turned right into Amersham Avenue, and drove slowly
along the long straight road, lined with parked cars and imposing Edwardian
terraced houses.
Chase looked out of the car window as they drove along. A
few people were moving about: couples out for the evening, a man in a
dishevelled suit rolling drunkenly home, a corpulent, elderly woman walking her
corpulent, elderly Westie. All unremarkable, all quiet.
Just before they reached the brightly lit cluster of shops
and restaurants around Chiltern Park tube station, Thomas indicated right and
looped round Bradenham Crescent, then drove back up
Amersham Avenue the way they had come.
“That drunk’s disappeared,” observed Ken Thomas.
“Yes,” replied Chase. “The old dear with the Westie hasn’t
gone far, though.”
Thomas smiled.
At the end of Amersham Avenue, Thomas turned right, and
drove slowly along the side of the park. Most of the park was dark and
deserted, except for the floodlights that lit up the all-weather football
pitch. That evening, a squad of serious-looking teenage boys in red tabards
were dribbling footballs in and out of lines of traffic cones. Further on,
Chase spotted the welcoming lights of The Wendover Arms, and felt a sudden
thirst as they cruised past without stopping.
Thomas completed a circuit of the park, and returned to
Chalfont Parade and their space on a double yellow line. He switched off the
engine and turned to his boss.
“Nothing. Again!”
Chase shook his head.
“Shall we call it a night, Al?”
“I think so, Ken. Have you got time for a quick pint? Or do
you want to get home?”
“Better get home, I think, if that’s alright. Nicky will be
wondering where I’ve got to.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just call Blackaby and Neville to let
them know what’s going on.” Chase leant forward to pick up the radio handset.
“Look!” whispered Thomas. “Over there!”
Chase looked. Across the street, a hooded figure was peering
into the ground floor window of a darkened detached house. A red light blinked
from the burglar alarm housing on the gable.
Thomas threw open the driver’s door and clambered out. “Oi!”
he shouted.
The hooded figure froze.
“Police! Stay where you are!”
The figure dashed down the garden path, hurdled the front
gate, and hesitated on the opposite curb, not ten yards from where the Mondeo
was parked.
“Police! Stop!” Thomas shouted.
The figure turned right and sprinted up the street. Thomas
set off in pursuit, surprisingly quickly for such a solid middle-aged man.
Chase glanced down to return the radio handset to its
cradle. As he did so, he heard the howl of an engine and the screech of tyres.
He looked up, and saw a silver Subaru Impreza fling
Thomas up into the air, like an angry bull tossing a matador. Chase flung open
the car door, and watched in disbelief as the Subaru’s taillights disappeared
around the corner with a squeal of rubber.
He ran across to where Thomas lay slumped in the gutter, one
leg twisted underneath his body at an impossible angle, and crouched down next
to him. Chase could hear his ragged breathing.
“Ken! Talk to me! Ken!”
Thomas groaned.
Relieved, Chase held his partner’s hand as he used his
mobile to call for an ambulance. He had just ended the call when he heard a car
draw up. He looked up and saw the silver Subaru tucked in behind the Mondeo. A
young man in a white shirt and tie wound down the window.
“Is he all right?” he called.
Chase produced his warrant card. “Police,” he proclaimed in
a loud, clear voice. “Stay exactly where you are.” He looked to right and left,
several times, before crossing the road to the Subaru.
The young man looked up at him anxiously.
“Do you know what you’ve just done, son?” Chase demanded.
The driver shook his head.
“You’ve just knocked down a police officer and helped a
fugitive escape.”
“But...!” blustered the young man.
“What’s your name?”
“Evans. Pete
Ron Roy, John Steven Gurney
Amie Kaufman, Meagan Spooner