Читать книгу Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume - Brian Degas - Страница 6

He barely noticed the car on his tail, holding just behind and to the right, where it shouldn’t be. Yet somehow he could sense the danger lurking over his shoulder.

Unfortunately, as he made his way along the freeway into Birmingham, Special Constable Freddy Calder’s conscious mind was elsewhere. In fact, he was on the car-phone.

‘Hi, John. Look here, I’ll be with you in …’

Raising his wrist with a snap, almost a salute, Freddy checked his Rolex – actually, an imitation Rolex, but at a quick glance no one was ever the wiser.

‘… twenty minutes. And, old chum, what I have to show you is sensational.’

His gaze momentarily shifted to the sample case lying on the passenger seat, open just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of lingerie, a pair of sheer lace panties to be exact. Freddy’s talent was to imagine just how they would look on virtually anyone he knew, or thought he knew, or even conceived in his waking dreams of knowing. Of course, lying on the back seat was his model, ‘Salvador Dolly’, a curvaceous cut-out figure of an ideal woman wearing only her underwear every hour of the day.

‘Listen, this latest stuff’s so light you better hold on tight to your secretary when she wears them.’

They shared a low, lascivious laugh reserved for men talking about women. Whenever he sensed a customer had the same thoughts in mind, Freddy would start counting his money.

Accidentally and simultaneously, his car veered into the right lane, although he made a swift correction in steering with a slight move of his finger. It was then that he noticed the car on his tail: a maroon Audi, a ‘mean machine’. Suddenly he was alert, but gave no outward or visible sign of alarm.

‘Well, ’course in that case she’s travelling as light as she can get. Yeah. Fantasy Island … Don’t we all! See you.’

Before he could put away the car-phone and look back to his wing mirror, he heard a Luftwaffe motor roaring behind him. Getting louder, the Audi pulled in parallel with him, then swerved toward him and back, as if testing his mettle, before finally surging ahead full throttle.

Freddy cursed. The fool in the mean machine didn’t realize whom he was fooling with. Never cross Freddy Calder.

The chase was on. Guarding his intent – Freddy didn’t want the fool to know it yet – he tucked his blue Sierra neatly in behind the Audi and started a little tailing of his own. His Sierra provided the ultimate camouflage: not new, perhaps, but trim, tidy, respectable, bright as a button, polished by a lingerie salesman’s loving hands and totally inconspicuous in ordinary traffic.

Freddy reached for the car-phone and punched the number for Divisional Headquarters ‘S’ while keeping his aim fixed on the Audi ahead. Moment by moment, the solitary suspect appeared to be accelerating, forcing the pace, maybe trying to shake his tail.

Nevertheless Freddy Calder was on the case. His mood had changed with his identity: now he was a secret agent of the law – a Special – trailing someone in a hurry.

‘Put me through to Sheila Baxter in Control, would you, Bill? Yeah, it’s Freddy Calder here.’

There was no reason to assume that the response would be immediate, efficient or professionally respectful. Nor was it.

‘Fred-dy Cal-der … Sure I’ll hold, but this is important.’

Damn the bureaucratic mind. It was this kind of red tape, he reflected, that had delayed Napoleon’s conquest of Russia, which would have been better for everyone concerned, as history had demonstrated …

Meanwhile, the Sirens were beckoning Odysseus, not only from his sample case stuffed with intimate and racy unmentionables but also from his anticipation of official sirens heralding the imminent arrival of the everyday police. And what would they think of Dolly?

Should he cover them in some way? Hide them? Absolutely not, for that was the secret of his disguise: a ‘Special’ in ladies’ underwear. Who would think to look at him? The fool in the Audi wouldn’t know what had hit him until it was too late. Freddy might appear to the casual eye to be pudgy and unimpressive, but underneath was a lion ready to pounce. When fists were flying, Freddy Calder would be the gent you’d want in there as a back-up. Many a fool had learned that lesson the hard way.

Meanwhile, at Division ‘S’ headquarters, WPC Sheila Baxter was manning the control room – and that wasn’t the only contradiction in terms. In truth, the awesome-sounding ‘control room’ constituted four walls, no windows and no room whatsoever to manoeuvre. The sole generous proportion in this room was a desk too large, and the only semblance of control, computer terminals and the usual communication gear.

But it wasn’t home, and that’s what Sheila liked best about the place. She wanted to stay and keep this job, so she had to exercise a Job-like patience with some of the Specials.

‘Freddy Calder, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call on this line.’

In an attempt to win her sympathy, he told her that he ‘couldn’t get through by the proper channels,’ and he had a hot item that couldn’t wait.

‘What? What car? Listen, Freddy, unless it’s dropping gold bricks I’m not interested … Well, for one thing, you’re not on duty. For another, I’m not supposed to give that kind of information to a Special. You know that.’

Perhaps he did, yet what difference should that make now, when pursuit was in progress through traffic becoming thicker as the city grew closer?

‘Sheila, believe me. I got a tingle in my nose about this one. The number is … Ready?’

WPC Baxter grabbed her notebook. ‘Just a second, give me that again.’

While entering the numbers into the computer terminal, she failed to observe the entering of Darth Vader – Police Sergeant Andy McAllister – behind her, looming above like a misery-seeking missile. Just as she realized his sinister presence, she also discovered something of an obstacle on the computer screen.

‘Freddy! Blow your nose. You’re tailing an unmarked police car, you wally!’

With that little piece of information, Freddy squeezed down on the brake and slowed considerably, while the idiot woman driver behind him pulled out and around with a screaming blast of the horn, although he and his brave Cortina did manage to escape intact.

Suddenly there was another vicious burst of noise from the car-phone Freddy was just putting to his ear.

‘Calder! This is Sergeant McAllister.’

Trying to keep his grip, McAllister held the phone – which he had abruptly acquired from WPC Baxter at the instant he resumed command – like a club.

‘Calder, you may think you’re a bloody Miami Vice, but I’ve news for you. You’re a Special, and that puts you lower than the lowest PC still in his nappies. And right now you’re a damned nuisance. In future, leave highway duty to those who know what they’re doing.’

The line went dead, and Freddy blinked hard. That’s the thanks you get for risking your life, he thought to himself, still unable to calm his trembling fingers … and as a volunteer yet! Bunch of bloody desk jockeys.

‘Damned Hobby Bobby!’ McAllister muttered at no one in particular, although scared rabbit Baxter was at least ostensibly paying attention to his every word.

‘Pretend police, who don’t take their function at all seriously … who sell brassieres! This is no place for a clown.’

As far as McAllister was concerned it was enough to bring the entire Specials programme into question.

‘Who’s his senior Special?’

‘His SDO is Barker …’ replied Baxter.

An easy name for her to remember, McAllister mused.

‘… but he’s not been putting in much of an appearance lately, and things are being handled by the section officer, Bob Loach.’

I must have a quiet chat with Loach then, thought McAllister with a smile.