PURSUIT

Chapter 1 - Evening Drinks

For what proved to be the final time that Friday afternoon the telephone rang. I see now my response to this call was the beginning of that remarkable chain of events which took place over the next few days.

"Farquharson speaking". I had answered almost automatically.

"Hello Richard, Keith here. Are you still going to Sheffield tonight?".

I was relieved to hear the voice of one of my colleagues, Keith Rowdon, for the day had been fraught with telephone calls from clients asking endless questions and expecting instant answers. Mind you, here I was in North London employed by a major pharmaceutical company as an Account Manager to deal with just those types of enquiry. As always, though, when one is about to go away for a few days, the degree of digging around to come up with answers was that day out of all proportion to the usual routine. However, the working day was nearly over and I began to relax as I heard Keith's words.

"Just rang to see if you fancied a quick drink after work".

"Well, I was going to let the traffic die down a bit before heading off and I must fill up with petrol but I'm sure I can join you for a pint or two".

"Good man! How about the 'Coach and Horses' at five? Any chance of a lift?".

"If you're buying, certainly! See you in reception".

Thus it was that three quarters of an hour later I said cheerio to those of my colleagues who were still at their desks, picked up Keith who was waiting by the main entrance and headed for what I thought was going to be a few days of 'freedom'.

Imagine a tall, blond haired, angular man - almost Viking in appearance - in his mid-thirties and you have a description of Keith Rowdon. This gentle giant spoke in a calm, assured way and immediately made one feel at ease. As he climbed into my car he had to move the passenger seat back a few notches to make room for his long legs. We were soon engaged in everyday conversation - punctuated only by my stopping for petrol - and before long we were pulling into the pub car park.

Inside, at the bar, it was good to find myself in different surroundings and I savoured the taste of my pint of bitter. Keith politely asked about my imminent travels.

"Why Sheffield? Seems a funny place for a holiday!".

"It's not really a holiday, Keith, just a break to catch up with some friends and relatives in the North. Noblesse Oblige and all that!".

"Where are you staying? I know Sheffield".

"I thought I'd stop over at a hotel somewhere tonight en-route, then I'm...".

"I know some very good hotels in that part of the world. Want a recommendation?".

"No, thanks all the same", I replied quickly. I guessed that any hotels Keith knew would be out of my price bracket. "It's only for one night. Tomorrow I'm staying at a friend's house in Westwick Road, then on to my Aunt's place out in Derbyshire".

Keith asked where Westwick Road was and seemed to be trying to picture it in his mind's eye, as if he were able to recall photographically all Sheffield's streets.

The conversation continued: I had another pint and was beginning to think about going when Keith insisted I should stay for one more drink. His reassuring personality persuaded me.

Now, I should not have had that drink. Not only had I suffered a long, tiring day - I was up at six o'clock in fact to pack the car - and didn't need anything more to make me sleepy for the long drive ahead but the fact remained that I was close to, if not already over, the legal limit for drinking when driving. When I finally left about fifteen minutes later I thought I would probably just about be alright and promised myself a strong cup of coffee at one of the motorway service areas. I said goodbye to Keith - who stayed on at the pub saying he had a phone call to make - and headed for the M1 motorway.

I remember it had been a glorious late September evening and the sky was by now fast becoming a dusky red. As I turned onto the motorway the car's elongated shadow came round from behind me and lengthened out across the carriageways, touching the metal barrier in the central reservation. The sky to my left was deep maroon; to my right already quite dark. Soon the tall lights along the motorway flickered on and quickly brightened to form a chain of orange. As the darkening enveloped me, I switched on the car headlights and began fiddling with the radio tuner. There was nothing very good on at that time of the evening, for these were the days before Classic FM. As I slowly turned the tuner beyond the commercial channels and into the police bands, I heard something which made my heart leap into my mouth.

© Richard Farquharson, Maulden, Bedfordshire June 2017

PURSUIT - GO FORWARD TO CHAPTER 2