 3275. Wait-wait on Fox and Hounds Lane. He could exit the playing fields.’
‘Tango 3275. I’m aware of that location. Standing by.’
‘Tango 3856, now on route to Pendower way.’
‘He’s doing a reciprocal, doing a reciprocal,’ Naylor said.
‘7824: blocking his exit with my vehicle.’
Arriving at the entrance to the playing fields, Daniels pulled up sharp as the Golf suddenly altered direction. He was now driving straight at her.
‘Brace! Brace!’ she yelled.
Raising their arms in front of their faces, Daniels and Gormley braced themselves for the impact. A split second later, there was an almighty bang and the sound of debris hitting the front of the Toyota. Then . . . deathly silence.
An alarm went off.
Gormley spread his fingers and peered through them.
‘We’re still alive then.’ He sounded more shaken than he was letting on.
‘Oh shit!’ Daniels was staring straight ahead. Steam was coming from the bonnet of the VW and Naylor’s car door had been flung open on impact. ‘All units, he’s crashed into the guv’nor. Possible casualties. Ambulance required. We’ve got a runner! You OK, boss?’
No response.
In the darkness, Daniels’ eyes fixed on Naylor. He was out of his car and running after Makepeace. She and Gormley jumped out of the Toyota in hot pursuit. They needn’t have bothered. In a move that an England full-back would’ve been proud of, Naylor tackled Makepeace to the ground. He sounded out of breath as his voice came over the radio.
‘One arrest . . .’ Naylor cuffed the suspect. ‘All units stand down.’
Moments later, Daniels and Gormley arrived at his side. They were both grinning at the state he was in. He’d rolled in dog shit and reeked of the stuff.
‘Yeah, OK, I’m too bloody old for this.’ Naylor turned his nose up at the appalling stench. ‘All I could see was you two covering your eyes. It didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.’
‘We didn’t want to be witnesses, guv,’ Gormley said. ‘Too many forms to fill in.’
Daniels helped him to his feet. ‘Nice to see you haven’t lost the edge.’