He carried on, flat out up the winding country road that he knew well, 70 . . . 80 . . . until he reached the roundabout at the top. Right would take him towards Eastbourne. Left towards Brighton on a wide dual carriageway taking him directly to Stuie in Chichester. They would head north towards London and the circular M25 around it. And then towards Scotland. Find a service station and steal or hijack another car there.

He turned left, checking his mirrors again. Nothing. Only street-lit darkness. Wide, fast, empty road ahead now for many miles. He floored the accelerator and the car pushed forwards – 80 . . . 90 . . . 100 . . . 120. He slowed, approaching a bend, aware of the roundabout ahead. Right would take him through the Cuilfail tunnel into the county town of Lewes, straight on along the fast road, past the University of Sussex. He carried straight on over the roundabout, accelerating hard, still nothing but darkness behind him. Thinking.

Suddenly a sliver of blue appeared in his mirrors. Like the glint of a shard of broken glass. Had he imagined it?

Then it appeared again. More insistently.

What?

He drove on as fast as he dared, crossed another roundabout, then accelerated along a fast, straight stretch, the needle passing 130 then 140 kph. He only slowed a fraction as he took a long right-hand curve and powered up a hill.

The slivers of blue in his mirror were getting brighter. Gaining. Strobing in all his mirrors.

Shit, fuck, shit!

Cresting the top, he raced down the far side. In two miles or so was another roundabout, off a slip road to the left. That would give him three options – towards Brighton, towards the Devil’s Dyke or towards London.

Which would they be expecting him to take?

He held the accelerator to the floor.

The lights behind him were gaining. Closing.

Then, to his horror, just ahead of him, blocking off two of his options – to go straight on or take the slip road – there was an entire barrage of blue lights.

Taking his chances, he powered straight on.

As he shot through, between all the flashing lights, he heard a series of muffled pops and the car suddenly began to judder, snaking right, then left, then right again. Out of control. He’d driven over a fucking stinger, he realized.

The car was shaking violently. Swerving right towards the central reservation, then left, towards the verge. Somehow, he got it straightened out and carried on, with a loud flap-flap-flap sound.

The blue lights were right up his rear now and the interior of his car was flooded with blazing headlights.

He ploughed on, wrestling with the steering wheel in sheer panic, the car slowing despite keeping the pedal to the metal.

More headlights in his mirror now. A marked police estate car suddenly pulled level with him on his right, then darted in front of him, replaced seconds later by another identical car on his right.

The one in front braked sharply.