My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (24 page)

Hawkins opened her mouth, ready to level with them about the recent murders, when Red bolted. He lunged at Sharpe, knocking the sergeant backwards, and before any of them had time to react he pelted along the promenade. The three girls, who had been watching from the edge of the area, cheered as he flew by.

Mike took off after him, followed a second later by Amala, leaving Hawkins and Sharpe with his friend. But Blue didn’t move, just held up his hands and sat down.

Hawkins turned to see Sharpe regaining his composure. And, beyond him in the gathering dusk, her other two officers sprinting after Red.

She
looked back at Blue. ‘Is your mate Lucas Dean?’

For a few seconds he said nothing.

Then he nodded.

Maguire passed the three girls at a sprint, dodging the A-boards outside the doughnut cart. He hit the wide promenade that ran alongside the river, checking ahead for the kid who’d just taken off, making sure he hadn’t doubled back or gone to ground.

At first he couldn’t see the guy. Daylight was fading and the streetlamps along the waterfront had come on. Two rows of bare trees stretched into the distance, and there were folk standing here and there, blocking his view. But then he saw him, pounding along the outer pathway near the railings on the right.

The kid looked fast, too. Maguire was already thirty yards down. He tried to estimate whether he was closing but, if anything, the guy was getting away.

Suddenly, the kid broke stride and looked round, as if he didn’t expect anyone still to be with him. Maguire cut back between the trees, but he was too late. The kid picked him out straight off and flipped, turning back to resume his crazy pace. Maguire sprinted on, trying to build on the free yards.

Something registered at the edge of his vision, and he heard someone pulling alongside. He glanced over to see Yasir drawing level.

‘Geez, Amala, I didn’t … know you could … run.’

‘County athletics team.’ She started easing ahead.
‘Better get this guy quick … though. I only ever did … eight hundred metres.’

Maguire refreshed his efforts, trying to stay with her. At the same time, he angled across nearer the river, taking Amala with him, so they were in line with their target. The kid obviously had something to hide; nobody ran from the cops for the good of their health. But the answer came sooner than he expected.

The kid slewed around a wave of umbrella-toting day trippers, a move that forced him away from the water’s edge. But then he headed straight back to the railings, digging in his jacket as he ran.

Maguire told Yasir, ‘Watch out for … weapons.’

‘I know.’

But the kid kept running; didn’t turn. And a second later Maguire realized why, as the guy flung out an arm and launched a handful of small packets over the railings, into the river.

Drugs.

Hawkins stood, looking along the South Bank in the direction Maguire and Yasir had just gone after Lucas Dean, her hopes of a quick retrieval fading as fast as the light. Both detectives had disappeared beyond the doughnut stand a few minutes before, passing the three girls who’d arrived with the lads. The girls were now standing at the edge of the lookout area, obviously discussing the drama, intermittently checking the promenade and watching their other friend.

Hawkins’
muscles weren’t enjoying themselves, so she settled as elegantly as she could on to the bench beside Dean’s mate. She glanced up at Sharpe, standing beside her with a pained expression on his face. She gave him a look intended to remind him quietly that at least Dean was alive, which made it likely the killer was yet to strike again. But the tall sergeant’s scowl didn’t lift.

Unimpressed, she turned back to Dean’s friend. ‘What’s your name?’

There was a short pause. ‘Lester Burnett.’

‘What are you doing here today, Lester?’

He lit another cigarette. ‘Enjoying the view.’

‘Fair enough.’ She took him at his word, hoping to generate some trust before moving on. ‘Why do you think Lucas ran?’

The kid sniffed. ‘Reckon he panicked. After missing them parole meetings, he never bothered going back; thought it’d just be slapped wrists or some shit like that. Didn’t know it’d be such a big fuckin’ deal.’ He waved at her and Sharpe.

‘It is’ – Hawkins scanned the waterfront again, still seeing no sign of the others – ‘but only because we think Lucas might be in danger.’

She heard the bench creak as the kid leaned forwards. ‘From who?’

‘I can’t discuss details,’ she told him, ‘but when my officers bring him back, you’ll be doing Lucas a favour if you encourage him to cooperate, okay?’

He
shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

She jerked her head at their audience. ‘What about the girls? How well do you know them?’

