‘Simple.’ Ashton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You get that muppet friend of yours, Angus Muirhead, to stop messing me about on the Harley Street deal and I’ll give you more than enough on Mr Christopher Brennan to put him away for a long time.’
FIFTY-FOUR
‘He’s not here, boss.’
‘Fuck.’ Ron Flux kicked out at the open can of Tennent’s Lager standing on the bare floorboards. The can went flying across the room, sending an arc of ill-defined yellow liquid through the air. His new sergeant jumped backwards, to avoid getting any of the mess on his boxfresh trainers.
‘Sorry,’ Flux said.
Grunting, the sergeant – an unprepossessing bloke called Jordan Henderson – lifted his left foot an inch off the floor and gestured towards the tattered navy blue sleeping bag lying in the corner of the room. Next to it was a copy of the programme from Chelsea’s last home game, along with a tattered edition of Readers Wives and an empty Styrofoam takeaway container. ‘At least it looks like he was here last night.’
‘Lot of good that does us,’ Flux sniped as he scanned the rest of the room.
Wrinkling his nose, Henderson hovered in the doorway. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Dunno.’ Ignoring what looked suspiciously like a pile of shit next to the boarded-up fireplace, Flux stepped over to the first-floor window and pushed it open, breathing in as a blast of cold air hit him in the face.
‘What do you wanna do?’
Flux silently contemplated the cars neatly parked in the street below.
‘Boss?’
‘Dunno.’ He could barely force the word out.
‘Is it gonna rain?’
Why does that matter? ‘Probably.’ It was a typically grey, charmless West London day, in line with his mood, and for a moment, Flux wondered what it would be like to jump. Don’t be so self-indulgent, he told himself. You still have work to do here. Get on with it.
At least Carlyle had been true to his word. The inspector from Charing Cross was a bit of a cold fish but at least he seemed reliable. After looking the other way at Cherwell Valley services, he had ensured that Calvin Safi had been delivered to Flux, as promised, immediately after the Crown Prosecutor had finished interviewing him.
By the time he’d arrived in Hammersmith, however, Safi was fully lawyered up and keeping schtum. As expected, the lawyer had insisted on an immediate medical inspection of his client. After a delay of more than four hours, a Greek locum had declared that Safi’s injuries were sufficiently serious that he should be taken immediately to A amp;E. After a frank exchange of views, Flux had managed to prevent the prisoner being whisked off to Hammersmith Hospital. The quid pro quo was that Safi was to be allowed a night’s rest in the cells before any further questioning took place. As a result, the detective inspector hadn’t been able to conduct a proper interrogation before a tip-off had come in about Steve Metcalf being holed up in an abandoned Bloemfontein Road squat.
There was a shuffling of feet behind him. ‘Should we wait here?’ Henderson asked.
No idea, Flux thought, not turning round. ‘Maybe.’
‘Do you think Metcalf’ll come back?’ the sergeant persisted.
‘Good question.’ Flux watched a couple of uniformed school-boys, maybe twelve or thirteen, strolling down the road. He glanced at his watch. Not only were they an hour late for school, they were heading in the wrong direction. For the first time in what seemed like years, Flux allowed himself a small smile, recalling the days when he used to skive off from school himself, stuff his blazer into a battered Gola holdall and head off to explore the fleshpots of Soho. You enjoy it, boys, he thought. Bunking off now and again is good for the soul. Certainly, the odd day off had never done him any harm.
None at all.
‘Shit.’
Looking past the boys, the DI broke out of his reverie as he recognized the figure ten yards behind the boys, lumbering along the road towards the house. ‘It’s him!’ he shouted with more than a hint of glee in his voice. ‘Metcalf’s back already.’
Sergeant Henderson appeared at his shoulder and peered down the street. ‘Are you sure that’s him?’
‘Oh yes.’ Flux thought for a moment. Metcalf was only about four doors away now – he would be with them in less than a minute. There wasn’t really much they could do, other than wait to welcome him back. The DI fingered the knuckleduster in his jacket pocket. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Come right in and say hello.’
As Metcalf approached the front gate, he paused and looked up. Flux jumped back from the window, but it was too late – he had been spotted.
‘Shit.’ Pushing the sergeant out of the way, the DI raced to the door and down the stairs, three at a time. Tearing open the front door, he hurdled the low brick wall at the front of the house, slamming into a taxi parked by the kerb. Regaining his balance, Flux set off after his quarry. Showing an impressive turn of speed for such a big man, Metcalf was already fifty yards down the road. Flux guessed that he was making for the Cleverly Estate, a sprawling 1920s development located a couple of blocks to the west.
‘Bastard,’ Flux wheezed. If Metcalf made it into the estate, he knew that he would lose him amidst the warren of buildings and walkways it contained. The DI tried to kick on, but it felt like there was a fire in his chest and he was struggling to breathe, while his legs were turning to jelly. The rueful thought crossed his mind that this was one of those times when being one of the 75 per cent of Met officers who were overweight wasn’t that clever. Trying not to throw up, he felt desperation wash over him as he watched Metcalf disappear round the corner and into Sawley Road.
‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’
‘Huh?’ Pulling up with a start, Flux glared at the cyclist who had blindsided him.
‘Idiot,’ the middle-aged man hissed from behind a pair of designer sunglasses.
‘What are you doing on the pavement?’ Flux wailed, casting a forlorn glance down the road.
‘You need to watch where you’re going, dickhead,’ the lycra-clad hooligan repeated as he jumped off his expensive-looking mountain bike and tried to walk it around the quivering policeman.
Out of the DI’s frustration, an epiphany bloomed. ‘Give me the bike!’ he shouted, making a grab for the handlebars.
‘What?’ The cyclist tried to jerk the bike away but he was too slow. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Police,’ Flux croaked. ‘I need to commandeer your bike.’
‘Fuck off, you nutter.’ With a grunt, the cyclist pulled the bike free, staggering backwards into the waiting arms of Sergeant Henderson, who had belatedly emerged from the squat.
‘Arrest that bastard,’ Flux commanded, grabbing back the bike and pushing it into the road.
‘What for?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Anything you like,’ Flux giggled, jumping on to the saddle.
The pain in his chest had subsided slightly although his legs still felt funny. As he wobbled into Sawley Road, it occurred to Flux that it must have been more than thirty years since he had been on a bike. ‘Just keep peddling, you stupid bastard,’ he laughed nervously, wondering what had happened to the burnt orange Chopper of his youth, while scanning the middle distance for a sign of the fleeing Steve Metcalf. After swerving to avoid a couple crossing the street, he saw a man dart between two parked cars and cross the street about 150 yards in front of him. ‘Gotcha.’
Metcalf seemed to be keeping to a reasonable pace. Even so, upping his speed, Flux felt the wind in his face as he closed the gap steadily – and silently – on his target. Still making for the sanctuary of the Cleverly Estate, not looking backwards, Metcalf was unaware that he was being gradually reeled in. Gritting his teeth, the detective inspector ignored his accelerated heart-rate and gave it one final effort. ‘C’mon,’ he grunted, ‘like Lance Armstrong on crack. Just do it, baby.’