Tooth for a Tooth (Di Gilchrist 3)

he said. ‘Pull in over there.’
    ‘In the middle of the road?’
    ‘Just double-park the fucker. I’ll only be a minute.’
    Gilchrist felt his senses come alive. He had not expected any stops en route. Could this be a chance, perhaps his only one? He tightened his grip on his computer case.
    Tosh had his seatbelt off and the door open before Nance drew to a halt, and jumped out and slammed the door with a grunt.
    Gilchrist watched him cross the street and step into the newsagent’s, heart thudding at the possibility presented to him. If he made a run for it now, there could be no turning back. Resisting arrest was a jailable offence. He would need to find proof of his innocence before he could turn himself in. All of a sudden, the magnitude of what he was about to do reared over him like some physical presence that kept him rooted to his seat.
    In front of him, Nance eyed the traffic as if conscious of being double-parked.
    Gilchrist looked at the newsagent’s. How long had Tosh been gone?
    Or more to the point, how long until he returned?
    Then it would be too late.
    He had to do it. And do it now.
    He depressed the lever on the passenger seat, pushed forward and opened the door in one fluid movement. ‘Give me five minutes,’ he said, and was out of the car before Nance could react.
    ‘Andy. Don’t—’
    He ran, clutching his computer case to his side. He glanced back to see if Nance would chase him. But he had known from her eyes that her heart had not been in it, and the car remained stationary with its hazard lights blinking, Nance at the opened door, staring after him, her mobile already to her ear. And as he ran, he tried to work out how much distance he would have to put between him and Tosh to be safe.
    He remembered Tosh being a sprinter, his shorter legs and thicker muscles powering him faster than Gilchrist could ever run. Long legs and slender build made distance running more Gilchrist’s style.
    He glimpsed over his shoulder, caught Tosh crossing the street, stripping a cigarette packet, then the hesitation and a hand thumped on the car’s roof, followed by a quick look left, then right, until their eyes locked.
    Tosh vaulted over the bonnet of a parked car with an agility that had Gilchrist cursing under his breath. He forced himself to concentrate on just running. Tosh might be a sprinter, but like all sprinters he could not keep it up for long before his muscles burned out. How long would it take? Already Gilchrist’s lungs were burning, and the computer case seemed to be gaining weight with every step.
    He turned into a side street, relieved to recognize familiar territory. Two years ago he had been called to a domestic dispute in a house at the end of the row, and had chased the husband across the back gardens, along a little-used communal path.
    He raced into the path. But his memory had tricked him.
    Ten yards in, the path dead-ended at a brick wall.
    He doubled back, veered down another length, cursing at having lost valuable seconds in his race with Tosh, and almost crashed into a higher-than-remembered hedge. With no way to go except forward, he lugged his computer case up and over.
    He forced himself through the hedge, caught a glimpse of Tosh skidding into the pathway. Their eyes locked for an instant, then Tosh tucked his head forward and powered towards him in a determined sprint that would have him on Gilchrist in seconds, it seemed.
    Gilchrist pulled himself free and hurtled along the communal path. But he knew it was no use. He could not outrun Tosh, and his lungs were not working the way they should. He coughed up phlegm blackened from Betson’s fire. His breath rushed in hard rasps that burned his throat. Tosh would catch him and he would have to give himself up. What else could he do? Assault an officer of the law while resisting arrest?
    The communal path rounded a gable end then split into two, one branch leading back to the main road, the other deeper into the back gardens, the hedgerows taller, the bushes thicker. From behind, he heard Tosh fight his way through the overgrown hedge.
    Gilchrist saw his chance.
    He turned into the longer of the two paths, ducked out of sight, pushed his computer case through the bottom of the hedgerow into a grassed area and shuffled in after it. He only just managed to pull his legs in when Tosh came bursting past, crashing into the hedge where the path split.
    ‘Fuck,’ he gasped.
    Tosh’s legs were no more than two feet from