The Chase: an ebook short story. Paul Finch

       The Chase

       A short story by Paul Finch

      Alex was somewhere between Oxford and Daventry when she met the Traffic cop.

      He should have been a godsend.

      Darkness had fallen an hour ago, and it was two hours since she’d diverted from a log-jammed M40 motorway in an effort to navigate her way north via different routes – and okay, she had her sat-nav so it shouldn’t have been a problem, but sat-nav systems weren’t infallible as hers had since proved. Alex had now turned the useless thing off and dropped it into the passenger footwell; in fact, she’d been tempted to rip it from its socket, smash it face down several times on the steering column, and chuck what remained of it out of the Corsa hatchback’s window. It wasn’t just that the damn thing had issued instructions bearing no relation to geography, but its voice facility was on the blink. So as well as trying to steer her way along looping, twisting country lanes, she’d also had to keep glancing at the tiny glowing screen. None of this made it any easier to play back the last couple of meetings she’d recorded that afternoon on her Smartpen, or add the occasional afterthought or footnote as she’d been planning to on the journey home. The Smartpen at least was operating properly, but Alex was barely paying attention to it because she no longer had a clue where she was. This area could hardly be classified as wilderness, but all she was seeing at present were hedgerows, woods and farmland that seemed to run on forever. So, at roughly nine-thirty, the sight of a spinning blue beacon in her rear-view mirror ought to have been a blessing. But then she noticed her speedgauge, which said that she was pushing close to fifty – when stressed at the wheel, Alex had the habit of putting her foot down (back home, Joe went mad about it) – and when the pursuing Traffic car flashed its headlights at her with more than a hint of belligerence, she realised that a shitty evening had just turned a lot shittier.

      She pulled up in a lay-by, powered down her window and waited. Soles crunched on gravel as an indistinct figure approached from the Battenburg-patterned car that had cruised in behind her. He shone his torch directly into her face. It was a rude thing to do, but Alex understood why he did it – she could have been any kind of maniac. In addition, it might help her. Alex had just turned forty, but with her natural blonde hair – a little wild and shaggy at present, though that in itself could be fetching – and her bright blue eyes, always rimmed with mascara, she was the sort of woman blokes tended to do favours for.

      ‘Any idea how fast you were going back there, miss?’ He was a tall man – she could make that much out behind his bright light. It gave him a stern aura.

      ‘Yes … I’m sorry. Look, I know it’s not an excuse, but I’m lost and I’m late.’ This was always the bit where the wheel might come off. As a sales manager who needed every break she could get, Alex never had a problem with exploiting her looks. But she was well aware that outside Merseyside her Liverpool accent could be a disadvantage. As a rule she tried to play it down, but she doubted she’d be able to play it down sufficiently to impress an irritable police officer. So she added quickly, ‘And all these dark roads, with no signposts anywhere … to be honest, I was getting a bit jumpy.’

      ‘What name is it?’

      ‘Alexa Goddard.’

      ‘And where are you from, Alexa … as if I didn’t know?’

      That irked her, but she kept it polite. ‘Liverpool.’

      ‘You’re a long way from home.’

      ‘Tell me about it. I’ve been at Life Science 2013 in Oxford. I sell pharmaceuticals. It finished at six o’clock. I should have been home ages ago, but there’s a big smash north of Bicester and I was trying to make my way to the M1.’

      ‘Have you had a drink this evening?’

      ‘No … like I say, I’ve been working.’

      ‘Got any ID with you?’

      ‘Only my driving license. I can present my insurance and MOT certificate at a police station up north … is that okay?’

      ‘You’re no stranger to this procedure, I see.’

      That irked her again. She tried to visualise him properly behind his light, glimpsing a white Traffic Division hat and a white shirt under a black stab-jacket, with a radio affixed to one shoulder. She could discern short, dark hair and a firm jaw. His accent was neutral, with a slight Midlands lilt.

      ‘The license will do for the moment,’ he said.