BooksBarbecue
Back Find Them Dead Save as PDF
Chapters (130)
  1. Cover
  2. FIND THEM DEAD
  3. Dedication page
  4. Maps
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. FOUR MONTHS LATER
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. 111
  117. GLOSSARY
  118. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  119. NOW A MAJOR ITV SERIES
  120. I FOLLOW YOU
  121. 1
  122. 2
  123. 3
  124. 4
  125. 5
  126. 6
  127. DISCOVER THE ROY GRACE BOOKS
  128. FIND THEM DEAD
  129. The Detective Superintendent Roy Grace books in order
  130. Also by Peter James

He stamped on his brakes, too, swerving left, right, left, the Audi totally unstable again. As he pulled away from the verge on his left, he banged doors with a loud, metallic boom with the car to his right.

Headlights in his mirror dazzled him. Flashing. Flashing.

Right up his jacksie.

He was totally boxed in, he realized. Fucking T-packed.

Trying to think.

Running on what felt like four flat tyres. Maybe even just rims now.

The car in front was slowing. He rear-ended it, then slewed to the right, banging doors once more with the police BMW alongside him.

Slowing more.

He looked desperately right, then left, for a gap. Something he could swing through.

His brain raced.

Had to get away. Take them by surprise?

He wrenched the steering wheel hard right. Banged, with a loud clang, into the BMW again, and an instant later, with no time to brake, slammed into the rear of the police car which had halted in front of him.

Before he could even unclip his seat belt, his door was flung open and a police officer in a stab vest loaded with gear was standing there, joined a second later by a colleague. He was yanked, unceremoniously, from his seat and pushed, face-down, onto the road surface.

‘Michael Starr?’ a male voice said.

He twisted his head to look at the man, and retorted in what he knew was a futile act of defiance, ‘Who are you?’

PC Trundle of Sussex Road Policing Unit introduced himself, then arrested and cautioned him.

‘Save your breath, I know the law,’ Starr retorted.

‘Do you?’ said Trundle’s colleague, PC Pip Edwards. ‘Then you should know better than to be driving with four flat tyres. Tut, tut, tut! You could get a big fine for that.’

‘I’m guessing that’s not why you’ve stopped me.’

‘Really?’ Edwards retorted. ‘That’s pretty smart thinking. Ever thought about going on Mastermind?’

‘Very funny.’

‘There’s someone at Newhaven Port wants a word with you, matey boy. Because we’re kind, obliging people, we’re going to give you a lift back there – so long as it’s not inconveniencing you?’

7

Monday 26 November

As dawn was breaking outside, Clive Johnson sat in his office with the bag of white powder he’d removed from the spare tyre, listening on his borrowed police radio to the update from the Road Policing Unit. He was wearing forensic gloves, video recording what he was doing and ensuring that he was protecting possible traces of DNA, fibres and fingerprints. He slit the bag open and performed a brief chemical analysis on a sample of the contents. It tested positive for cocaine – and a very high grade.