Chapter Eleven

Motorway

It was a split second of alarm, fear, swift and desperate action. Roger’s reflexes worked without prompting, his foot went on the brake, the car wheels went nearly onto lock, the spurt of flame from the van was yards ahead, but the danger had only just begun. Somehow, Venables braced himself and stayed in his seat, but behind Roger was a car, now catching up with terrifying speed, and behind it a lorry, bearing down like a leviathan, and on either side a stream of cars of all shapes and sizes. He saw them swinging wide to avoid the car in front of him. The one immediately behind him was so close that a crash seemed inevitable.

The van was fifty or sixty yards ahead.

He put his foot down on the accelerator and shot forward, and the car behind fell away. The van seemed to fall back, also, and in a second or two they would be level again.

Venables was talking, radio telephone at his ear.

“ Black Ford van, freshly sprayed, very bright, registration number XK 1497K … repeat, black Ford van, freshly sprayed, very bright, registration XK 1497K … approaching Lutterworth turnoff near Coventry over and out.”

The van swung off the fast lane, on to the middle one. It was now so close it seemed impossible to miss. A little car with four people in it was on the slow lane. Roger swung in front of it, missing the black van by at most a foot, and quite suddenly they were alongside again.

The man still held the gun.

He fired, the bullet passing through Roger’s car, striking the inside of the door post beyond Venables. Then the gunman dodged and Roger put his foot down harder and shot past. He cleared the black van. If he did what he wanted to now, he would pull in front of it, forcing the driver over, but if he did there would certainly be a pile up and possibly several fatalities. They passed the turn off at eighty miles an hour and at the same moment a voice crackled into the car.

“Patrol in front of you, sir. Scotland Yard’s orders.”

“What shall I say?” breathed Venables, then thrust the receiver out, mouthpiece towards Roger.

“West of the Yard,” Roger said clearly. He was maintaining speed, a few feet in front of the van and saw the masked faces of the men in it. “Can you clear the road behind me? I want to force the van over.” He spoke calmly, he felt calm, but there was cold sweat on his forehead and at his neck.

“Will do, sir. And another car will be with you about ten miles up.”

“Thanks,” Roger said fervently.

The patrol car dropped behind.

Venables put the receiver back on its hook but left the instrument switched on; there was squawking, talking, squeaking, the whirring of wheels. A few spots of rain struck the windscreen; all they wanted now was a wet road! The van was still twenty feet or so behind them. Suddenly a voice blared over a loudspeaker, clearly audible and understandable despite the other noises.

“All traffic pull into the verge and stop, please. This is a police order. All traffic pull into the verge and stop, please.” The police car began weaving from lane to lane. “All traffic pull into the verge and stop, please.” Cars started to pull over obediently. Two, on the fast lane, seemed to put on speed and flashed past Roger; the bloody fools, how did they know there wasn’t an accident and pile up ahead?

One of the passing cars, its windows open, was a Jaguar 3-litre, in black. Its nearside passenger had a cap pulled down over his eyes, his jacket collar turned up. The collar was blowing in the wind.

“My God!” breathed Venables.

The man’s hand, clutching something that looked like an egg, appeared at the window. The cars kept even speed, now, only two feet between them. The man was going to lob the “egg” into or on to Roger’s car.

Roger turned the wheel, and growled: “Brace yourself!” He kept both hands on the wheel as he pulled over. Before the “egg” left the man’s hand the cars touched and wobbled, jolting their drivers and passengers. Roger felt the grating sound as side rasped against side, the jolt as handles met and were wrenched off.

The “egg”, poised for a final throw, was jerked from the man’s hand. It fell back into his own car.

Roger almost stood on the accelerator. His car shot forward as the other swerved wildly. There was the second police car in sight, nearly a hundred yards behind. Roger drew clear. The Jaguar crashed into the dividing barrier, bumped off, struck again: and blew up.

One moment it was there, looking as if it would turn over as a whole, identifiable car. Next moment, it was a mass of flame and smoke, pieces of metal were flying in all directions, high into the air, into the barrier, over into the lanes of traffic travelling from the other direction. The police car disappeared, and for an awful moment Roger thought it had smashed into the Jaguar. But no: there it was emerging from smoke and steam.

The van was now two hundred yards ahead on a stretch of empty road. Venables was breathing very hard, gripping the handle of his door. Roger’s teeth were gritting, his whole body was at almost unbearable tension, but he was gaining on the van, which seemed to be going at its limit.

