Captives

ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

'Get out of the fucking way.'

DI Frank Gregson banged the steering wheel furiously and roared at the car in front of him.

The learner who was driving the car had stalled at traffic lights and was now endeavouring to get the vehicle restarted as traffic built up behind.

Gregson glanced up and saw that the lights were about to change to red.

He would be stuck.

'Come on, come on,' he snarled.

The car in front remained stationary.

The lights were on amber.

Gregson reversed a few feet, almost bumping the radiator grille of an Audi behind him, whose driver now shouted at him. He then swung the Ford Scorpio around the back of the learner and, as the lights changed to red, shot across the junction, beating the oncoming stream of vehicles, ignoring the chorus of indignant hooter blasts that accompanied his move.

He floored the accelerator and drove on, swerving to avoid some pedestrians who had stepped out into the road.

The car sped on towards Kensington Road.

Gregson didn't know if he would be in time; he could only try and reach Ray Plummer's flat before Jim Scott.

The helicopter had landed back at New Scotland Yard less than twenty minutes ago. Gregson had gone straight to the armoury and checked out a Taurus PT-92 automatic and three magazines of 9mm ammunition. He'd been told that Commissioner Sullivan wanted to see him but he'd ignored the order, saying he must get to Plummer.

Scott, he already knew, had destroyed one of Plummer's restaurants and one of his clip joints. It seemed only logical that he should now go after the man himself.

Gregson tried to coax more speed from the Scorpio, but ahead of him, coming into Kensington High Street, the traffic was slowing down again.

He had called once already for armed back-up, given the address of Plummer's flat.

Would he be too late?

There had been no answer yet.

He snatched up the radio, banging the hooter with his free hand as a car turned left ahead of him without indicating, causing him to brake hard.

'This is Lima 15, do you read me?' he rasped.

'Lima 15, go ahead.'

'I asked for back-up, armed back-up to some flats in Kensington. Where the hell is it?'

Silence for a moment, just the hiss of static.

'What address was that, Lima 15?' he was asked.

Gregson gave the address again.

'What the fuck are you playing at there? I need those men fast. Do you understand?' he added angrily. 'Affirmative, Lima 15. A unit is on its way…' Gregson snapped off the handset and replaced it, speeding on, cursing again when the traffic came to a standstill. He glanced to his right and left, thought about guiding the car up onto the pavement. No, too many fucking pedestrians about.

He looked at his watch again.

Something told him he was too late.