‘Just met ’em today.’

‘Okay.’ Hawkins turned to Sharpe. ‘Wait here. I’m going to have a quick chat with them.’

Sharpe nodded. He looked nervous, but didn’t protest.

Hawkins stood and walked casually towards the three onlookers. The girls noticed and exchanged glances, probably deciding whether to try and leave, except that two of them wore ridiculously high heels, preventing any kind of haste. They stayed put.

But, suddenly, Hawkins had a new issue.

From behind she heard a scuffle of feet and an alarmed yelp from Sharpe. She turned back to see the two men struggling. It looked like the kid had made a break for freedom, but Sharpe had managed to grab his coat as he passed and was hauling him back.

Hawkins turned, cursing her gullibility.
This
had to be Dean. His mate had bolted, knowing it would split their team. Then Lucas had been smart enough to wait until she and Sharpe had relaxed. But he knew the girls might give him away.

She set off towards them, as fast as her damaged body would allow, yelling at Sharpe to hold on.

Dean thrashed at the sergeant’s wrist, managing to break free, stumbling as he was released. Hawkins swore, aware that her two fastest officers were long
gone. She’d never seen Sharpe run before, but if it was anything like his handshake they’d have little chance of catching their quarry. If they let him escape, and he turned up in a day or two with his head bashed in like a boiled egg, there’d be hell to pay.

Sharpe lurched backwards, off balance, as Dean regained his feet and sprung away. But something was wrong; the kid had some sort of limp. It could have been permanent, or a recent injury sustained in jail. Either way, it was slowing him down, which gave them a chance, at least.

Hawkins swung right, trying to intercept Dean. But she was too slow. He staggered by, turning to head along the promenade, the way she and Mike had come. She laboured after him, rounding the corner, wishing she’d practised moving at higher speeds.
Fuck!
She was losing ground.

Seconds later, she heard someone stomping up from behind and Aaron Sharpe clumped his way past, flat feet pounding as he closed on Lucas Dean. He caught the kid after another twenty yards, calculatedly clipping his heel to send him sprawling near some steps leading down to the water. Sharpe dropped a knee in the kid’s back and began fumbling with his Plasticuffs as Hawkins carried on closing the gap.

Dean lay still, breathing hard, his head resting on the ground. But as Hawkins got within yards he bucked, unsettling Sharpe enough to let him twist and land a
kick in the sergeant’s midriff. Sharpe slumped dramatically as the kid scrambled free.

‘Lucas!’ Hawkins shouted. ‘Wait!’

Dean ignored her, lurching to his feet, looking winded from his fall. Hawkins was still too far away to stop him, but as he turned to run Sharpe lunged, grabbing his belt.

Hawkins reacted, driving her legs harder, despite the burning sensation in her abdomen and chest. She covered the last ten yards to arrive beside the struggling men, reaching out for Dean. They just needed to subdue him long enough to explain.

Sharpe had wrestled the kid back to the ground. Dean rolled on to his back, looking up to see Hawkins advance.

She extended a hand. ‘Aaron, cuffs.’

Sharpe tried to pass them to her, but their hands collided and the cuffs dropped. Hawkins leaned forwards, reaching down, but the kid saw her and kicked out with his free leg, knocking her away. She righted herself, preparing to try again.

Then she saw the girl.

The youngest of Dean’s female companions appeared out of the darkness, obviously having come to help her friend. Their eyes met as she bore down with anger in her eyes.

‘Leave off, bitch,’ she shouted, shoving Hawkins with force. Hawkins fought for balance, but her ankle
turned and she stumbled backwards, reaching instinctively for support. She caught sight of the girl’s expression, which changed suddenly from anger to surprise. And then she realized why.

As the ground beneath her disappeared.

The girl turned and ran as Hawkins tried to stop herself. She flung out an arm, her fingers finding anchor on some sort of rail. She glanced down to see an open gate, and a metal staircase descending into the hostile black water. She tried to pull herself up, but her muscles burned, and she lost her grip on the wet rail.

At first nothing happened, and for a split second Hawkins thought she had anchored herself. But then she fell to the side. There was an instant of weightlessness as her balance shifted, before her fingers released the rail, pitching her backwards.

