her bloody phone on!”
Fair point. As Miller pushed his way into the press throng, Tess pulled the car over, and rummaged in her Puffa jacket for her mobile. Turning it on, she found her mailbox full. Journalists wanted her story – but how had they got her number? Were they already hacking her phone? Making a mental note to stop ordering pizza as breakfast, Tess started deleting the wheedling requests for her story. She’d just killed a Daily Mail columnist at “Hello,” when a noise went up outside.
Tess wound down her window. Across the road, shouts and scuffles were presaging a movement behind the glass doors of the police station. Seconds later, a cordon of grim-faced officers ushered out a suspected killer in Green Flash plimsolls and a
Choose Life
T-shirt.
Fat Alan.
‘
Have they charged you?’ ‘How long had you harboured sexual feelings for Jeenie?’
yelled the tabloid press
. ‘Are your trousers ironic?’
queried a lady from Grazia.
Even from this distance, Tess could see Alan was shaking with terror. He clawed at the policemen to let him back inside. They were pushing him forward with thinly-concealed contempt when screams started to erupt from the press mob. At the foot of the disabled ramp, reporters were turning to flee. Those trapped higher up started scrabbling over the handrail or jumping from the top of the slope. Something was cutting a merciless swathe through the crowd towards the police station.
Heart pounding, Tess watched TV cameras topple from tripods and boom mics felled by a force of nature – one with preternatural strength and a duffle coat. Head down, toggles flying, Miller charged up the ramp towards Fat Alan.
“Miller!” she roared. But he couldn’t hear her. Of course not – he was on his own, wasn’t he?
She checked the road behind. A space had come clear by the kerb. Zipping up her Puffa, Tess formulated her exit strategy: Dump the car, walk rapidly to the nearest McDonald’s and hide her face in a Filet-O-Fish. Miller, Fat Alan, the police and the nation’s press could sort things out between them. She’d done enough hadn’t she? Retreat now, and she’d gain professional dignity, the respect of her father and an early night.
Miller? He’d be fine. As long as the police weren’t mean. Because mean people made him angry, and when Miller got angry –
“Oh, fuckit.” She fired up the car. The lane ahead was still clogged with traffic, but the on-coming lane was clear. She pulled into it, just as a double-decker bus came round the corner ahead. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The bus was bearing down on her. She was in the wrong lane – on the only route out. She hit the horn, and yelled out of her window. “
Miller
!”
The bus was so close, Tess could see the driver waving her out of the way. Then she felt a cold draught hit the back of her neck – and heard the rear door of her car slam shut.
It was the starting shot she’d been waiting for. Still on the wrong side of the road, Tess accelerated past the traffic clog, and then swung back into the left lane just as the double-decker whizzed past her right bumper.
It wasn’t until she’d put a good half mile between her and Croydon Police Station that Tess dared to check her rear-view mirror. Miller was sprawled on the back seat, squashing the life out of Britain’s Most Wanted Man.
“They schaid I was shick,” rasped Fat Alan, as Miller rolled off him. “They schaid I was schcaring her, but it’sch not true, isch it Tesch? Schee liked me. Jeenie liked me.”
“Of course she did,” said Tess. “Who wouldn’t?” About nine tenths of the population, she conceded, the man wasn’t blessed.
Fat Alan (as Jeenie had christened him) looked like a cherub who’d long since fallen from heaven. His chubby face was that of a baby, but his eyes were those of a scared, old man. Unfortunately, in Alan’s mind, he was somewhere just shy of twenty-one. He had a moustache of soft, blond hair that Tess suspected
Fair point. As Miller pushed his way into the press throng, Tess pulled the car over, and rummaged in her Puffa jacket for her mobile. Turning it on, she found her mailbox full. Journalists wanted her story – but how had they got her number? Were they already hacking her phone? Making a mental note to stop ordering pizza as breakfast, Tess started deleting the wheedling requests for her story. She’d just killed a Daily Mail columnist at “Hello,” when a noise went up outside.
Tess wound down her window. Across the road, shouts and scuffles were presaging a movement behind the glass doors of the police station. Seconds later, a cordon of grim-faced officers ushered out a suspected killer in Green Flash plimsolls and a
Choose Life
T-shirt.
Fat Alan.
‘
Have they charged you?’ ‘How long had you harboured sexual feelings for Jeenie?’
yelled the tabloid press
. ‘Are your trousers ironic?’
queried a lady from Grazia.
Even from this distance, Tess could see Alan was shaking with terror. He clawed at the policemen to let him back inside. They were pushing him forward with thinly-concealed contempt when screams started to erupt from the press mob. At the foot of the disabled ramp, reporters were turning to flee. Those trapped higher up started scrabbling over the handrail or jumping from the top of the slope. Something was cutting a merciless swathe through the crowd towards the police station.
Heart pounding, Tess watched TV cameras topple from tripods and boom mics felled by a force of nature – one with preternatural strength and a duffle coat. Head down, toggles flying, Miller charged up the ramp towards Fat Alan.
“Miller!” she roared. But he couldn’t hear her. Of course not – he was on his own, wasn’t he?
She checked the road behind. A space had come clear by the kerb. Zipping up her Puffa, Tess formulated her exit strategy: Dump the car, walk rapidly to the nearest McDonald’s and hide her face in a Filet-O-Fish. Miller, Fat Alan, the police and the nation’s press could sort things out between them. She’d done enough hadn’t she? Retreat now, and she’d gain professional dignity, the respect of her father and an early night.
Miller? He’d be fine. As long as the police weren’t mean. Because mean people made him angry, and when Miller got angry –
“Oh, fuckit.” She fired up the car. The lane ahead was still clogged with traffic, but the on-coming lane was clear. She pulled into it, just as a double-decker bus came round the corner ahead. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The bus was bearing down on her. She was in the wrong lane – on the only route out. She hit the horn, and yelled out of her window. “
Miller
!”
The bus was so close, Tess could see the driver waving her out of the way. Then she felt a cold draught hit the back of her neck – and heard the rear door of her car slam shut.
It was the starting shot she’d been waiting for. Still on the wrong side of the road, Tess accelerated past the traffic clog, and then swung back into the left lane just as the double-decker whizzed past her right bumper.
It wasn’t until she’d put a good half mile between her and Croydon Police Station that Tess dared to check her rear-view mirror. Miller was sprawled on the back seat, squashing the life out of Britain’s Most Wanted Man.
“They schaid I was shick,” rasped Fat Alan, as Miller rolled off him. “They schaid I was schcaring her, but it’sch not true, isch it Tesch? Schee liked me. Jeenie liked me.”
“Of course she did,” said Tess. “Who wouldn’t?” About nine tenths of the population, she conceded, the man wasn’t blessed.
Fat Alan (as Jeenie had christened him) looked like a cherub who’d long since fallen from heaven. His chubby face was that of a baby, but his eyes were those of a scared, old man. Unfortunately, in Alan’s mind, he was somewhere just shy of twenty-one. He had a moustache of soft, blond hair that Tess suspected
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