the hell have you been?’ demands Crossley.
As I jabber my story, they inspect me in wide-eyed disbelief.
‘Why didn’t you call back-up?’ barks Crossley.
‘The radios aren’t working down here, Guv. You know that.’
‘Dear God,’ spits Crossley. ‘You’ve let him get away.’
‘You said no heroics …’
He turns to his number two. ‘Peter, get back-up there, radio all units that he’s travelling south from Underhill Lane on a scooter or in a vehicle large enough to carry a scooter. Lynch, take me to the bridge.’
Right on, right on, I manage to stop myself singing as I jump into my car and grab the seat belt.
‘Just drive,’ he snaps.
‘Sir, I can’t turn here …’
‘Reverse for Christ’s sake.’
Every male cop on the planet thinks he’s Damon Hill. Some, like Crossley, even own special leather gloves for the task which, when they’re not driving, they dangle on their belts like spare penises. Alas, I’m less Damon Hill, more Benny, especially going backwards.
‘Swap!’ cries Crossley and I’m out of that driver’s seat before he’s spat the ‘p’.
Crossley throws himself in, flings one elbow over my passenger seat. Palm-steering, he roars off backwards, beaching my poor car into every coccyx-crunching pothole along the way. My anger rises in tandem with my rev counter.
Over mashing metal and screaming suspensions, I shout: ‘Why are you pissed off with me? You specifically said no heroics.’
‘And I specifically instructed you, over and over, that you have a surveillance team in front and behind you that needs to know his every instruction.’
I don’t get it but why distract him now, when we’re careering backwards towards a brick wall in my beloved old banger? After a totally unnecessary handbrake turn, I’m tempted to request his insurance details. Instead, under orders, I perform a walk-through of the drop. I show him the stencilled message and the sensor on the bridge, which he goes over to inspect.
‘Sensor?’ he scoffs. ‘It’s a concrete block painted silver.’
‘Yeah, well I can see that now sir, with the headlights shining directly on it. They weren’t when I was last here.’
We find a way down to the disused railway line where, mercifully, at least the pulley-driven wooden tray and scooter tyre marks are real. Overhead, cars pull up, resigned. Scapegoat grumblings. Yes, he’s vanished into that great black rural night, but I did everything I’d been told to do.
I follow Crossley back up to the bridge, where they turn to face us as one.
‘He’s long gone,’ spits DI Peter Mann, his eyes not leaving Crossley’s. ‘We should’ve put one of us up front as soon as we got out here,’ he rants. ‘It’s pitch bloody black. Kipper was never going to identify the delivery man.’
‘We didn’t know that,’ says Crossley, firmly. ‘We didn’t know a lot of things, Pete. Like the fact he’d take us somewhere our radio signals don’t work.’
DI Mann switches his glare to me, full-beam. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you run back to your rear surveillance team? You could’ve shouted at them, they were that close.’
‘We were 100 yards behind you,’ chimes in a moustachioed man I’ve never clapped eyes on before. ‘You’re supposed to brief us after every instruction. You could’ve walked to our car. What were you thinking?’
My brain’s flailing. The radios were down. I didn’t know how close the rear surveillance officers were. I couldn’t see them. Anyway, what could they have done? Any attempt to pursue the suspect would’ve put Julie’s life in danger. That was the deal, right?
DI Mann’s head wobbles in contempt. ‘Your fuck-up has cost us vital minutes. You’d best hope it hasn’t cost Julie Draper her life.’
Involuntarily, my eyes clench shut. Please, please no. What have I done?
Crossley dry-coughs back control. ‘Let’s save the post-mortem for tomorrow,’ he snaps, checking his watch. ‘If you’re quick, the Lamb in Pyecombe should still be open. Go get a drink and calm down. I’ll wait here for forensics.’
Off they shuffle, muttering bitterly. I’ve never needed a pint so badly in my life, even if I have to toothlessly slurp it off the lino once they’re done kicking the shit out of me, so I follow at a distance.
DI Mann spins around: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
I slouch back to Crossley.
‘Don’t bother coming in for a couple of days Lynch, give me a chance to sort out this mess …’
‘Hands up, Guv, I forgot about the vehicle behind me. But what would my alerting them have achieved? Their radios weren’t working either. And it’s not like they could risk chasing him.’
He rubs his face vigorously with his open palms, as if clearing it of live scorpions.
He sighs hard: ‘I thought I’d spelled it out to you.’
His hands drop and his eyes look up to the heavens.
‘All that space-age tech up there, and I’ve got the village idiot down here.’
‘Now hang on just a minute there, Guv …’
‘I told you about your number one priority, Lynch, keeping your surveillance teams informed of each fresh instruction. Above us is a chopper with state-of-the-art thermal imaging, infra-red, you name it. Seventy-five grand to scramble. Ten grand an hour to fly.’ He turns to me. ‘I redirected the lead surveillance team but the rear one was still behind you and in direct contact with that chopper via satellite phone. I told you they were constantly in touch. I told you, if nothing else, make sure your surveillance teams are privy to his latest instructions.’
‘But my radio went down.’
‘Had you gone to the rear surveillance team, on foot, that chopper would now be covertly following whoever picked up the money, and only we would know. Instead, we’ve lost the money and we’ve lost him.’
An icy snake of terror unfurls inside me. ‘Shit. What have I done.’
‘I tell you what you’ve done,’ snaps Crossley, voice cracking, eyebrows arched to breaking. ‘Whoever kidnapped Julie has got his money, so he has no further use for her now. He can’t risk freeing her because of what she might be able to tell us about him.’
His upper lip stiffens, reining in his swelling emotions.
‘He has to kill Julie now,’ he states flatly, as if passing sentence himself.
