Dead at First Sight

104 Friday 12 October

Jules de Copeland did a frantic last-minute check of his flat. Was there anything he had missed that could give the police any leads to him if they raided it?

He ran through into the bedroom, the spare room, the bathroom, then back into the large, open-plan living area.

His laptop!

Duh! How could he have missed it? Jesus, calm down. How shot were his nerves?

Cool it, man! Take a chill pill, wasn’t that what they said these days? Chill! Calm it all down. Hold your nerve, hang tight. Tonight you are going to scoop up £300,000 in cash from that dumb bitch. Tomorrow morning you’ll be in Germany. And by Sunday you’ll be back with Ama and Bobo. And rolling in cash!

Buoyed by the thought, he reached the front door, opened it, gave the room one final sweep with his jumpy eyes, turned the master switch off and closed the door behind him. Then, to be safe, he took the fire-escape stairs down to the basement.

All four tyres of the Kia looked nicely inflated. He put the laptop in one of the cases in the boot then jumped in, holding the key, and for a moment couldn’t find where to insert it. Was it to the right or the left of the steering wheel?

His hand was shaking like a jackhammer. Calm down, dude!

His vision was blurry. Nerves. He took several deep breaths. They didn’t calm him the way they usually did.

It took him three stabs to insert the damned key into the ignition slot. He twisted it. A whole bunch of dash lights and dials came to life. But nothing more.

No!

No, no, no!

He switched it off and tried again, twisting it so hard he was worried the key would snap.

NO! Don’t do this to me!

He tried again. Again. Then, to his relief, the car finally started.

Thank you, God!

He released the handbrake, reversed out of the bay, then accelerated forward and up the steep exit ramp. Shaking. In a total state, his eyes not even seeming to focus properly.

Get a grip!

The car-park door rose steadily upwards. As soon as it was well clear of his roof, he drove out and turned left through the visitors’ parking area, passing the Polo with its windscreen all misted and wondering if there was anyone inside it, but no longer caring. He was focused on just one thing, now. Getting away from here.

He drove past the EXIT sign and stopped at the main road. A steady stream of traffic was passing, at speed. Anxiously he peered in his mirrors. Any sign of the Polo moving? Nothing.

Good.

The traffic was relentless. Car. Car. Car. Taxi. Van. Bus. Truck. Car. Car. Car. Truck.

Come on, give us a break!

A short gap opened up. A large van, headlights on, was bearing down, but he had time if he floored it.

He pulled out sharply into the road. Halfway, the engine stalled.

Died.

No, not now!

Frantically he pumped the accelerator. Heard the scream of brakes and tyres and—

Suddenly he was inside a cocktail shaker. Or a tumble dryer. Spinning.

In slow motion and fast motion simultaneously.