Uprising

Chapter Eight

You could cover a lot of distance very quickly on a bike like the Hayabusa, and Joel had been riding around for most of the night. His route had taken him all around Oxfordshire, and, as the fog had lifted in the hours before dawn, he’d sought out fastest, twistiest sections of country A-road where he knew the speed cameras were few and far between. His advanced police motorcycle course had made him a very quick and very safe rider. He knew exactly how far he could push the machine before he reached the very limit of his concentration and reflexes — and the faster he sliced through the countryside bends, the further from his mind he could drive the haunting remnants of the nightmare’s memory.

The first light was creeping over the horizon when he pulled up in a layby on the edge of a sleepy village. He killed the engine and sat back in the saddle, taking a few moments to soak up the tranquil silence. Feeling much better now, restful, clear headed and ready for another day, he peeled back the sleeve of his leather jacket to check his watch.

It was time to go to work. He fired the Suzuki back up and pointed it towards Oxford and Thames Valley Police Station.

As Joel walked in off St Aldates and into the station foyer, the blonde station duty officer gazed admiringly at the Detective Inspector’s lean six-foot frame. But he was too deep in thought to notice the look she was giving him. He waved distractedly as he walked past the front desk and headed for the staff canteen.

The place was nearly empty, just a few uniformed coppers coming off their late shifts and a handful of early-bird civilian personnel sitting at the plastic tables over tea and pastries. The police were always run ragged by the party mayhem and endless alcohol-related violence of Hallowe’en night. It got worse with each passing year, and today most of the officers looked pale and tired and ready for their beds.

Joel knew the feeling. He ignored the trays of doughnuts and Danish pastries, grabbed a coffee and went over to a corner table. The coffee was the same old thin, insipid brew that only came to life after the fourth sugar. He sat sipping it, gazing out of the window at the rising sun.

At a table a few yards away, three constables, two male and one female, were relaxing over a pot of tea. Joel knew them all well. The balding skinny guy was Nesbitt, the woman was Gascoigne, and the one doing all the talking was Macleod. Big Bob Macleod, two years from retirement, a pork pie of a man, a wheezing, red-faced heart attack waiting to happen. He was coming to the end of some anecdote or other that had the other two grinning broadly. Far away in his thoughts, Joel hadn’t caught a word of it.

‘Give me a break, eh?’ Macleod chuckled in his gravelly voice. ‘I mean, like we didn’t have enough bollocks to deal with in this job.’ He flipped his fat wrist over and winced at his watch. ‘Look at the time. I’m off home for some kip.’ He heaved himself up from the table, grabbed his hat and started off towards the exit.

‘Hey, Bob,’ Nesbitt called after him. ‘Watch the Count doesn’t get you.’

‘Better start eating garlic,’ Gascoigne said.

Macleod’s face twisted in disgust over his shoulder. ‘Bugger that.’ He reached the exit, then turned suddenly and did a comic snarl at them, showing yellowed teeth.

‘Yaarrghhh!’ There was no mistaking the Christopher Lee Dracula impression. The other two constables fell about laughing as Macleod left the canteen.

Joel turned to them. ‘What was that all about?’

Gascoigne stared for a moment, as though surprised that the DI was taking an interest in their jokes.

‘Nothing much, sir. Bob was just talking about the suspected drug driving incident out near Henley last night. Teenager wrapped his car around a tree, sprained his wrist. Seemed to be off his face when we found him. There were pills in the glove compartment. Looked like ecstasy to me, we don’t know yet.’

The police procedure in a case like this was pretty straightforward. The pills would be tested, along with a sample of the suspect’s blood. When the lab results came through after a week, maybe two, they’d know whether they could press forward with possession and drug driving charges. But that wasn’t Joel’s interest.

‘I don’t get it. What’s with the Dracula thing?’

Gascoigne snorted. ‘Oh, just daft. When we brought him in, he kept rambling on about ghouls and vampires. Wouldn’t stop talking about them.’

‘Vampires?’

Gascoigne looked perplexed. ‘You really want to know?’

Joel nodded.

‘Well, apparently, the reason he crashed his car was because he was running away from a vampire lair that he and his girlfriend stumbled on. She was taken by them, needless to say.’

Joel frowned. ‘Not reported missing, though.’

Gascoigne shook her head. ‘Course not, sir. Tucked up safely in bed at home in Wallingford. I talked to the parents myself.’

Joel nodded thoughtfully. Hallowe’en and ecstasy pills. A lethal combo for an overactive imagination. The drug was well known for its ability to produce all manner of wild hallucinations. But still, the mention of vampires had pricked up his ears.

And sent a tingle down his back, too. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t fight back his curiosity. ‘Do we have him in custody?’

‘I wouldn’t waste my time on it, sir. He’s spent the night in the JR.’ JR was what Oxford locals called the John Radcliffe hospital. ‘Probably be out sometime today, if he gets the all-clear. Then all he has to worry about is whether we’re going to book the silly sod for drug driving or just for possession.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Declan Maddon. But like I said, sir, I wouldn’t waste time on it.’