Captives

THREE

The police car was doing fifty when it hit the pedestrian.

The impact catapulted the man into the air where he seemed to hang, as if magically supported, for several seconds before crashing back to earth, bones splintered and blood pouring from several ragged gashes. He rolled over in the gutter and lay still.

Davies looked back over his shoulder to see that the second police car had pulled up and one of the officers was getting out to look at the luckless soul.

'Jesus, Jesus fucking Christ,' shouted Foster, his face a mask of horror and revulsion. 'I couldn't stop. I couldn't…' He was breathing heavily, his face as white as milk. Davies said nothing; he merely gripped the handset and watched as the motorcycle policeman cruised up closer to the fleeing Bonneville.

He was almost level with his quarry when the rider reached inside his jacket and pulled out the automatic.

'No,' shouted Davies, as if in warning.

He saw the pistol being raised, pointed at the head of the motorcycle policeman.

The rider of the Bonneville fired once.

The high velocity round powered into the face of the other rider, blasting through the right cheek, pulverising the zygoma. At such close range the lethal bullet exploded from the policeman's skull through the left occipital bone, even blasting through his helmet, which filled with blood. Portions of bone and smashed helmet flew into the air, carried on a geyser of crimson.

The bike merely flopped hopelessly to one side, colliding with a stationary car. The policeman was hurled from the seat, sprawling across the bonnet, blood spattering the windscreen.

The Rover sped past the body.

'Lima Six come in.'

The voice on the two-way, startled Davies and he' jerked in his seat, hesitating a moment before answering.

'Lima Six, go ahead, over,' he said breathlessly, still watching the escaping motorcyclist up ahead.

'Lima Six, be advised that Oxford Street and all roads leading off it are now closed by other units,' the voice told him.

Now there's nowhere for him to go, Davies thought triumphantly. Nowhere else to run, you bastard.

'Lima Six, do you read? Over.'

'Understood, we will continue pursuit. Over and out.' He jammed the handset back onto its clip on the dashboard and leant forward slightly. 'Let's get this fucker,' he hissed.

The rider had still not looked behind him. Only when he reached Oxford Street did he glance over his shoulder, to see that the Rover was gaining on him. He looked right and left and noticed that there were two police cars moving towards him from the direction of Charing Cross Road. Ahead of him Berners Street was blocked; he could see police cars and uniformed men moving about on the pavement. Half a dozen of them moved towards him.

He turned the bike to the left, revved the engine and sped off down Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus.

The Rover came hurtling out of Wardour Street, wheels squealing on the tarmac as Foster struggled to keep it under control. He succeeded and the car roared off after its prey like a predatory animal in search of its next meal.

Traffic on both sides of the road had been halted; the only vehicles moving were the motorbike and the pursuing Rover.

Pedestrians stood, immobilised by shock, staring. From the safety of their own vehicles other drivers watched the chase, some with amusement, some with irritation. Always bloody traffic hold-ups in Central London.

A thought suddenly struck Davies.

He snatched up the two-way.

Ahead of them the Bonneville was slowing down, the rider swinging it round so that it was facing the shops. Onlookers scattered in terror as he revved up, looking towards the oncoming Rover.

'Is Ramillies Place sealed off?' Davies asked urgently.

'Negative. It isn't possible to get a car…'

The voice trailed off.

No, not a car.

The narrow walkway that led from Oxford Street to Ramillies Place wasn't wide enough to get a car through, but it would accommodate a bike.

Just wide enough for a bike.

The bike appeared to be aimed at the narrow alley next to Marks and Spencer but, as the police car drew nearer, Davies saw that it was not.

'What the hell is he playing at?' muttered Foster.

The motorcyclist revved his engine for what seemed like an eternity, the back wheel spinning, leaving great rubber slicks on the road as he held the power in check. He might have been daring the uniformed men to come closer.

The car was within fifty yards.

Exhaust fumes poured into the air around the bike, so thick that it appeared the machine was on fire.

Thirty yards.

He looked to his left and right and saw cars converging from both sides.

Fifteen yards.

He released the throttle and the bike rocketed forward.

The gap that would take him to freedom beckoned.

He was less than twenty feet from it when he turned the bike towards the window of Next.

The Bonneville hit it doing sixty, erupting through the thick glass, which exploded in a dense shower. Several shop window dummies were carried into the store by the impact, one trailing along, tangled in the front wheel of the bike by the garments it was dressed in.

The bike cartwheeled but the rider held on, like a rodeo rider anxious not to lose his mount, his face hideously cut by the glass.

Even when the bike exploded.

The blast shook the building, blowing out what remained of the front window, a searing ball of flame enveloping the machine and the rider. As he hit the ground his skull seemed to fold in on itself, the bone crumbling as he struck the floor with incredible force, sticky portions of brain bursting through the riven skull.

He lay beneath the remains of the bike, the flames devouring his flesh, stripping skin from his bones. Blisters rose, burst and then blackened as the fire engulfed him, turning him into a human torch.

Those who'd been in the store when he crashed through the window fought to escape the scene of devastation. Members of staff fled past fire extinguishers in their haste to flee what could rapidly become an inferno.

Uniformed men now forced their way in, held back by the flames that had engulfed the Bonneville and its rider, who now lay beside two blazing mannequins. As the fire destroyed them they dissolved, their false limbs melting in the ferocity of the inferno. One, still wearing the remains of a silk camisole and knickers, its false hair scorched off, seemed to roll over onto him, the heat twisting its plastic limbs into grotesque shapes, bending and moulding its arms so that they seemed to close around the dead man in a final fiery embrace.