Fightback by Steve Voake Page B

around.
    Scanning the dashboard, Kier flicked a switch and was rewarded with the whoop-whoop of the siren, sound waves bouncing off walls and windows. As the cars in front pulled over he edged into the bus lane, slipped through a gap in the line of slow-moving traffic and accelerated past, siren wailing and blue lights flashing. He saw the other patrol car pull out behind him and knew his chances of escape were fading fast. An alert would already have goneout over the radio; police vehicles all over London would be performing U-turns, while helicopters checked their co-ordinates, all searching for a juvenile bank robber who thought he could steal a police car and get away with it.
    What a mess, thought Kier. Jackson was not going to be pleased.
    People were staring now, shoppers gazing openmouthed as Kier headed up Brompton Road with the wind in his face, peering through the smashed windscreen in search of possibilities.
    There was a small park over to his right and for a moment he considered bailing out, but there were few trees and even fewer people. The road swung around to the right and as he hit the bend he increased his speed slightly, hoping to put some distance between himself and the car behind. Up ahead he could see the green and gold canopies of Harrods department store, and beyond it a police van stopping the traffic.
    It was now or never.
    Stamping on the brakes, Kier flung the door open and ran. The pavement was crowded with shoppers and, after knocking into a newspaper seller, he veered right down Hans Road, suddenly finding himself outside the entrance of Harrods. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw police officers runningaround the corner and quickly slipped past the doorman into the food hall.
    It was mid-afternoon and the place was quiet, with just a few shoppers milling about beneath the chandeliers, gazing at neat piles of beautiful food that most of them probably couldn’t afford. Kier ran past the displays of exotic sweets and coloured candy sticks, skidding around a golden mountain of chocolate coins before reaching the escalator and leaping up the moving staircase three steps at a time.
    He found himself in a room full of expensive-looking luggage; to one side he saw tiny puffed-up handbags dripping with gold perched on columns like sacred objects. A few well-dressed ladies were moving slowly between them, pausing among the shrines to admire and worship. But Kier wasn’t interested in handbags. He was interested in the fact that the young woman at the glass service counter was walking away from it. He watched her make her way towards a customer on the far side of the room and waited until she had engaged her in conversation. Then he walked quickly across to where she had been standing, picked up the phone and dropped down behind the counter at the same moment that two policemen appeared at the top of the escalator.
    Huddled next to a box marked Gucci , Kier punched in 9 for an outside line and then phoned Saskia’s number.
    â€˜Come on,’ he whispered as he heard a woman’s voice say: ‘He was here just a few seconds ago.’
    The sound of footsteps disappeared rapidly across the shop floor and then Saskia was on the line asking, ‘Yes? Who is this?’
    â€˜It’s me. Kier.’
    â€˜Kier? Where are you?’
    â€˜I’m in Harrods.’
    â€˜ Harrods? ’
    â€˜Listen. I’m in trouble. I need help.’
    â€˜OK.’ Saskia’s voice was calm and focused, but there was an edge to it. ‘What kind of help?’
    â€˜The kind that will get me out of here without half the Metropolitan Police force noticing.’
    There was a pause on the other end of the line.
    â€˜Saskia?’
    â€˜OK. What floor are you on now?’
    â€˜First.’
    â€˜Right. Make your way to the ladies’ toilets and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
    â€˜What? Saskia, I—’
    But the line had gone dead and Kier could hear the