Chapter 103

Chapter 103

The solitary figure crept down the narrow gap, his eyes darting this way and that, sensing danger. It had taken David Reynolds over half an hour to get here, sticking fast to the back roads, bridleways and cycle paths, away from city-centre cameras and large crowds. It had been a tense, frustrating journey, but now he was within touching distance of his destination. From here on in, if luck was on his side, things would become easier, but still on the cusp of his deliverance, he nevertheless took the last few steps slowly, cautiously, as if expecting an ambush. Approaching the tired wooden hall from the rear, he crept down the small space between building and boundary wall, squeezing his way along, before emerging at the far end. From here, he could cut round to the main entrance, but he paused, casting a wary eye up and down the street. He could see no one loitering in the quiet residential street, no manned vehicles, no passing patrols, so quitting his hiding place, he scurried round to the front door.

The police social club in St Mary's was a relic of yesteryear, when hard-working men could repair here for a pint after a shift, without fear of getting an earful when they returned home. Now it was a bit of a sad place, unloved and untended, with peeling paint and creeping damp. That said, it was a discreet place for high-stakes poker games and more besides, and Reynolds had made it his home from home, a place to bolt to whenever things got on top of him. He always kept a healthy stash of booze behind the bar in one of the locked chipboard cupboards, but today he'd come here seeking a different prize.

Slipping the key into the padlock, he arrowed a look over his shoulder, but the coast remained clear. Pocketing the lock, he slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. Now he didn't hesitate, hurrying straight to the old storage room at the rear. Although this would be his last visit to the club, maybe even his last day in Southampton, there was no time for nostalgia or sentimentality.

Pushing into the tiny room, he tried to ignore the cloying smell of mildew. The place was stacked full of cardboard boxes, broken chairs and other junk. To the rear was a pile of old dust sheets and Reynolds hastened there now. Hauling them roughly off, he unearthed a large cardboard box, which unlike the others was sealed shut with gaffer tape. He tore the tape off efficiently, opening the box to reveal a hiking rucksack inside. Lifting it clear, he undid the strings at the top and ferreted inside. The contents quickly revealed themselves – ration packs of food, a two-man tent, an inflatable mattress, a torch, a water canister and, in the zipped pocket on top, a fake driver's licence and a bundle of ￡20 notes. It wasn't much but it was all he needed to make good his escape from Southampton before plotting his next move. Where would he end up? The North? Scotland? Ireland even? He wouldn't perhaps have chosen these locations normally, but now he suddenly felt excited about starting afresh, away from Jackie, away from his son, away from all the stresses and strains of his life. The last few days had been fraught, but now deliverance was at hand.

Smiling, Reynolds hoisted the rucksack onto his back. But as he did so, the overhead lights snapped on. Shocked, alarmed, the fugitive span quickly … to discover DS Charlie Brooks standing in the doorway.

‘Hello, Dave. We thought you might turn up here. I'm sorry the rest of your poker buddies aren't here to welc—'

He didn't let her finish, charging directly at her. She must have been expecting this move, for instantly she flicked out her baton, raising it to strike. Reynolds was too quick for her, however, his shoulder crashing into her chest, sending her flying backwards. She cannoned into the wall, and clawing his way past her, Reynolds pushed out of the door. As expected, fresh danger awaited him here, two burly colleagues bearing down on him. Instinctively, Reynolds lashed out with his fist, catching the first on the jaw, before climbing over him to ram his forehead into the second officer's nose. Reynolds felt blood splash across his cheek, heard a howl of pain, but he kept going, launching his shoulder into a third officer, who'd just appeared at the mouth of the corridor.

As this third officer crashed to the floor, Reynolds raced on. The cavalry had arrived undercooked, undermanned, meaning that the way to the exit was now clear. Picking up his speed, a jubilant Reynolds raced towards it. If he was fast, if he was lucky, he could still make it away from here, frustrating his pursuers even at their moment of triumph. Laughing, he sprinted towards the door, reaching out his hand to grasp the handle and propel himself to liberty. As he did so, however, his world turned upside down. He felt the impact, his legs sliding out from underneath him, as he seemed to somersault in the air. Then gravity took hold and he slammed down onto the hard wooden floor. Stunned, he barely had time to get his bearings before he heard a familiar voice ring out.

‘Oh no, you don't. Not this time …'

Craning round, Reynolds realized that he'd been side-swiped by PC Beth Beamer, who'd executed a perfect rugby tackle on him. Even now, she was pinning him down, breathless but triumphant. Reynolds tried to throw her off, but he was a second too slow, DS Brooks coming up fast to assist her colleague, throwing herself on top of him. Still he bucked, but the battle was lost and he once more felt the unforgiving bite of police-issue handcuffs.

‘Sorry, Dave,' Brooks crowed, snatching up his rucksack as she rose. ‘It's not time for your holidays just yet. There's someone at Southampton Central who wants a word with you.'