The radio crackled, a man’s voice sounded as if he were in the car.

“Leave this one to me, sir!” The police car flashed past Roger, who instinctively eased off the accelerator; but the tension was still there. He was aware of Venables’ hissing breath; vaguely aware of the man’s profile, of his lean body curved back against the seat.

The police siren was blaring out. The police car passed the van on the fast lane, then began to crowd it, risking a crash. The van veered over towards the slow lane, the police car kept pressing. They touched, swayed apart, touched again, but their speed was now much slower. Roger took the fast lane and passed. The police car was virtually nudging the van over, and as they slowed down another police car swung in from the opposite direction through a service gap in the barrier.

Venables was twisting round in his seat.

“Got ’em,” he croaked.

Roger slowed down and pulled into the side, came to a standstill and then sat upright and unmoving. Sweat oozed out of every pore, enveloping him like a steam bath. He felt both boiling hot and icy cold.

It was hard to believe the chase had stopped, the danger was over for the moment, at least. He found that his jaws were locked; when he tried to move, his legs were, too.

Venables was staring at him.

“You all right, sir?”

Roger managed to nod.

“I’ll see what damage we’ve done,” Venables said. He got out, leaving the door wide open. Cool air swept over Roger. No cars passed. Venables appeared at the open window, then stood back in amazement. “Lost the handle, clean as a whistle, but apart from that just a few scratches,” he reported. He was staring very intently at Roger, had obviously gone round to the other side for a closer look.

Roger’s tension was oozing slowly out.

He raised a hand in acknowledgement, and looked in the driving mirror. Two policemen were on one side of the van, one on the other; the fourth was probably behind. One man was climbing down from the van; he appeared to be little more than a youth. A girl followed him.

“Get in,” Roger ordered, and Venables nipped into the back. Roger reversed the intervening hundred yards, and stopped close to the little knot of vehicles and people. He got out, Venables grabbing at the door, and approached the police and their prisoners. The fourth man was at the back: he appeared as Roger drew up. Traffic was streaming south towards London, on the other side of the barrier, but this side of the motorway was like a desert of bitumen. One of the patrol policemen said: “Mr. West?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Glad we were able to do a good job,” the man said. “What shall we do with this pair, sir?”

The youth, bareheaded, his jacket collar rumpled, was startlingly dark haired; and now it was obvious that this colour was dye. He had a fresh complexion and pale blue eyes, and his lips were almost babylike; petulant. He couldn’t be much more than twenty one or two. Nor could this girl, who was probably younger. She had mousy coloured hair, a rather bad complexion but quite beautiful grey eyes.

“Take them both under close guard to the station,” Roger said. “I’ll be back in a few hours, and will take them on to London—when you’ve sorted out the priorities. The charge concerns the shooting in Marley Street, London, last night, and the death of a policewoman as a result of an attack by this man and this woman.”

As he was speaking, the girl wrenched herself free. Without a word and without any change of expression, she leapt at Roger. He was taken off his guard, flinging his arms up in front of his face as her fingers clawed at him. He felt sharp nails pull at his coat, felt the toe of her shoe kick at his shin. Then the policeman yanked her back. There was a flash and a click of handcuffs.

She glared, but didn’t speak.

“And I’d like you to examine the van on the spot and then have it towed to London,” Roger went on as if there had been no interruption. “What we’d most like to find are gold filings or gold dust, splinters or fragments of glass or powdered glass.” He was being very precise, for there was some rivalry between the Yard and the provincial forces, and it was easy to tread on sensitive toes. While he was speaking, a radio squawked from one of the police cars. A man leaned inside to answer it. A moment later he bobbed out again, and said almost in awe: “The chief constable, for you, Mr. West.”

This would be the chief constable of the West Midlands region.

“Thanks.”’ Roger took the instrument. “West here, sir.”

“Superintendent,” a man said in a deep and pleasant voice, “I know you are under pressure so I won’t waste time. I’ve given my men instructions to co-operate with you in every way they can, and if you need to take or send the prisoners to Scotland Yard, go ahead.”

“You’re very good, sir.”

“Anything you can leave to us, please do so,” the other man said with a chuckle in his voice. “We will want to share in the reflected glory!” Then he went on in a natter voice: “Will you come here or go straight back?”

