PURSUIT
Chapter 3 - Northern Hospitality
Despite a frequent search along the radio dial, I could pick up nothing which indicated that anybody was looking for me any more. This only increased the mystery of why I was being tailed in the first place. Surely if the police - I could only assume it was the police - suspected me of being over the legal limit for drinking and driving or, indeed, of committing any other offence, they would have been quick to stop me and check. Why this enigmatic long distance following?
I puzzled about this for the rest of the evening, keeping a sharp look out for police cars, as I slowly and torturously headed again in a vaguely northward direction by a series of quiet roads, trying to avoid the major towns. Only once did I see a police patrol vehicle; in a pub car park it was but there were no occupants and nobody rushed out of the quaint, stone built inn to follow my trail. Maybe the officers were inside, enjoying a quiet drink themselves!
I had difficulty now in keeping my concentration and my eyes were growing heavy. I was not only exhausted after the busy day, the excitement of the motorway pursuit and the intense driving and navigation to find an unfrequented northern route but I was now very hungry. It was time to stop for the night.
The next signpost showed that I was only a few miles from Grantham, although I could not tell you to this day the route I had taken to find myself in that part of the world. Before very much longer, though, I had entered the town, found a pleasant looking hotel and had stowed the car in the darkest corner of its car park. Once checked in I could be found settling down to an aromatic bowl of minestrone soup which, with a bread roll or two, was the most that could be rustled up for a late, travel weary guest. Having no desire to take a stroll after this meagre repast, I went to bed and slept the sleep of the dreamless, thinking as I drifted off about the sumptuous breakfast to which I could treat myself in the morning.
The next day was miserably damp and there was absolutely nothing unusual about its start for me. I enjoyed a good breakfast, followed by a leisurely drive to Sheffield through the downpours, without incident. I joined my friend Peter for lunch and then we both went back to his house in Westwick Road for a good chat to continue catching up on each other's news.
I had first met Peter Styles about ten years ago on an outdoor leadership course to which our respective employers had sent us. When you are attached to someone by a rope, half way up a mountain in the Lake District in November with the weather closing in, a bond does form between the individuals and I had therefore kept in touch with Peter since then. He now worked for the Local Authority but this being a Saturday he had time to make the most of my visit and ensure we could talk at length about old and recent times. I told him nothing of my adventures of the previous evening.
Towards dusk we went into the town centre again for a meal but the few places we liked were not able to accommodate us until later on. We strolled back to my car with the intention of moving on to somewhere else out of town and were just walking towards it in the multi-storey car park when I saw a shadow move on the far side of the car. My first thought was that somebody was trying to steal it and I ran forward, without thinking, to stop him.
I was right. There were actually two men and one of these was just about to insert a large screwdriver into the lock on the passenger door. The other one saw me and grabbed at his mate, nearly pulling him off balance. They sprinted away, leapt into a nearby car and, with a piercing squeal of tyres and a cloud of exhaust fumes, were gone. It was all over in a remarkably short time and there was no way we could give chase. Peter just stood there, dumbfounded.
I was irate. I had been on the receiving end of enough worry yesterday evening and now I had found somebody trying to break into the car. It was really too much - I stood fuming and then examined the vehicle minutely for damage. Fortunately we had been just in time - another couple of seconds and they would have wrenched off the passenger lock. There was, in fact, no damage and some soothing words from Peter, who had now recovered his composure, appeased me slightly. Then I started laughing.
"So much for Northern hospitality! Do they all welcome Southerners like this up here?".
Peter laughed too. What had happened had happened; there was no point going to the police as, regretfully, this sort of car crime goes on all the time in all areas and the miscreants had escaped too quickly for us even to note the registration number of their car, which was itself probably stolen. Besides, I wasn't too keen on appearing before the Law after yesterday's escapades. All I could do was shrug my shoulders, try and put the incident behind me and get on with what we had planned to do.
All the same, I found it hard to put this event totally out of my mind and, as we eventually drifted back to Peter's house and I climbed into the spare bed, I remember thinking that troubles always seem to come in threes. What, I wondered, would happen next? I did not have long to wait to find out.
© Richard Farquharson, Maulden, Bedfordshire June 2017