Another step closer.
Ben lowered the gun so the barrel was almost resting on the back of Peter’s head. This is it, he thought, and began to squeeze the trigger. Which was when Peter suddenly reared up, driving a metal splint right through Ben’s left eye.
Helen never made it to the gym. As soon as she stepped into the incident room Charlie collared her. The chirpy DC had her serious face on. After a brief, hushed conversation, the pair marched straight out again. ‘Lesbian night at the gym,’ DC Bridges quipped, trying but failing to hide the fact that he fancied the pants off the very heterosexual Charlie.
Helen and Charlie bustled their way through the city centre traffic to the Forensics Unit. The five-minute journey could take twenty-five at rush hour and with Christmas shoppers and revellers flooding Southampton, today was going to be one of those days. Office party season was in full swing. Helen snarled in frustration at the coaches clogging up the bus lanes. She stuck on the blues and twos and begrudgingly a way was cleared for her. She sped away, ploughing straight through a freshly deposited pool of vomit – spraying the surprised culprit in the process. Charlie suppressed a smile.
Ben Holland’s Silver Lexus was up on the stand and awaiting inspection when Helen and Charlie entered the Forensics Unit. Sally Stewart, stalwart of the unit, was waiting for them.
‘Charlie’s already talked you through the basics, but I thought you should see this for yourself.’
They walked underneath the car and looked up. Sally shone her pen torch at the rear-right wheel arch.
‘Pretty dirty as you’d expect, given the amount of miles your driver did every week. But this wheel arch looks – and smells – dirtier than all the others. Why? Because it’s been marinated in petrol.’
She gestured them out again and once they were all clear, Sally lowered the car so it was almost at eye level.
‘Here’s why.’
Assisted by her deputy, Sally carefully eased the wing off the right side of the vehicle. The innards of the prestige car were duly revealed and now Sally’s torch zeroed in on the petrol tank. Helen’s eyes widened.
‘The fuel tank has been punctured. It’s not a big hole, but because of its position on the underside of the tank would empty it completely over time. Judging by the deposits on the wheel arch, I’d say the tank was pretty full when your pair left Bournemouth. It would have emptied swiftly and steadily – by my estimation at a rate of about 1.5 litres per minute – which means your driver would have run out of fuel roughly halfway through the New Forest. Though why he was going that way beats me.’