Over the Edge Read Free Page A

fire. A deep muddy scar was gouged across the verge, then dislodged stones and shattered coloured glass marked its progress until it came to a halt, broken and silent, pointing in the direction whence it came. Fifty yards of evidence – one or two seconds of time – that told of the transformation of a technological masterpiece into a pile of scrap, and a living, feeling human being into a piece of carrion. Further away, waiting patiently, were a breakdown truck and a milk-float.
    Rodger came to meet me as I took a waterproof coat from the back of the car. He introduced me to the fire chief who said they were going to remove the body, if that was OK. I had no objections if the photographer had finished.
    One of the panda cars was from Lancashire Constabulary. We exchanged greetings and theytold me that it had happened about two hundred yards inside East Pennine’s jurisdiction, so it was all mine. I thanked them for their assistance and they went home.
    ‘What’s the problem, Rodge?’ I asked.
    ‘The milkman,’ he replied, nodding in the direction of the float. ‘He reported the accident. Apparently he was overtaken by two cars going at what he called lunatic speed.’
    ‘Racing?’
    ‘Not directly. They were a minute or two apart. This was down the road, back near Oldfield. Then he came upon this and telephoned us. That’s not all. He says that something similar happened about a month ago. Two cars, a minute or two apart, overtook him at breakneck speed. They were sports cars, not hatches like the two this morning, and he says they were all doing well over the ton.’
    ‘So you think it’s more than youthful exuberance?’
    ‘There’s driving fast, Charlie, and there’s racing, and there’s running away from something. This was more than driving fast. I asked the firemen to feel in his pockets for some ID. They didn’t find any but there’s an envelope. It’s stuffed with money. All twenties. A few hundred quid at a guess. I’ve put it in an evidence bag.’
    ‘That’s interesting. Have you had chance to check if there’s anything on this one?’
    ‘That’s not all.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘They found this, too.’ He held a Ziploc bag up in front of my face, containing an automatic pistol. ‘Glock .38, at a guess.’
    ‘Sheest!’ I exclaimed. ‘That will have to go to the lab for a full inspection. Back to the car. Have you checked it out?’
    ‘Yes. It’s registered as a blue VW Golf 1.8 GTi, which is what we’ve got, and it’s not reported stolen. The owner is a Jason Smith, age 28, living in Scarborough.’
    ‘He’s a fair way from home. Any guesses at the age of laddo?’ I asked, nodding towards the wreckage.
    ‘No, sorry.’
    ‘Dare we ring him?’ Jason Smith might be at home in bed, or he might not, in which case we’d have some explaining to do.
    ‘Hmm, I’d rather not.’
    ‘No, I don’t think I want to, either. Lets see if we can find the VI number and take it from there.’
    But we couldn’t. The Vehicle Identity Number is usually on a plate welded on the floor at the side of the driver’s seat, but by the time they’d cut the poor chap from the wreckage there wasn’t much left to look at, and what there was had a liberal coating of blood on it. We arranged to take a full statement from the milkman and sent him on his way.Couldn’t have the kiddiewinks missing their morning cereals. We dismissed the breakdown truck, too, preferring to have our own take the wreckage to the police compound. It was ten o’clock when the fire brigade hosed the road clean and we opened it for normal business.
    We asked Scarborough to do the dirty work and they sent a bobby round to the house where the blue Golf GTi belonging to Jason Smith was registered. If it was still there ours was a stolen car, marked up to look like that one; if it wasn’t there he’d have to break the news that somebody might not be coming home and invite them to make an identification.
    There are thousands of