He’d thought they were on to something earlier. Thick traffic in both directions. Surely the top brass could have liaised with someone and found there were events going on all over the city this Saturday? A smart Bentley had cruised by, returning within minutes. A gent had stepped out, actually stepped out of the car to address the girls. His booming voice had carried as far as Gary even over the street noise, relaxed and conversationaclass="underline" “I say, ladies! I find myself encumbered by a growing problem. Any chance of some assistance, I wonder? From one of you? Both?” Gary ’s crouch had moved smoothly into a racing start. He’d noticed that the gent’s eyes were sharp and were taking in his surroundings. Cute as an alley-rat, this one. He must have sensed that something was not quite right; the voice, when he spoke again, no longer had its confident edge. “Lost my way, I fear. Sat-nav absolutely useless! I’m trying to get to the shindig at the hospital… dashed if I can remember its name… They’ve got a red-ribbon fund-raiser on. Know the one I mean…?”
Shantelle, popping her gum and grinning, had directed him to turn around and head back east and pick up the Newmarket road where he’d find the Cambridge Clinic. And that had been the only excitement.
Newstead pulled up the cuff of his special-issue police camouflage suit and checked his watch. Nearly two hours here and no result. Two more hours to go. He stifled a yawn.
His attention sharpened. Something happening at last?
He relaxed again. The redhead was whispering in the ear of her mate and giggling. He interpreted the body language. She was apologetically nipping off to the van for a quick pee.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m away, Christalle!” she shouted with annoying archness.
Newstead cringed. His professional sensitivities were affronted. Stupid cows! They were enjoying themselves too much. Centre of attention and fancying themselves in the role. Well, all women were tarts at heart. He’d often heard it said. Why couldn’t she cross her legs? Or lay off the coffee? She should have thought! This manoeuvre was unscheduled-could put the whole operation at risk. All this detailed planning and someone forgot that girls need to go to the loo, especially when they’re feeling nervous.
He watched Shantelle hurry fifty yards down the road but his head whipped back to the pavement in front of him at the sound of screeching tyres. A black taxi had drawn up right by the other girl, Christalle. Gary Newstead leapt to his feet as the blonde put her head on one side, peered, and moved forward to greet the driver. He could have sworn that she knew him. Gary stayed uncertainly in place. No one else was moving in. Was this some police manoeuvre that hadn’t filtered down to bottom-feeders like him?
The driver of the black London cab leaned over, flung the door open, and began to speak to the girl. She was showing surprise but no sign of tension or fear. She leaned in close and talked back to him. This must be prearranged. Plain-clothes inspector calling by to take her pizza order? Just what he’d expect of this Keystone Cops op! The watcher decided he could stand down.
Abruptly, he tensed, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.
The driver was hauling the blonde into the passenger seat. All Gary got was a glimpse of a black-shirted arm, a black watch strap, and a dark head. He heard the click of the doors as the automatic lock was applied. The cab drove off at speed.
No time to juggle with notebooks. Shaking off his astonishment, Gary pulled his pen from his pocket and scribbled down the number of the vehicle on his wrist, then he charged forward to join all the other ineffectual lurkers breaking cover, red in the face and stammering excuses for their lapse.
“Did anyone get the number?”
“Where’s the bloody pursuit car?”
“Get on to traffic control!”
“Alert the team at Foxfield!”
“Ten miles away. He won’t get that far, but check the backstop’s in place!”
In the hubbub, Special Constable Gary Newstead finally made his voice heard. “I got it, sir! Sir! I got the number!”
“For your own safety, sir…” The blond girl’s voice had an edge of steel. “I’d advise you to stop and put me out at once.”
“What?” The driver’s response was derisive. “Before I’ve sampled the wares on offer? You’re very choosy for a tart, aren’t you?” He cast a scathing look sideways. “I’m assuming that’s what you are? Decked out in that bum-freezing bit of titillation, with hair gilded and frizzed and starched to a standard any medieval Florentine light-skirt would have envied! Just don’t insult me by telling me you were inspecting the drains or collecting for charity! Why the sudden shyness? Could it be that you don’t do it with old acquaintances?”
Detective Constable Christina Kenton sighed and tried to assess the determination and aims of the stern-faced man at the wheel of the black cab. The latest in a line of extraordinary vehicles he’d owned. She remembered ten years ago it had been a Thunderbird, followed by an AC Cobra, then an ancient and totally covetable Morgan. Always more than a touch of the showman about Julius Jameson.
She tried again. “It’s not what you think. No time to explain, even if I were allowed to. Drop me here. Right here. At once. You’ve put yourself in danger.”
“Ah! You’re threatening me with your poxy pimp? Ooh, I shake with terror!”
The wheel of the taxi wobbled dramatically and she bit back a nervous protest.
With creeping alarm, Chris had noticed that he was threading his way skillfully through the city, moving with the typical panache of a taxi, one of the hundreds on the road on a busy Saturday. No one looked twice at a cab shooting down a sidestreet or driving up a buslane. It was what cabs did. They were making excellent speed, but going where? The green square of Parker ’s Piece came into view and for a hysterical moment she thought he was about to turn her in to Police HQ. She’d never live it down. But the station passed by on the right and all lights changed in their favour as they approached. Over the river and on to the common, dotted with black-and-white cows up to their udders in a froth of Queen Anne’s lace. There could be no doubt. He was heading southwest, out into the country. She thought she could guess his destination. But could he possibly have remembered-after ten years?
He broke her tense silence as they joined the Barton road. “Do you think, you little twerp, that I knocked myself out for two years getting you and those other bumpkin friends of yours through their A-levels and on to university for you to end up tarting on the street? What’s the attraction? Do tell!”
His cynical purr had always set her teeth on edge. The other girls had thought it sexy. They’d sighed when he’d recited Shakespeare to the class-and Mr. Jameson never passed up a chance to use his voice. An actor turned teacher when the roles had dried up, he’d had the looks, the glamour, and the confidence to reduce the class to a jelly. Even some of the boys had quivered. But Chris had never been taken in by the sculpted profile, the ready wit, the throbbing baritone. With Mr. Jameson, all was, she was convinced, illusion. She’d always pictured him as a mysterious box swathed in black velvet. But what was at the heart of the box? Emptiness -or a picture of himself?
“Getting much job satisfaction, are you?” He’d not lost the knack of irritating her to the point of fury.
“Plenty,” she couldn’t restrain herself from saying lightly. She decided he didn’t deserve an explanation. And he’d only laugh even more derisively if she told him she was a detective constable. He’d always affected a disdain for the conventional, the conservative, the mundane. He’d projected a bohemian image, perpetually surprised and disconcerted to find himself in a classroom. No, she’d stay in the character she’d assumed, the better to torment him. “The financial reward is much better than anything you could get from teaching. And, honestly, there’s not a lot you can do with a degree in English, is there, sir?” She regretted that the automatic “sir” had slipped out.