Need You Dead

65 Monday 25 April

‘What do you mean you can’t see any mark? There’s a fucking great dent, officer!’ The swarthy man in the leather jacket pointed at the front spoiler of his Ferrari.

Matt Robinson crouched down on the wet road, beneath the glare of a street light, and switched on his torch. Rain was spotting his glasses and running down the back of his neck. He shone the beam on the silver paintwork but was struggling to see anything beyond a tiny mark, no more than a centimetre long. ‘I really can’t see anything more than that scratch.’

‘Do you have any idea how much paintwork on a Ferrari costs to repair? Fucking thousands, I’m telling you.’

‘A bit of T-Cut would get rid of that.’

‘T-Cut? What do you think this is — some old banger? This is a Ferrari LaFerrari, OK? It’s a £350,000 car — and you’re telling me to put fucking T-Cut on it?’

‘With all due respect, sir, cars do get bumped when they’re parked on streets — it’s a fact of life.’

‘Oh, right, what are you telling me? That you don’t know how to make the streets of Brighton safe? That you police are not doing your job properly, right?’ He jerked a finger at the driver of the Prius. ‘That fucking moron shouldn’t be on the roads, he’s probably drunk — are you going to breathalyse him?’

It was then that Robinson smelled the faint whiff of alcohol on the man’s breath. A voice came over his radio, but the din of the rain made it hard to hear what the Control Room was saying. ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘Oh, that’s great that is, how fucking great is that?’

‘Would you mind answering my question, sir.’ Matt Robinson stood up, to his full height, and suddenly saw the man’s demeanour change.

‘No — well — just one, a half, that’s all.’

‘I’m going to require you to take a breath test, sir.’

‘What? You can’t be serious. Some moron reverses into my parked car and now you’re picking on me?’

‘I’m not picking on anyone, sir, I will be requiring the other gentleman to take a breath test too.’

Suddenly Robinson heard his colleague calling out, urgently. He turned.

Juliet Solomon had the window down and was calling out to him. ‘Matt, we’re needed, a Grade One — someone’s being attacked with an axe.’

‘Looks like it’s your lucky night,’ Robinson said to the Ferrari owner. ‘We’ve got to go.’

The man glared at him. ‘My lucky night? Someone crashes into my car and that makes it my lucky night?’

‘Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways,’ Robinson replied, climbing back into the Mondeo. Before he had even shut the door the car accelerated hard away, up the hill, blue lights flashing and siren wailing.

‘Well fuck you, officer!’ the man yelled after it. Then, turning round to speak to the Prius driver, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The car had gone, glided silently off. It was turning left at the lights, onto the seafront. ‘Hey! Hey! Hey, you fuckers!’ He sprinted down towards it, but the lights changed to green, and it was gone.

Robinson leaned forward, tapping the address Solomon gave him into the satnav. ‘What details do we have?’ Then he tugged out his handkerchief to wipe his glasses again.

‘A domestic, but it sounds a bad one, husband’s threatening her with an axe.’

‘A lumberjack, is he?’

She grinned, then concentrated fiercely again on her driving. ‘Left or right at the top, do you think?’ she asked.

The satnav hadn’t yet started. He thought for a moment, slivers of blue light flaring off the shop and restaurant windows on either side of them, working out the quickest route. ‘Left.’

At that moment the satnav arrow confirmed this.

‘We’re getting all our favourites tonight,’ he grumbled, as she turned through the red light and accelerated hard along Western Road. ‘First a minor RTC and now a domestic.’

They heard the voice of the Control Room despatcher. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five?’

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five,’ Robinson replied.

‘I have an update for you on the situation at 29 Hangleton Rise. The woman has barricaded herself in an upstairs room and her husband is trying to break down the door.’