Dead Simple

vehicle.’
    Grace sat bolt upright, the phone clenched to his ear, adrenaline exploding. ‘Have they taken hostages?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do we have descriptions of the two people?’
    ‘Not great ones so far. Man stocky, Caucasian, cropped hair, mid-forties; the woman has short dark hair, late twenties, early thirties.’
    Grabbing a pen, he asked, ‘What are the details of the vehicle they’ve taken?’
    ‘A Land Rover Freelander, green, Whisky-Seven-Nine-Six-Lima-Delta-Yankee.’
    Scribbling this down, Grace asked, ‘Any contact with this car so far?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Exactly how long ago was it taken?’
    ‘Ten minutes.’
    Grace thought for a moment. Ten minutes. You could get a long damned way in ten minutes. He thanked the Detective Sergeant and told him he would call him back in a couple of minutes and to keep his line clear.
    Then Grace quickly briefed his team. Handing the vehicle details to Nick Nicholl he said, ‘Nick, circulate the vehicle details to all the surrounding counties – Surrey, Kent, Hampshire – and also the Met. Now!’
    He thought for a moment. The roads to the east of Newhaven went to Eastbourne and Hastings. To the north were the fast roads to Gatwick Airport and to London. To the west was Brighton. Most likely, if they stayed with the Land Rover, they would head north. Turning to DS Moy he said, ‘Bella, get the helicopter up. On the assumption they are heading away from the area, get it positioned to cover the roads ten to fifteen miles north of Newhaven.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘When you’ve done that, get a watch put on all CCTV at the railway stations in the area, in case they try to ditch the vehicle and get a train.’
    He drank a swig of water. ‘Emma-Jane, call the Road Policing Department and get some vehicles up on the A23 on look-out for this car immediately. When you’ve done that, alert the police at Newhaven Harbour and Gatwick and Shoreham Airports.’
    He ran through a mental checklist: stations, seaports, airports, roads . Often, he knew, when people hijacked cars they would only drive them a short distance, ditch them and take a different car. ‘Glenn,’ he said, ‘get the whole surrounding area of Newhaven flooded – we want to make sure they haven’t abandoned the car yet. Also get a couple of our patrol cars here on standby.’
    ‘I’ll do it now.’
    Grace rang through to the Ops Room and informed them he was taking command of the incident. The clerk there told him there was one update that had just come in. A car matching the description had sideswiped several cars at a traffic light as it had cut past them on the pavement to get over the Newhaven swing bridge seconds before it opened. This information was just two minutes old.

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    Vic Delaney stabbed the brake pedal hard as they came into a right-hander on the winding country road that was much sharper than he had realized. The front wheels locked and for a sickening moment they carried straight on, towards a poplar tree, while he wrestled with the chunky steering wheel. Ashley screamed, ‘Viiiic!’
    The car lurched violently to the right, the front slewing round, the rear wheels breaking way, then he over-corrected and they were heading at another poplar. Then back, the top-heavy car swinging like a weighted sack, their luggage crashing around in the rear. Then they were back under control.
    ‘Slow down, Vic, for God’s sake!’
    There was a massive truck ahead, crawling along, and in a moment they were on its tail, with no room to pass. ‘Oh, fucking Jesus!’ he said, braking, hammering the steering wheel in frustration.
    It had all gone wrong. The story of my life , he thought. His dad had died of drink when he’d been in his teens. Shortly before his eighteenth birthday he’d beaten up his mother’s lover because the guy was a punk and treated her like shite. And his mother had responded by throwing him, Vic, out.
    He’d drifted into the services in search of adventure, and instantly felt at home in the Marines, except he’d also acquired a taste for money. Lots of money. In particular he liked fancy clothes, cars, gambling and tarts. But above all else he liked the feeling he got – all that respect – when he walked into a casino in a sharp suit. And what better massage for a man’s pride could there be than to get comped at a casino for a steak dinner, maybe a room, too.
    A lucky streak in the casinos during his second year in the Marines netted him some big loot, then an