LITMIR.BIZ

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guttural voice after another; fast talking in a foreign language reminding him of fighter pilots in war movies—fear and tension released by shouting single words or staccato sentences. The captain translated, his words becoming as crisp as the chasers.

      “Lights are red. They’ve gone through.”

      “Who?” asked Edwards.

      “The Saab.” He held up his hand, “Wait,” he commanded, they’ve hit a car.” He listened intently, “They’re still going.” A moment’s silence. “They’re turning left, they won’t make it.” He paused. “They did.” A second later, “They’ve hit another car.” He turned to Edwards with a quick explanation, “They’re on a busy street, we’ve got three cars behind and we’re setting up a road block ahead.”

      Edwards imagined the speeding cars weaving in and out of traffic; pedestrians running into doorways; terrified parents dragging fascinated kids off footpaths; cars sliding to a halt. Hunted and hunters skidding on two wheels, fishtailing around corners and bouncing off parked cars.

      The voices on the loudspeaker became louder, tension increasing and the captain almost whispered, “The road block’s coming up.”

      Edwards saw it—two cars blocking the road— amazing how fast they came toward you.

      “He’s not slowing.”

      Five hundred metres, guessed Edwards, plenty of time.

      “Still going.”

      Edwards knew the fear, the panic. Passengers and co-drivers praying silently, even aloud. “Oh Christ! Stop you, bastard. Stop!”

      “Not stopping.”

      Two hundred metres. The swearing, “Oh Fuck! For fuck’s sake stop. STOP!”

      “They’re shooting.”

      The worst. Don’t panic. Don’t lose control. Decide quickly: If you weave you lose control; drive straight and you hit a bullet at 100 miles an hour.

      Jahnssen barked an order.

      The loudspeaker reverberated with the sound of shots then fell silent. Edwards held his breath. The control room hushed.

      The loudspeaker rattled back to life, the captain translated. “They hit the road block, they’re still going.”

      Edwards imagined the scene: The Saab ramming first into one police car, bouncing off into the second, scattering policemen and sending debris in all directions.

      A barrage of voices sprung from the loudspeaker. The captain looked relieved. “No one killed. We are still after them.”

      Edwards’ mind was racing, thinking of the co-drivers and the fear of not being in control, the fear he felt when flying. Too frightened to look, too scared not to. Unable to do anything but pray, trust the driver, and occasionally swear out loud to release the tension. “Bastard. Get out the bloody way,” or “Fuck—that was close.” Wanting to scream, “Slow down. Stop! Stop! Let me out.” Breathing a sigh of relief as each danger passes then immediately worrying about the next.

      Jahnssen was translating again. “It’s a bridge.”

      “A bridge?”

      “A canal bridge, it’s lifting.”

      Excitement mounted in the voices on the radio, like derby commentators near the finishing post.

      “Not stopping.”

      “The bridge’s still going up.”

      “They won’t make it.”

      “STOP! STOP!”

      The whole room held its breath. The radio went dead. Twenty seconds later it chattered back to life. The captain turned to Edwards with a look of dismay, “They’ve got away. They jumped the gap.”

      Disappointment filtered through the room. Policemen and civilians drifted back to their duties, or slunk quietly away with the disillusioned expression of footballer players losing the Cup by a single last minute goal. Some passed a few words as if commenting on strategy or team spirit, most remained silent.

      Edwards looked at the captain, “Well Jost, what happens now?”

      “We’ll keep looking for them but I think we should go ahead with our plan. I’ll arrange for the men to go in the truck and the back-up car. Perhaps you would interview King and the driver. You had better start with the driver so we can release him as soon as the truck is prepared. Two hours should be enough.”

      “What’s the time now?” Edwards asked of himself, checking his watch which still read 9:05 p.m. Glancing up he saw the control room’s illuminated digital clock blink from 22:05 to 22:06 and he reset his watch to Dutch time.

      9:06 p.m., said the flight information board clock at Stanstead airport as Margery, bottle-bronzed, still in beach shorts with her breasts bubbling out of a skimpy T-shirt, walked through the arrivals gate, saw Trudy’s mother, stopped dead, and erupted in a torrent of tears. The accompanying stewardess, unaware of the situation, tried to comfort her, but Margery twisted out of her grasp and flew toward Lisa.

      For several minutes they moved back and forth in a slow dance, blocking the narrow exit, neither wanting to be the first to break away in case the other should accuse them of caring less about Trudy. The constable, with a tremulous voice, suggested moving out of the way, but the joint outpouring of pent-up emotions made them deaf. Trudy would have found it strange, even amusing, to see her mother and Margery locked together this way. How many times had her mother trashed Margery? “That girl’s bad news. I wish you’d find a nice friend” she would say.

      With Margery’s hastily packed bag over his shoulder, Peter nudged them through the main doors toward the police car, the policeman urging them to hurry. Peter, grabbing his arm, whispered, “Don’t worry constable, it’s too late tonight.”

      “Not quite,” he replied, looking pleased, explaining that a friend at the Daily Express had promised to hold a space as long as they had Roger’s picture before midnight.

      Peter swung round in his seat as soon as they hit the main highway. “Margery, Luv. What do you know about this Roger bloke?”

      Margery distanced herself a little from Lisa. “Trude said he was twenty-seven, I said that were too old. She didn’t say a lot about him really.” She paused for effect, as if trying to think of what to say next, though she had thought about nothing else since seeing Trudy’s picture in the paper. “He’s got a big house in Watford and drives a Jag.”

      “That’s it. That’s where she is,” cried Lisa. “Why didn’t you stop her you stupid girl?”

      Margery had found a prickly seat and squirmed. “I told her not to go. Honest. I told her that all he wanted was a fu …” she stopped, suddenly aware she was not talking to her peers, “You know?” she finished, with uncharacteristic shyness.

      “Have you any idea of the address?” enquired the constable, feeling it was his responsibility to ask the questions.

      “I’ve thought and thought, but she never said.”

      “Did she say if she was unhappy at home?” continued the constable, treading on thin ice.

      She quickly replied, “No,” then looked sheepish. “I don’t know if I should say this …” she paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, her eyes roaming back and forth between Lisa and Peter, then she took the plunge, “Trudy doesn’t like her stepmother—reckoned it was her fault her dad left home.”

      Peter said nothing but Lisa stepped in quickly. “Come and stay with me Margery, ’til your parents get back.”

      “Is that alright Mrs. McKenzie?”

      “I want you to,” she pleaded forcefully, then added, “Please.”

      “Mum said I should ask if I could. She’s worried as well.”

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