It wasn’t there.
6
Monday 26 November
Shit, Mickey thought, trying to concentrate on driving, panic rising again. Shit. What numbers did the phone have on it? It was a burner he’d bought a couple of weeks before the start of the trip.
There was a groan from the passenger seat, which he ignored as he concentrated on navigating through the outskirts of the town, away from the harbour and towards the A26.
A couple of minutes later, driving like the wind, he shot out of the industrial area and onto the long, twisty, rural part of the road, checking his mirrors constantly. There was nothing so far. Just more of that darkness.
A bus-stop lay-by loomed up ahead. He braked hard and swung into it. Then he ran round to the passenger door, bashed the German unconscious again and dragged him, out of sight, into dense undergrowth. Not great but the best he could do, short of killing him. Returning to the car, he drove on at high speed. Thinking.
What a mess.
All his great plans down the toilet.
Jesus.
The boss was going to be furious — but that was the least of his problems right now.
He carried on, flat out up the winding country road that he knew well, 70... 80... until he reached the roundabout at the top. Right would take him towards Eastbourne. Left towards Brighton on a wide dual carriageway taking him directly to Stuie in Chichester. They would head north towards London and the circular M25 around it. And then towards Scotland. Find a service station and steal or hijack another car there.
He turned left, checking his mirrors again. Nothing. Only street-lit darkness. Wide, fast, empty road ahead now for many miles. He floored the accelerator and the car pushed forwards — 80... 90... 100... 120. He slowed, approaching a bend, aware of the roundabout ahead. Right would take him through the Cuilfail tunnel into the county town of Lewes, straight on along the fast road, past the University of Sussex. He carried straight on over the roundabout, accelerating hard, still nothing but darkness behind him. Thinking.
Suddenly a sliver of blue appeared in his mirrors. Like the glint of a shard of broken glass. Had he imagined it?
Then it appeared again. More insistently.
What?
He drove on as fast as he dared, crossed another roundabout, then accelerated along a fast, straight stretch, the needle passing 130 then 140 kph. He only slowed a fraction as he took a long right-hand curve and powered up a hill.
The slivers of blue in his mirror were getting brighter. Gaining. Strobing in all his mirrors.
Shit, fuck, shit!
Cresting the top, he raced down the far side. In two miles or so was another roundabout, off a slip road to the left. That would give him three options — towards Brighton, towards the Devil’s Dyke or towards London.
Which would they be expecting him to take?
He held the accelerator to the floor.
The lights behind him were gaining. Closing.
Then, to his horror, just ahead of him, blocking off two of his options — to go straight on or take the slip road — there was an entire barrage of blue lights.
Taking his chances, he powered straight on.
As he shot through, between all the flashing lights, he heard a series of muffled pops and the car suddenly began to judder, snaking right, then left, then right again. Out of control. He’d driven over a fucking stinger, he realized.
The car was shaking violently. Swerving right towards the central reservation, then left, towards the verge. Somehow, he got it straightened out and carried on, with a loud flap-flap-flap sound.
The blue lights were right up his rear now and the interior of his car was flooded with blazing headlights.
He ploughed on, wrestling with the steering wheel in sheer panic, the car slowing despite keeping the pedal to the metal.
More headlights in his mirror now. A marked police estate car suddenly pulled level with him on his right, then darted in front of him, replaced seconds later by another identical car on his right.
The one in front braked sharply.
He stamped on his brakes, too, swerving left, right, left, the Audi totally unstable again. As he pulled away from the verge on his left, he banged doors with a loud, metallic boom with the car to his right.
Headlights in his mirror dazzled him. Flashing. Flashing.
Right up his jacksie.
He was totally boxed in, he realized. Fucking T-packed.
Trying to think.
Running on what felt like four flat tyres. Maybe even just rims now.
The car in front was slowing. He rear-ended it, then slewed to the right, banging doors once more with the police BMW alongside him.
Slowing more.
He looked desperately right, then left, for a gap. Something he could swing through.
His brain raced.
Had to get away. Take them by surprise?
He wrenched the steering wheel hard right. Banged, with a loud clang, into the BMW again, and an instant later, with no time to brake, slammed into the rear of the police car which had halted in front of him.
Before he could even unclip his seat belt, his door was flung open and a police officer in a stab vest loaded with gear was standing there, joined a second later by a colleague. He was yanked, unceremoniously, from his seat and pushed, face-down, onto the road surface.
‘Michael Starr?’ a male voice said.
He twisted his head to look at the man, and retorted in what he knew was a futile act of defiance, ‘Who are you?’
PC Trundle of Sussex Road Policing Unit introduced himself, then arrested and cautioned him.
‘Save your breath, I know the law,’ Starr retorted.
‘Do you?’ said Trundle’s colleague, PC Pip Edwards. ‘Then you should know better than to be driving with four flat tyres. Tut, tut, tut! You could get a big fine for that.’
‘I’m guessing that’s not why you’ve stopped me.’
‘Really?’ Edwards retorted. ‘That’s pretty smart thinking. Ever thought about going on Mastermind?’
‘Very funny.’
‘There’s someone at Newhaven Port wants a word with you, matey boy. Because we’re kind, obliging people, we’re going to give you a lift back there — so long as it’s not inconveniencing you?’
7
Monday 26 November
As dawn was breaking outside, Clive Johnson sat in his office with the bag of white powder he’d removed from the spare tyre, listening on his borrowed police radio to the update from the Road Policing Unit. He was wearing forensic gloves, video recording what he was doing and ensuring that he was protecting possible traces of DNA, fibres and fingerprints. He slit the bag open and performed a brief chemical analysis on a sample of the contents. It tested positive for cocaine — and a very high grade.
He knew that the current street value of this drug in the UK was around £37,000 per kilogram. Which meant, if he was right in his calculation, judging from the weight of the Ferrari, there could be close to six million pounds’ worth of drugs inside that beautiful vehicle, maybe even more.
And the car wouldn’t be looking quite so beautiful by the time every panel had been removed and its bare entrails exposed.
Twenty minutes later, cuffed to an officer, Mickey was frog-marched back into the shed and up to the Ferrari where the Border Force officer who had first questioned him was now, once again, standing. He had a piece of sticking plaster on his bent glasses, one lens of which was cracked, and was not looking as friendly as before. ‘Decided to come back, did you? Very obliging of you.’