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Miles never told his friends or business associates that he was the son of a railway porter, who fortunately had died before he’d won his scholarship to Harrow, and that his mother was a hairdresser from Chelmsford in Essex, a county he’d never entered since leaving school. Although in truth the only reason he’d been awarded a scholarship to Winston Churchill’s alma mater was because of his background, Harrow trying to appease a recently elected Labour government.
He looked around at the small gathering that circled the grave. Miles recognized none of them, although every one of them knew him.
During the funeral service, three prison guards had sat in the row behind him while another had been posted by the church door. They had removed his handcuffs just before they accompanied him into the church, which hadn’t come cheap. They did their best to melt into the background when he joined the other mourners to witness the burial. The guards were dressed in dark suits, black ties, and similarly ill-fitting raincoats, so all the mourners knew who they were. At least they’d had the decency to stand a few paces back while the burial service took place. A police helicopter hovered above them, almost drowning out the vicar’s words.
“Dust to dust…”
The priest was declaring the final blessing when a white Transit van drove slowly through the main gates at the far end of the cemetery. One of the prison guards took a closer look at the van as it trundled slowly past them before coming to a halt some fifty yards away. A sign in large black letters on the side of the van read:
DESMOND LEACH & SONS
STONE MASONS AND ENGRAVERS
FOUNDED 1963
The senior guard took an even closer interest when the driver jumped down from behind the wheel, walked to the back of the van, and unlocked the doors. Moments later a younger man joined him and clambered into the back. All four guards were now watching carefully until they saw the younger man heaving a gravestone out of the van, which the older man took hold of before the two of them lugged it off to the far side of the graveyard.
They turned their attention back to Miles Faulkner, whose head remained bowed as the coffin was lowered into the ground. The priest made the sign of the cross, and as the first spade of earth was thrown onto the coffin three black Norton 750cc motorbikes shot out from the back of the van. Seconds later they skidded to a halt by the graveside, engines turning over.
The senior guard didn’t move, but then he knew what was going to happen in the next thirty seconds. The prisoner turned and began to run toward the center bike, the only one without a passenger. All three riders wore identical black leather outfits and black helmets, visors down. The two pillion passengers, who were seated on the back of the first and third bike, wore dark-gray suits, white shirts, and black ties, identical to the clothing Faulkner was wearing.
Faulkner leaped onto the back of the middle bike, grabbed the proffered helmet with one hand and the waist of the driver with the other. He shouted, “Go!” One of the younger guards leaped at them as the bike took off, but was a moment too late. He rolled over and over, nearly ending up in the grave.
The senior guard stifled a laugh as the motorbikes zigzagged in and out of the gravestones toward a partly concealed pedestrian entrance, which led out onto a busy street. He then walked quickly, but not too quickly, back to his car, climbed in, and barked out an order. His driver headed for the main entrance but he knew it would be a hopeless task, because by the time they reached the main road, the bikes would have already covered the first mile. However, the two officers in the helicopter had witnessed exactly what had taken place below them. The compliant guard had already warned Faulkner he had no control over them.
The pilot banked and swept down toward the three bikes, closely following their progress, while his colleague radioed back to the command center in New Scotland Yard to let them know what had happened. Moments later, every patrol car within a five-mile radius had been alerted and began listening to the instructions from the helicopter—something else the three motorcyclists had anticipated.
Once they reached the main intersection, the bikes began a maneuver known as the “three-card trick.” Every few seconds they swapped places, until the pilot in the helicopter no longer could be certain which of the motorbikes Faulkner was on.
When the three bikes reached the next junction, the lead rider turned left, the second turned right, while the third carried straight on.
The pilot decided to follow the one that was heading for the motorway, while giving Scotland Yard the exact locations of the other two, and their direction of travel. The police got lucky. The first of the patrol cars spotted the bike that had gone straight on coming toward them. The driver switched on his siren, swung around, and pursued the suspect, who to their surprise slowed down and came to a halt by the side of the road. The two police officers got out of their car and cautiously approached the suspect.
The rider had removed his helmet long before the two officers reached him, but they were only interested in the passenger. She slowly removed her helmet and smiled warmly at the policemen. “How can I help you, officers?” she asked innocently.
When the second bike reached the motorway, it moved into the outside lane and quickly accelerated away, reaching speeds of well over a hundred miles per hour, while the helicopter stuck with him. When the rider heard the siren, he glanced in his wing mirror to see a police car speeding toward them. He slowed down, moved across to the inside lane, and took the next slip road off the motorway, only to be met by three police cars blocking the exit.
This time the bike was surrounded by a dozen officers, two of them armed. The driver removed his helmet and said, “I don’t think I broke the speed limit, officer.”
“We’re not interested in you,” barked one of the officers, pushing up the pass
enger’s visor to be greeted by a teenager, who gave him a huge grin.
“Yes, you did, Dad, but it was worth it.”
The third motorcyclist slowed down as he approached an underpass. Once the bike was out of sight it skidded to a halt, while a fourth took off like a seamless relay runner, emerging from the tunnel just seconds later. The driver swung left at the next junction and sped away in the opposite direction to the helicopter. His instructions couldn’t have been clearer: lead them a merry dance for as long as you can.
Miles climbed off the back of his motorbike and handed his helmet to the driver.
“Hang around for fifteen minutes, and then drive slowly back the same way you came,” he said, as a Ford Escort entered the underpass and pulled up next to them.
The driver got out and said, “Good morning, sir,” as if he was picking up his boss from the office.
“Morning, Eddie,” Faulkner replied, as his chauffeur opened the front door and he climbed inside.
The Ford Escort emerged from the underpass a few moments later, and when it reached the junction, Eddie turned right. Miles looked out of the back window to see the helicopter flying in the opposite direction.
* * *
