The Nothing Job Read Online Free PDF Page A

into first gear, shaving away some of those nasty cogs, and gunned the little car up the alley, causing the small engine to howl. He braked hard at the junction before turning in the direction the motorcyclist had taken – and at the same time hearing and feeling something heavy roll in the boot of the car with a dull thud.
    Braking at the junction with Friargate, Henry was amazed to see the motorcyclist race across his headlights, having just avoided contact with the ARV car driven by Bill Robbins which was now, according to the shouted airwave traffic, enmeshed in some roadside railings.
    Waiting a moment to hear that Bill was OK – he was – Henry rammed the accelerator down and went in pursuit of the bike.
    Arrogantly, the rider reared the machine up on to its back wheel and executed a superb wheelie along the centre line of the street, then dropped the bike back down. With his left hand he cut a dismissive ‘You’ll never get me’ gesture and twisted down the grip.
    The Panda – bless it – accelerated gamely as Henry, with one hand on the wheel and the other operating his PR, and still trying to clear his brain, relayed his position and mode of transport.
    â€˜And what exactly has this person done?’ the comms operator asked Henry. ‘Other than assault you?’
    â€˜I think that’s enough to start with, don’t you? Let’s just get him stopped,’ Henry snapped in his best DCI tones. He wedged his PR between his thighs, but even as he gave chase he realized there was little chance of success here as most of the available cops in Preston were trudging around the city centre on foot and Bill Robbins’ ARV was now connected to railings.
    Catching this man would now be down to Henry Christie – armed with an ancient Fiat Panda.
    â€˜Do you have a registered number?’ the comms operator asked.
    â€˜Only partial,’ Henry admitted after picking up his PR again. He gave the control room the first two letters, all he’d seen through his swimming vision. ‘Which,’ he added, ‘if I’m correct means the bike’s registered in Liverpool.’
    â€˜I’ll see what I can do,’ the operator said. Meanwhile Henry had reached the junction of Friargate and Moor Lane, where there was a huge double roundabout. He saw the bike tearing down Fylde Road in the general direction of Preston docks.
    He imparted this piece of information over the air and screwed the Panda as hard as he dared in the same direction, acutely aware that the distance between hunter and hunted was ever-increasing. And he knew there were no cop cars in the area. So though he had no way of telling in what direction the bike had gone, he still carried on hopefully, never one to call off a chase just because he couldn’t see his quarry.
    He was also acutely aware that the little engine was now emitting a horrible overheating smell and he hoped it wouldn’t blow.
    Then he thought, Fuck it.
    He was chasing a murderer.
    He found second gear and made the engine scream for mercy, feeling the whole thing almost lift off the ground as the front wheels smacked up and across the first of a series of traffic-calming ramps (Why not sleeping policemen any more, Henry thought) in the 20mph zone surrounding the university campus. As the car crashed down on to worn shock absorbers, it rattled worryingly, and once again, something hefty bounced in the boot.
    He fully expected the car to fall apart at any moment.
    It didn’t.
    He was so pleased about this, he hit the next ramp at fifty.
    â€˜DCI receiving?’
    â€˜Go ’head.’
    â€˜A BMW F800GS motorcycle was stolen earlier this evening from Merseyside,’ the comms operator came on to inform him. ‘Could this be the one?’
    â€˜Could be,’ Henry said, not knowing the first thing about motorbikes, other than they were dangerous things. ‘Let’s work on that assumption and get