Déjà Vu

Chapter Twenty-One

Sharp braking threw Saskia out of her dream. She swallowed her spit and looked ahead. The car had stopped. The traffic was a crimson mass of braking lights. Her watch read 10:30 p.m.

‘We’re late,’ she said

She looked at Jago. He was sweating and a vein throbbed on his forehead. ‘An accident,’ he said. ‘It happened just in front of us.’ He dabbed at the vein with a handkerchief.

‘Scotty?’ She put a hand to his forehead, expecting it to feel hot. It was cold.

He grimaced. ‘Heart burn. You know, acid indigestion. The bloody sandwiches.’

Saskia heard the co-driver talk urgently into her radio. The words were abbreviated and unintelligible. The car pulled onto the hard shoulder. Jago said, ‘They’re the closest unit. They have to secure the scene.’

The vehicle shook as their co-driver slammed the boot, shrugged a fluorescent jacket over her shoulders and jogged ahead to the driver. Saskia gripped the handle. She felt an urge to help, but, seeing Jago’s exhaustion, she stayed in the car.

‘We will wait for the next unit.’

‘…Alright.’

‘Alright.’

David thought of his daughter, Jennifer. He had taught her to ride in a cul-de-sac near the old house in Oxford. He had pushed her endlessly, a constant commentary to reassure her of his grip. Finally, he let go and she wobbled all the way to the turning space. He felt proud. He felt like a real father. At the end of the road, he heard her faint voice say, ‘I nearly did it that time, Daddy,’ and he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘You did! I’m back here!’ and she turned around and fell off with a scream. He ran down and picked her up, bike and all, and took her inside. He sat her on the washing machine and dabbed her grazes with antiseptic. Between her sobs, she smiled. ‘Did it.’ That became her catchphrase. When she passed her advanced maths at the age of nine; when she published her poems; when she got into the New York school, she always said, ‘Did it.’

A blue light flashed on the dashboard. He glanced down. No, it was a reflection. He turned his head. There was a police car approaching at twice his speed. He indicated left and drifted from the lane.

‘What is it now?’ Saskia snapped at the driver. She was exhausted. They had been delayed at the accident site for over an hour and Heathrow was, at last, only minutes away. Beside her, Jago awoke and scratched his cheek.

‘What’s the description of Proctor’s bike?’ asked Teri, the co-driver.

‘Vague,’ said Jago. ‘It could be a trail bike. Green, but possibly a different colour by now.’

The co-driver whistled. ‘That new?’

‘Yes, that new,’ Saskia said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Look at the bloke in front of us. Can’t be that many Moiré-types on the M4 at this time of night being ridden by a weekender. This year’s registration, too. Fair-sized luggage container on the back.’

‘A weekender?’ asked Saskia.

‘He couldn’t ride a bike to save his life. Obvious from the way he’s sitting on it.’

‘Pull him over,’ said Saskia.

‘Easy, hen,’ Jago said. ‘We can’t pull over every bike we see.’

‘What do you want to do?’ called the co-driver. ‘He’s changing lane.’

Saskia touched Jago’s elbow. ‘Scotty, pull him over. It will cost us five minutes if I’m wrong, but if I’m not—’

‘Fuck it. Teri, give him the news.’

The siren whooped. The headlights blinked. The rider glanced back, wobbled, and changed lane. He seemed uncertain whether to pull onto the hard shoulder or come off at the next exit. Teri activated the siren once more. The two vehicles crossed onto the hard shoulder and stopped.

Dan opened his door. The interior light was abrupt and dazzling. Saskia said, ‘Be careful. He may be armed.’

Dan paused. ‘Armed?’

Saskia sighed. The preferred weapon of the British police was a stern finger.

‘Wait here,’ she said.

She slipped from the car and moved forward until she was standing between the headlights and the motorcyclist, who still sat astride his machine. She touched her gun.

‘I am armed. Switch off your engine.’

The man did not turn. The engine revved. Saskia heard Scotty and the two uniformed officers get out of the car.

Stay back, she thought. I’m in control.

She exhaled and took a pace closer. ‘Armed police. Turn off your engine and show me the key.’

This time a gloved hand disappeared in front of the rider’s torso. Was he reaching for a weapon? The engine cut. She relaxed. She had to think slow. She was in control. She was prepared to draw and fire. Ignoring the Brits behind her, the occasional car roaring by, and the on-off wash of blue light, she drew her gun. The rider’s hand appeared again. It held the keys. The keys dropped to the ground.

Saskia gave further commands and, as she spoke each one, the rider obeyed. ‘Deploy the kick stand. Get off the bike. Move to the right. Face away from me. Remove your helmet. Slowly. Place it on the ground that it cannot roll away. Lie down on your face. Put your hands behind your head. Cross your legs.’

Only at this point did she look behind her. The two uniformed officers had their shotguns trained on the suspect.

‘Finished, dear?’ Jago asked. He walked past her and sat on the rider.

Saskia waited for him to apply the cuffs, then holstered her gun. ‘Well?’

‘See for yourself.’

Her breathing stopped as the man’s head came into view. For a moment, their eyes locked. She smiled apologetically. He looked away.

Jago stood. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Okay.’ Saskia turned to the uniformed officers. ‘It’s not him.’

‘Smashing,’ said Dan. He and Teri gave their shotguns to Jago and hoisted the man to his feet. Saskia followed Jago to the car. She was sleepy and embarrassed. She overheard Dan’s raised voice. They were haranguing the rider over a technicality.

‘I did not think British police were armed,’ she said.

‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

They leaned against the bonnet and watched the traffic. The air was crisp and smelled of exhaust gases.

‘Sorry, Scotty.’

He snorted. ‘We had to take the chance. What if it had been Proctor?’

Saskia watched the traffic some more. A police car fired past and its blue lights were a racing heartbeat. Seconds later, she saw another motorcyclist.

No. She would not cry wolf again.

David noticed the parked police car and motorbike. A man and a woman were watching the traffic. He checked his speedometer. It read 65 mph. He slowed and drove past, looking straight ahead.