Into the Thames.

‘Met Police!’ Maguire yelled at a group of shocked bystanders as he thundered past. ‘In pursuit of … suspect.’

He swung past them, looking ahead. Yasir was further in front now, still closing on the kid. The gap between the two of them had closed to fifteen yards, but they were all getting tired. Slowing up.

He considered shouting at members of the public to stop the guy, but the kid still might have a weapon, and they couldn’t risk putting lives in danger. Daylight was almost gone as they raced along the South Bank, the
streetlamps dropping patches of yellow light on the glistening path.

Maguire swore over a ragged breath as he watched the kid throw more packets into the Thames. The guy had been dealing, so he was making damn sure he’d have no evidence on him in case they caught up. He was dumping a small fortune but, without proof of what was in those bags, they couldn’t press charges at all. The chances of recovering any of them from the river were low. At this rate all they’d have to charge him with would be wearing indecently clean sneakers.

But their luck changed as the kid let fly with another bunch of packets. Three or four cleared the railings and scattered in the wind before dropping into the water, but one hit the base of a streetlamp, bouncing back to land on the ground.

Maguire veered towards it, telling Yasir to stay with Dean. He kept momentum as he bent and scooped up the packet, taking a quick look to make sure it was sealed. From what he could see in the poor light, there was white powder in the bag. Evidence, sure, but not enough for a conviction, and nothing compared to what the kid had already plunked.

He pocketed the bag, concentrated on regaining the ground he’d lost by retrieving it. He didn’t want to be too far back if Amala caught up with the kid. She was trained to look after herself, but what if their target was armed?

Maguire renewed his efforts, driving his legs harder.
The others were a fair way ahead, but things changed again as the kid cut left, away from the front. Ahead of them, the reason for his move was clear. Waterloo Bridge loomed large, some kind of market beneath its archway providing the first big crowd they’d passed. The kid must have known it would slow him down, so he was heading for the widest passage to the far side.

He hit traffic right away, crashing into a couple of women as they stepped back from one of the tables. He spun, off balance, just missing a gang of teenagers coming the other way. He bounced off the wall and kept going, wrenching a box of books off a table into Amala’s path. She hurdled the scattering contents, followed seconds later by Maguire.

They flew out of the market into some kind of fair, past some buskers playing guitars. Flickering stalls lined the front, and the smell of mulled wine and cooking meat reached Maguire as the three of them wove their way through the patchy crowds.

‘Sorry, ma’am!’ Maguire yelled as a woman yanked a stroller out of his way. He cleared the market beside a low concrete structure, hearing the crash and roll of skateboard wheels as he dodged another gang of pedestrians.

Ahead, he saw Yasir lunge for the kid. She missed, stumbling as he cut left down a ramp. Yasir glanced off the railings and went after him. Maguire let them go, veering right, past a yellow stairwell, sticking to the
sidewalk’s upper tier. If the kid came back up, maybe he could cut him off.

Mike rounded the steps and charged on to the next open stretch. He picked out the red hoodie around twenty yards in front, just as the kid disappeared below Hungerford Bridge. Maguire stayed on the high path, threading his way through tightly packed crowds, looking up to see the London Eye rising high above the trees. Steel drums filled the air as he skirted a brightly coloured merry-go-round, then the kid hauled over a large plastic bin and threw it in Amala’s path. But it was a bad move. The container’s weight spun him and he fell, just as the sergeant launched herself over the bin. She crashed into him, both of them sprawling aside. Yasir was first up, scrambling over and wrenching the kid’s arm up his back.

Maguire covered the last dozen yards as fast as he could, pulling out his cuffs and helping tie the guy’s wrists. They searched him, coming up with a few more packs of white powder, but no weapons. Amala held up her badge to a few alarmed witnesses as Mike hauled their catch to his feet and dragged him towards the entrance of Jubilee Gardens, where they all slumped on a low wall.

Maguire sat, staring across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament, catching enough breath to charge the kid with possession.

Then he reached up, pulled off the guy’s hood, and stopped dead.

It
wasn’t Lucas Dean.

Which meant that, if the other kid
was
Dean, they’d left Antonia and Aaron with the real target. Unaware.