Not Dead Enough

of those – what do you call them? – near-death experiences . When your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. It’s been like that since we left Notting Hill.’
    The big blue and white sign for the Gatwick airport turn-off and the Junction 9 marking were now looming ahead. They hurtled past. A short way in the distance Grace could see the silhouette of the flyover across the motorway.
    Thirty seconds later, as they passed under it, Grace’s eyes swung from his watch to the car’s milometer. ‘OK, you can slow down now!’
    ‘No way!’
    Bubba Sparxxx ended, to Grace’s relief. He leaned forward to turn down the volume, but Branson protested. ‘It’s Mobb Deep coming on next, man. He’s like well out of your depth, but he’s my kind of music.’
    ‘If you don’t slow down, I’m going to find some Cliff Richard!’ Grace threatened.
    Branson slowed down, a fraction, shaking his head.
    For a moment, Grace tuned out Branson and his music and concentrated on some mental calculations. They had covered just over twenty-eight miles from outside Bishop’s apartment building in Westbourne Grove, Notting Hill, some of which was through built-up, urban areas and some on dual carriageway and motorway.
    There were several different routes that Bishop could have taken, and analysis of all speed cameras and CCTV cameras covering them might in time reveal the one he had chosen. There had been some heavy traffic coming out of London, and Grace knew that on different days, at different times, you could be lucky or unlucky.
    Tonight they had covered this distance in thirty-six minutes. At legal speeds, the journey would have taken closer to an hour. Branson really had been driving like the wind, and it was a miracle they hadn’t been stopped anywhere. With lighter traffic, or taking a different route, he reckoned it might be possible to knock five to ten minutes off this time. Which meant Bishop could have driven it in twenty-six minutes.
    There were a number of factors to be considered. Phil Taylor’s restaurant receipt showed the bill had been paid at ten fifty-four on Thursday night. The clock on the credit card machine wouldn’t necessarily be 100 percent accurate – it could easily be a few minutes fast or slow. He made an assumption for the moment, erring on the side of caution to give Bishop the benefit of the doubt, that it was five minutes slow. So, he assumed Bishop had left the restaurant more or less exactly at eleven on Thursday night. The cab journey, assuming no traffic hold-ups, could have been done in fifteen minutes. Add on a couple of minutes for Bishop to get his car out of the underground parking area beneath his flat.
    Bishop could have been in his car, on Westbourne Grove, by eleven twenty. The ANPR camera on the bridge of Junction 9 at Gatwick had clocked him at eleven forty-seven.
    Twenty-seven minutes to do a journey that had just taken them thirty-six. And Bishop had a much more powerful car. The fastest saloon car in the world.
    The ANPR camera clock wouldn’t necessarily be dead accurate either. There was a whole bunch of moving parts to this time-line. But what he was now certain of was that it was possible.
    He turned the radio off.
    ‘Hey!’ Branson protested.
    ‘And don’t start playing that stuff in my house, or you’ll be out in the chicken shed.’
    ‘You don’t have a chicken shed.’
    ‘I’ll buy one in the morning.’
    ‘You’re crap at DIY. You’d never put it together.’
    ‘So you’ll have to hope it’s not raining.’ Then, serious, he asked, ‘Give me your assessment of Phil Taylor as a witness.’
    ‘He’s straight. Well flash, with that car and all. Cocksure.’
    ‘Covering for his client? In league with Bishop for the insurance money?’
    Branson shook his head. ‘Didn’t strike me as the type. Ex-Inland Revenue special investigator? Nothing to say anyone isn’t a villain, but he just seemed straight to me. Regular guy, he was all right. But that car, though, bastard! I hate him for that!’
    ‘I think he’s straight too. And he’d come over as a credible witness in court.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘You did the journey in thirty-six minutes. On my calculations, Bishop would have needed to have done it in twenty-seven, but there’s give or take on either side.’
    ‘I could have gone faster.’
    Grace winced at the thought. ‘You did it exactly right.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘We’re going to charge him.’
    Grace pulled out his mobile phone and dialled