they might, not an acre of ground, not a spadeful of earth, not a blade of grass, had the developers ever managed to wrest from the grip of Charter Park’s owners in perpetuity – the taxable citizenry. So the road alongside the park stretched straight and wide for a mile or more and a man on a powerful machine might hit the ton, though it’s doubtful if he’d have much time to digest a live chicken.
Wield let himself be tempted. It was a safe indulgence. Over the years he had grown sufficiently strong in resisting temptation to be able to drink the heady potion more deeply than most men.
The lights turned green, the engine roared, but it was the roar of an old lion saying he could run down that wildebeest if he wanted but on the whole he thought he’d probably stretch under a bush and have a nap.
The sergeant moved forward sedately and legally.
It was his slowness that permitted him to see the attempted abduction taking place in the car park which ran much of the length of the park.
Separated from the main road by a long colonnade of lime trees, it was in fact more like a parallel thoroughfare. During the day, visitors to the park left the cars there in a single line. On a summer night it might be quite crowded, but in the middle of winter, apart from the odd vehicle whose steamed-up windows advertised the presence of young love or old lust, there was rarely much activity. But as he went by, Wield saw a man trying to drag a young boy into his slow-moving car.
He braked sharply, went into a speedway racer’s skid, straightened up to negotiate the gap between two lime trees, found it was already occupied by a bench, realigned his machine at the next gap, went through, lost a bit of traction on the loose shaley surface as he straightened up, and lost some time wrestling the Thunderbird back under control. All the while he was blasting out warnings of his approach on the horn. Prevention was better than cure and the last thing he wanted was a high-speed chase through city streets in pursuit of a car carrying a kidnapped child.
It worked. Ahead he saw the boy sprawling on the ground with the abductor’s vehicle roaring off in a cloud of dust which, aided by the fact that the car’s lights weren’t switched on, made it impossible to get the number plate.
He pulled up alongside the boy, who had pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked about ten, maybe a bit older, twelve, say. He had big dark eyes, curly black hair and a thin pale face. He had grazed his hand on falling and he was holding it to his mouth to wash it and ease the pain. He looked angry rather than terrified.
‘You OK, son?’ said Wield, dismounting.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
His accent was local urban. He began to rise and Wield said, ‘Hold on. Got any pain anywhere?’
‘Nah. Just this fucking hand.’
‘You sure? OK. Easy does it.’
Wield took his arm and helped him up.
He winced as he rose then moved all his limbs in turn as if to show they worked.
‘Great,’ said Wield. He reached inside his leathers and pulled out his mobile.
‘What you doing?’ demanded the boy.
‘Just getting someone to look out for that guy who grabbed you. Did you notice the make of car? Looked like a Montego to me.’
‘No. I mean, I didn’t notice. Look, why bother? Forget it. He’s gone.’
A very self-possessed youngster.
‘You might forget it, son. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try again.’
‘Try what?’
‘Abducting someone.’
‘Yeah … well …’
The boy thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his thin windcheater, hunched his shoulders and began to move away. He looked waif and forlorn.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ said Wield.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m worried, that’s all,’ said Wield. ‘Look, you’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t be wandering round here at this time of night. Hop up behind me and I’ll give you a lift.’
The boy regarded him speculatively.
‘Lift where?’ he said.
Wield considered. Offering to take the boy home might not be a good move. Maybe it was what awaited him at home that sent him wandering the streets so late. Best way to find out could be a low-key, friendly chat, unencumbered by the revelation that he was a cop. He put the phone away. The car would be long gone by now and what did he have anyway? A dark blue Montego, maybe.
‘Fancy a coffee or a Coke or something?’ he said.
‘OK,’ said the boy. ‘Why not? You know Turk’s?’
‘Know of it,’ said Wield. ‘Hop on. You got a name?’
‘Lee,’ said the boy as he swung his leg over the pillion. ‘You?’
‘You can call me Mac. Hold on.’
The boy ignored the advice and sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage. Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the main road. He smiled as he felt the boy’s arms swing round his midriff and lock on tight.
Turk’s caff was situated in the lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid, but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular – indeed one might say the permanent – clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.
‘So, Lee,’ he said. ‘What happened back there?’
The boy looked at him. He’d shown either natural courtesy or natural indifference when Wield had removed his helmet to reveal the full ugliness of his face, but now his gaze was sharp.
‘Nowt. Just a bit of hassle, that’s all.’
‘Did you know the guy in the car?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Could make the difference between some nutter driving around trying to kidnap kids and a domestic.’
The boy shrugged, chewed another mouthful of cake, washed it down with Coke, then said, ‘What’re you after?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting mixed up with this.’
‘You mean I should’ve ridden on by?’
‘Mebbe. Most would.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘OK, but the chat and this –’ he waved the last forkful of cheesecake in the air then devoured it – ‘what’s all that for? You some sort of do-gooder?’
‘Sure,’ said Wield. ‘Let me buy you another piece then I’ll save your soul.’
This amused the boy. When he laughed, his age dropped back to the original low estimate. On the other hand, being smart put as many years on him.
‘OK,’ he said. “Nother Coke too.’
Wield went up to the counter. The cheesecake looked like it contravened every dietary regulation ever written, but the boy needed fattening up. Watch it, Edgar, he told himself mockingly.