‘If we’re going any distance we’ll need petrol. Better stop at the Fall End service station.’
Within half an hour it seemed almost certain that the Humber was making for London. Jackson had bypassed Causton altogether, driving straight to Beaconsfield then linking up with the M40. Keeping him in sight would be ‘a piece of piss’ according to DS Bennet.
‘He couldn’t overtake a five-year-old on rollerskates in that bloody hearse, sir. We’re talking sixty all the way. And that’s going flat out.’
‘Where’s Fainlight?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The Alvis.’
‘Still behind me. Keeping a low profile. Or as low as you can driving something out of a Bond movie.’
Bennet then broke into ‘Live and Let Die’ and Barnaby quickly switched his mobile off. The irritation barely lasted a second. Instead he began to dwell happily on how kindly Fate was treating him for a change. For, if you had to follow someone in a car, there could be few more discreet and surefire ways of keeping them in sight than trundling along on the inside lane of a motorway.
‘We never did get a London address for Jackson, did we, chief?’
‘No. He went to the Lawrences almost straight from prison. Stayed a week or two in a hostel to sort his stuff out. Before then he just drifted. No fixed abode, as they say.’
‘Wouldn’t fancy that much.’
‘Like I said, he’s not clever.’
‘So he could be going almost anywhere?’
‘He could be. But I don’t think he is.’
Somewhere between Paddington and Regent’s Park the silver Alvis overtook Bennet’s Escort. He didn’t actually see this happen. To tell the truth, the Alvis had been several cars behind, invisible to all intents and purposes, for the last half-hour and Bennet had half forgotten it. He hadn’t even noticed it jump lanes.
He wasn’t worried. As long as he kept the corpse and cart, as he had christened the Humber, in sight it was immaterial who else joined the party. He didn’t even have to hang back because, as the chief had pointed out during their last exchange, to Fainlight the dark blue Escort hardly stood out. Even if noticed it would be just another car on the road.
As all three vehicles passed over Blackfriars Bridge, Troy was circling Hyde Park.
‘You sure you’ve got the geography right, Sergeant? And don’t tell me we’re taking the scenic route. I’ve got eyes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Troy remembered looking forward only the other day to driving in London. Saw it as a challenge, which it certainly was. He could handle it, no question, it was just that if he didn’t get into the left-hand lane soon he’d be going round and round the Marble Arch till he was dizzy and God help him then when they finally came to a halt. He signalled, swerved out and got a trumpet blast from a foghorn up his exhaust that turned his bowels to water.
‘Short cut, chief. Avoiding Blackfriars. Gets dead dodgy this time of day.’
The silence was worse than a reprimand.
‘Whereas this way, nip across Waterloo Bridge and, bingo, we’re in Shoreditch.’
‘Looks like Oxford Street to me.’
And so it was. They crept gradually down, overtaking, at half a snail’s pace, huge red doubledeckers, several of which had a notice on their backsides thanking you for letting them pull out. Troy had a fleeting but vivid picture of what might happen if they pulled out and you didn’t let them and decided that, on balance, it might be best not to argue.
He couldn’t help noticing the extremely hostile attitude shown by the drivers of black cabs, of which there were many. They hooted, they stopped him overtaking, they tried to cut him up. One man screwed his finger into his forehead and yelled, ‘Wanker!’
‘I’ve heard about London taxis,’ said Troy. ‘I didn’t know they were as bad as this.’
‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘What?’
‘Buses and cabs only.’
‘Why don’t they tell you?’
‘We’ve just passed a sign.’
They crawled round Piccadilly Circus where the steps circling Eros were invisible under a crowd of young people eating, drinking and lolling about. Two appeared to be wholeheartedly trying out the god’s first principle for size.
They edged down the Haymarket and round Trafalgar Square, jam packed with tourists, most of whom were generously feeding the pigeons. The pigeons also gave without counting the cost and Barnaby regarded his car’s spattered bonnet sourly as they finally made their way over into Shoreditch. DS Bennet came through on Barnaby’s mobile and described his position. Just outside Whitechapel Tube.