No Way Home

That wasn’t the voice he’d expected. ‘Naz? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Who…’

‘It’s Pete Gayle. Could you ask Mrs Singh a question for me?’

‘Yes, Sarge. What is it?’

‘I need to know if he was carrying anything in the taxi that might have given his killer a motive. Something worth stealing, apart from money.’

‘Hold on, I’ll ask.’

‘How’s she doing now?’

‘Still not very good. Very emotional.’

‘Well, it’s still fresh for her, isn’t it? She must have loved him a lot.’

‘Yeah. And yet, I assumed it had been an arranged marriage.’

Pete laughed. ‘They do sometimes succeed, you know.’

‘Yeah, but… I don’t know. I suppose I’m closer to the idea than you. It’s part of the culture, you know. I’ve had pressure in that direction myself. It’s scary.’

‘I bet it is.’

‘Anyway, I’ll go and ask her.’

Pete heard the clunk of the receiver going down. He waited. After several seconds, the phone was picked up again.

‘Sarge?’

‘Naz.’

‘She says no, there was nothing he’d have been carrying that was worth stealing.’

‘OK, thanks.’

He ended the call, one more possible motive eliminated. Something was nagging at the far corner of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. Long experience had taught him that, in that situation, it was better to give up for a while than try to force it, but frustration fought with reason, pushing him on. His lips pressed together as he fought to grab hold of the idea and pull it out of the fog, but it was no good – it just wouldn’t come.

His hands slapped down on his desk as he stood up. He could do no more of any use here for now. It was time to go home and spend some time with his wife and daughter.

*

Emma had been sitting patiently in the queue created by the roadworks on Pennsylvania Road for a little over ten minutes. Finally, the lights changed ahead of her and she let the handbrake off and moved forward with the traffic flow. The road was coned down to half-width for about a hundred metres, a long trench dug up the middle of the other carriageway, a roll of bright-yellow plastic pipe waiting on the verge to be laid the next day. Accelerating gently up the hill, she was about two thirds of the way through the narrow section when the Nissan’s engine note changed abruptly, faltering and slowing. She pressed her foot to the accelerator, but it made no difference.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, not now!’ She slammed her fists on the steering wheel, dropped the clutch and raced the engine, but still nothing. ‘Buggeration, you horrible, horrible bloody car.’

Letting the clutch re-engage, she sat there at the mercy of fate as the car coasted steadily to a halt. A horn sounded from behind her, then another. Another.

‘Shut up, you idiots,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not stopping from bloody choice, am I?’

The engine cut out completely, an awful silence replacing its comforting hum. She sighed, pulled up the handbrake and unclipped her seatbelt. More horns sounded as she stepped out, turned to face the offending drivers and raised her hands in a gesture that said ‘There’s nothing I can do’.

She heard a handbrake being applied and the door of the car behind hers opened. A man stepped out, tall and good-looking in a dark suit. ‘What’s the problem? Have you run out of petrol or something?’

Anger flared. ‘It’s over half-full, thank you. The engine just cut out.’

‘Well, try giving it some revs.’

He might be good-looking, but the guy was an arse, she decided. ‘I did. It didn’t help.’

He sighed pointedly, as if it had to be her fault rather than the car’s, then turned and beckoned to the other drivers behind him, motioning with his hands in a pushing action.

A few doors opened. People stepped out of their cars.

‘What’s the bloody problem?’

‘Engine’s cut out.’ The guy gave an open-handed shrug as Emma’s hands were planted firmly on her hips.

It wasn’t her bloody fault. Just because she was female…

Four other men joined the first one, heading up the hill towards her.

‘What’s the problem?’ one of them asked as they drew closer. He was wearing leathers. She’d seen him pull off his helmet and climb off a big, black motorbike, running a hand quickly through his short, dark hair.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just lost power and then cut out.’

He nodded. ‘Could be a number of things. Best just push it out of the way for now and call the AA or whatever. You got a membership?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hop in, then, and steer. It ain’t going up that kerb so we’ll have to push it up just past the lights and leave it over there, out the way.’

‘Are you sure? It seems a long way.’

He smiled. ‘Only a small car, though, isn’t it? We’ll manage.’ He glanced at the others. ‘Come on, guys.’

She climbed back into the car, looked in the door mirror.

The biker was on the corner of the little car, right behind her. ‘Everybody ready?’ he asked. ‘Right. Handbrake off, love.’

She complied.

The sounds of straining came from behind her. She thought for a moment that she was going to roll backwards, that they wouldn’t be able to hold it, never mind move it forward, but then the little car began to inch slowly, hesitantly, up the hill. It was a weird feeling, slowly gaining momentum, the only sounds those of the tyres and the men’s feet on the tarmac as she held the steering wheel steady.

After a few steps, gravity seemed to somehow give up the fight and they were moving at almost walking pace. Then, before she knew it, they were approaching the end of the roadworks.

‘Steer it over to the side and you can let it roll back up to the traffic lights,’ the man behind her called. ‘It’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’