The police scene is expanding, crowds being ushered back, both sides of the road being cordoned off. James’ face reflects in alternating blue and amber. He speaks in single, deliberate syllables. “Your knife is sticking out of the ribs of that Mickey character you were talking to.”
I’m not thinking straight. The part of me that hasn’t been over-run by chill and fatigue replies. “I’m sorry, James. I think I misheard you. Did you say Mickey’s been stabbed? Who on earth would want to kill him? He’s about as innocuous as it comes.” Then, at the anger I see flashing in his eyes, “James, it wasn’t me. Someone must have lifted my knife.”
“And that must have been easy to do, mustn’t it?” He drips sarcasm. “Getting your knife off you without you noticing.”
Michael leans forward, taps my shoulder. “You still got your other stuff? Wallet? Phone? Whatever else you were carrying?”
I pat down, moving awkwardly in my cramped position to check pockets in a quick self-inventory. “Yes, all there.”
His voice is tense. “We know you have your gun. We heard the shots. Half the town will have heard the shots.”
“They weren’t all mine. Baxter was firing too.”
“Whatever happened with you and Baxter, someone has murdered the man you were seen talking to. Half the crowd in that bar could witness you were talking to him.”
My brain is skittering to keep up. “I did not murder Mickey Miller. Why would I? What could he do to me? He’s completely harmless. Actually, I rather liked him. Besides, you were there. You know I was after Baxter.”
James sucks in his cheeks, his knuckles tight on the wheel, then “Alright, I believe you,” he says, “tempting as it is right now not to. But someone has murdered this man. Why were you talking to him? What is he to you?”
“Mickey’s a gossip. He’s a good weather-gage for what’s happening hereabouts. Whatever’s circulating, he’s likely to know about it.”
Michael nods slowly, chewing at his lip. “Yes, he is… Was…”
James half-twists in his seat. “You knew him?”
“Half the City knew Mickey.” Michael plucks at a lip. “And Klempner’s right. He was as harmless as it comes. Mickey was liked. It’s not going to go down well that someone’s murdered him.” He rubs at his forehead. “Did he have anything useful to say? Could he have been murdered for something he knew?”
My head is banging, and I rub at a temple. “I’d already spoken to him. He was able to tell me that Baxter was in the area but not much else… Although…” Mentally, I replay the night’s events… “… he was about to say something when we sighted Baxter. And that stopped everything.”
James steers carefully through what remains of the milling crowds. “Then we can perhaps assume he was killed for something he knew, but the fact it was done with your knife says that someone’s setting out to make your life difficult. Having it known you finished off Finchby didn’t raise a tear anywhere, but if this Mickey was popular, that’s different.”
I’m being set up?
“Why would anyone bother doing that, James? I’m not exactly universally loved, am I? And with the sheet I’ve got, why does anyone need to manufacture charges against me? Don’t they already have enough raw material to work with?”
Abruptly, the engine roars and I’m pushed back into my seat as the car accelerates. “We’re past the scene,” says James. “You can sit up now.” He nods ahead. “That’s what we’re chasing? The SUV with the blinking light?” He accelerates again, rapidly jamming up through third gear, then fourth…
“Yes, that’s Baxter.”
“Well…” James cranks up into fifth… “… I think we can assume that your understanding with Will Stanton is at an end. He’s not going to look the other way now.” And he slams down on the gas, screaming along the road in pursuit of the other vehicle.
It’s hard to keep track. The combination of urgency and adrenaline is scrambling my sense of time. Baxter should be way beyond us already, out of sight, but instead, he’s there ahead of us; distant but visible.
“You sure that’s him?”
“Yes, look at those rear lights, or what’s left of them. He did that trying to run me down. He doesn’t have a rear windshield either.”
“Has he slowed down?” mutters a voice by my ear: Michael leaning forward between the seats, his eyes fixed ahead.
Not just slowed.
Stopped.
“Why would he stop?” I mutter.
James peers into the dark. “Probably doesn’t realise we’re behind him yet. As far as he’s concerned, he left you on foot.”
“No, look.” Michael points ahead to where, silhouetted under the streetlights, another figure is getting into Baxter’s car.
A female figure?
It’s hard to tell…
James hits the gas again, sending sprays of iced water sheeting from the tires.
“Turn off your headlamps,” I say. “Don’t let him see us coming.”
He flashes me a look, then knocks off the lights, but already Baxter is moving again, helter-skeltering off and away towards the main highway.
“He’s seen us,” says Michael. “Get the lights on again before you kill us all.”
James growls but clicks the headlamps back on.
And we follow, driving like crazy, following that blinking taillight.
The car is distinctive, but in the darkness, against the confusion of streetlights, road-lights, iced reflections and other vehicles, it’s not easy to pick out.
Always, Baxter is on the edge of sight. Several times we lose him. A snarl of pedestrians and James slows. The blinker vanishes ahead of us but then, free of the crowds and the traffic, as we accelerate again, it fades once more into view.
We’re heading out of the City.
I lean sideways, trying to see the dash. “We okay for gas?”
James’ tone is short. “Yes, I filled up on my way to meeting you.”
My hands and knees are throbbing again and there’s a sharp pain from my left shoulder which spikes up through my neck and jabs inside my skull. I haven’t a clue what it is, but with James in control of the vehicle, I turn the blower up to full heat. As I warm through, thought reasserts. “Michael, how did you find me? I could have been anywhere.”
“James told me where to find you.”
?
?
“So… James, how did you…?”
He cuts me short. “Baxter’s turning off.”
Ahead of us, the single taillight slides off onto a slip-road.
“It’s the airport,” mutters Michael. “He’s headed for the fucking airport.”
“Get your foot down, James, “I say. “If he gets out of the country, we’ve lost him. We’re back to square one.”
“You could follow him,” says Michael.
“Absolutely. I’ve got a passport and air tickets to his chosen destination in my wallet.”
James raises a brow, but Michael falls silent.
The airport slip-road is close, barely more than a mile. At the entrance, Baxter stops at the gate, an arm snakes out to take a ticket from the machine, and after a moment the barrier raises.
We’re three cars behind in the queue. It’s not much, but the next car hasn’t pulled up close enough to the ticket machine. The driver reaches out, his fingertips brushing the slot…
“Come on…” James slams a hand on the wheel. “Fucking well move!”
… but the idiot still can’t reach. The door opens and he tries to get out. But now he’s parked too close for the door to open properly.