Not Dead Enough

don’t lose him!’
    ‘What’s going on, Bear?’ Bear was her pet name for him, because she didn’t like to call him Skunk .
    ‘I’m working. Don’t ask questions.’
    Grinning, amused by his strange ways, Bethany pulled out, right in front of another car. Blinding lights. A squeal of brakes and the blast of a horn.
    ‘Shite!’ he said. ‘You’re a fucking lunatic driver.’
    ‘You said follow him!’
    ‘Don’t let him see us.’
    She slowed. The MG sped away down the road. Then stopped at traffic lights. Bethany pulled up behind it. Skunk saw the back of the driver’s head at the wheel. Long, dark hair. It looked like a woman.
    ‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Bethany demanded.
    ‘Just follow her. Keep your distance.’

    The Time Billionaire was concerned about the headlights right behind him. Was the car following him? A police car? The lights turned green and he accelerated, keeping rigidly below the 30-mph speed limit. To his relief, the car behind stayed put, then moved forward very slowly.
    It pulled up behind him again at the next lights, the junction with the Old Shoreham Road. It was halted right beneath a lamp post and he could see that it was just a crappy little old Peugeot 206. Definitely not a police vehicle. Just some slapper and a prat she was driving. No worries.
    Five minutes later he pulled up in the street alongside Cleo Morey’s home and double-parked beside the bird-shit-spattered Volvo. He moved his Prius out of the parking space, then drove the MG back into it. Perfect! The bitch would have no reason at all to suspect a thing.

    Skunk, standing at the top of the street, concealed in the shadows, watched the curious manoeuvre with interest. He had no idea what was going on. Nor what the woman was doing spending so much time in the MG, fiddling about, with the Prius double-parked, blocking the street.
    Then the woman climbed out of the car, and he saw that he was wrong, it was a bearded bloke . Skunk watched him get into the Prius and glide off.
    Then he walked back to the Peugeot, parked a short distance away, and dialled PC Paul Packer’s number.
    ‘Hi, mate!’ Packer said. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘I’ve found me car.’
    ‘OK. I’ve a slight problem for a couple of hours – I’ve been called to a job. Can you hang tight?’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘Couple of hours, max.’
    Skunk looked at the Peugeot’s clock. It was ten fifty. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait no more than that.’
    ‘Gimme the location. I’ll get it sorted.’
    Skunk told him where he was. Then he hung up and turned to Bethany. ‘Get your panties off.’
    ‘I’m not wearing any!’ she said.

100
    Grace checked his watch. Seven minutes past eleven. Then he glanced at the speedometer. They were doing a steady 135 mph. Lights streaked past; darkness rushed at them. He was concentrating on the cars ahead, trying to keep Glenn out of trouble. As they closed on each vehicle, he tried to check whether it was a police car. It was hard because there were so many unmarked patrol cars used on this stretch of road, but he knew some of the tell-tale signs to look for – two figures in the car, a clean, late-model four-seater and external aerials were the best clues – and he also knew there weren’t many out late at night – there was a preference for marked cars then, a visible police presence.
    He was already going to have to pull some strings – not an easy task when the police were under ever-increasing public scrutiny – to avoid Branson getting fined and points on his licence for the four Gatso cameras that had double-flashed them on their way out of London. Four cameras, three points each – maybe even more for the speed at which they had hit a couple of them. At least twelve points on his licence. An instant ban.
    He grinned at the thought, imagining his friend’s protests.
    ‘What’s funny?’ Branson asked, having to raise his voice above the Bubba Sparxxx rap song that was playing at maxed-out volume on the radio. ‘What you grinning at?’
    Grace was tolerating the din because Glenn had told him he needed the music to put him in the zone for a fast drive. ‘My life,’ he replied.
    Eight minutes past. They were well beyond Junction 8 and Junction 9 should be coming up at any moment. He scanned the dark road ahead for the signs.
    ‘Your life? I thought your life was just sad. Didn’t realize it was a comedy.’
    ‘Just drive! I’m having one