“I’m on my way to Stone,” Roger said. “I’d like to call on you when I’m on my way back.”

“Do so if you can,” said the chief constable. “Oh! I’ve a murder squad and some experts on the way to go over the wreckage of the car which blew up. Do you think they were the Bullion Boys themselves?”

“I don’t know whether to hope they were or not,” Roger replied. “Thank you again, sir.”

When he turned round, the prisoners were in the back of one police car and a policeman was squeezed in between them. Both prisoners were looking straight ahead.

“All right for us to go, sir?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” Roger answered. “One of you will stand by the van until your C.I.D. men arrive, won’t you?”

“Be sure of that, sir!”

Roger went slowly towards his own car, looked at the handle, looked over the top towards Venables, and was silent for what must have seemed a long time. He felt an inner tremor which he knew was the onset of reaction and he had to be very careful indeed not to let it take over from him. He needed some kind of rest, some kind of relaxation and only one way was open to him.

“Will you drive?” he asked Venables.

“Glad to, sir!” Venables moved to his side of the car in a flash.

The door would open only from the inside, as the handle had gone, but it closed without difficulty. Roger sat back. Venables started off with the smoothness of the good driver. Roger took out cigarettes and lit one; he smoked very seldom these days.

“Wouldn’t like some coffee, would you, sir?” asked Venables.

“I don’t think we should stop again,” answered Roger.

“Oh, no need to stop,” Venables assured him. “My mother always sends me off with a flask of coffee and a snack. Still thinks I’m a kid! It’s in my case, sir, if you can get it from under the seat.”

Roger found himself chuckling. That was almost as good as a rest.

Soon he was drinking his coffee out of a waxed cup and nibbling some home made biscuits. Venables drank half a cup of coffee while driving. A Jaguar 2½ litre passed on the fast lane, and Venables looked in the driving mirror.

“The road must be open again, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Quite a mess to clear up,” Venables ventured.

“Nasty, yes.”

“I gathered the chief constable was cooperative, sir.”

“Very.”

There were a few more minutes of silence; more cars passed, they began to catch up with slower traffic. The coffee had done Roger a lot of good, he felt better than he had since the moment he had seen the gun.

“Sir,” said Venables.

“Yes?”

“Do you think they are some of the Bullion Boys?”

Roger stubbed out his cigarette, glanced at the other man, and answered: “No.”

“You don’t, sir!”

“No,” repeated Roger.

“But—” began Venables, and then fell silent.

“They missed last night and they near missed this morning,” Roger said. “The Bullion Boys are too smart for that. And I’m pretty sure the two prisoners are too young and inexperienced. I would say the Bullion Boys hired them, and that they made both attacks for money.”

“I see what you mean, sir. These two don’t behave like practised crooks.”

“I can’t imagine the girl letting off steam like that if she were,” Roger said, and smiled. “But I’m only guessing. Don’t put any of this in your report!”

“I won’t, sir. Er—what about the pair in the Jaguar?”

“Anybody’s guess,” Roger said. “The Bullion Boys have a lot of money to throw about, and it’s surprising what some people will do for a few thousand. We might find something useful from the reports on the blown up car and the van.” He took out his cigarettes again. “Care to smoke?”

“No, thanks, sir. I don’t.”

“And I don’t know that I really need another, either.” Roger put the cigarettes away. “I’m going to sit back for twenty minutes.”

“Very wise, sir.”

Roger stretched out his legs, leaned his head on the back of the seat, and closed his eyes. The time had come for thinking, not talking. He was still amused by Venables, who in some ways was so naive, and so liable to be easily impressed; his driving was like everything he did: thoroughly efficient. Roger went right back to the beginning of the Bullion Robbery, and every facet of what he had done and what had happened passed through his mind. One thing was absolutely certain, the robbers were desperate men, desperate because they feared the police were too close.

Obviously Angela Margerison could know something dangerous to them; as obviously, now, either he or Venables did, or these attacks would not have been made. And it was on this fact that he concentrated: what did he or Venables know which had forced the Bullion Boys to take near panic measures?

No new ideas came to him as they drove north.

Now and again, he opened his eyes, to see the rolling countryside of the Midlands, the trees nearly bare of leaves, the clouds heavy with threatening rain. Soon they turned off the motorway, and he sat up; but he was frowning again in concentration when a few miles along Venables announced: “There’s the K & K van, sir. Now we won’t be long.”