I followed the one-way route until I approached the waterfront.
On the street leading to the harbour, the predictable happened.
Somebody moved even faster.
A roadblock.
An automobile blocked any further progress.
A huge black law enforcement vehicle.
If the two pivoting searchlights and the enormous red 'STOP' light were not enough, the eight-inch white-lettered 'POLICE' sign removed disbelief.
Someone was desperate to prevent me from accessing the DEFRA complex.
I faced a vertical upright line of rusty corrugated oil-drums blocking the space between the motor and the entrance to the harbour.
This I discovered in the five seconds it took me to bring the shuddering skidding BMW from 70 to 30 mph. The high-pitched scream in my ears, a token of the black smoke trail of melted rubber. I spotted an officer crouched behind the bonnet.
A second detective with his head and right arm just above the boot. Mobilised with rifles. Another, standing upright and hidden by the oil-drums, wore a dark-blue flak jacket armed with a Heckler and Koch MP5. It is ergonomic, exact and reliable. A sub-machine gun, but in UK Forces usage, they always referred to it as a carbine.
I slowed to 20 mph now. Forty yards distant from the block. Policemen. Guns levelled on my head. Rising and moving out into the open. I jammed my foot flat on the accelerator.
The centre of the bumper hit the second drum. I braced myself for a shattering bump. Crush me against the steering-wheel. Or pitch me through the windscreen. As the 500-lb dead weight sheared the chassis, keeping bolts. Smashing the engine back into the driving compartment.
There was no such convulsive impact. Just a screeching of metal and a great reverberating clang. The BMW lifted the steel-barrel unhindered off the road. A moment of trauma. Carry it over the bonnet of the car. Smash the windscreen. Pin me to the seat.
With my free hand, I yanked the steering to the left. The cartwheeling cylinder bounced across the nearside wing and vanished from sight. I jerked the wheel in the opposite direction and straightened out. The oil container was empty.
And not a shot fired.
I looked in the rear-view mirror at the barricade dwindling in the distance. They didn't have time to prepare for the blockade. It takes more than a couple of minutes to bring full drums out of a warehouse and manhandle them into position.
They positioned the drum I hit with its filling hole turned towards me.
There was no bung. It was empty.
Another glance at the mirror confirmed the Suffolk Constabulary wasn't ready to concede.
The roadblock took me away from my intended destination.
The journey was closer to the sea. Winding to follow the indentations of the coast. Traffic was light, but enough to hinder me from overtaking on blind corners. The police automobile following gained at a steady pace.
The driver was familiar with his car.
Knew the route.
Ten minutes from the roadblock, he crept to within a hundred-and-fifty yards.
There came in quick succession, two or three whip-sounding cracks audible above the roar of the engine. I eased the gun out of my pocket, removed my foot from the accelerator, grabbed for the handbrake and hauled hard.
No tell-tale warning came from the braking lights. The BMW slowed. The screech of tyre, and violent slewing of the pursuing vehicle, showed I caught the driver off by surprise.
I loosened off one quick shot, and as I did, the windscreen shattered and starred as a bullet travelled unhindered through the centre. I fired a second time, and my pursuer skidded and finished broadside across the A1094.
The wheel hit a ditch. The uncontrollable skid that came from a tyre blowout.
No harm came to the policemen. Within seconds, the three of them were out. Squeezing off shots as fast as they could pull the triggers. Soon a hundred-and-fifty yards away. They may have been throwing stones in my direction.
I rounded a curve and lost them to sight. Angry after what happened at the roadblock, they fired. They were after one of the rear tyres, and they found it hard to fire at a fast-moving car. Or maybe they just can't shoot straight.
Approaching traffic remained light, two or three automobiles to the mile. It was too much for my mind. They filled most motors with family groups, on their way to dropping children off at school.
Curious at everything they saw. Every other vehicle slowed as it approached the BMW. In my rear-view mirror, I noticed the brake lights of three or four of them come. The drivers tramped on the brakes, and the occupants twisted in their seats.
The action films that flooded the cinemas and streaming services these days made a bullet-scarred windscreen and object identifiable by millions.
This was disturbing enough. Worse still was the near certainty that BBC Radio Suffolk spread the story on what happened in Cape Ore. Together with a complete description of the BMW and me.
Footage filmed on mobile phones on social media and, National and Local television transmission bulletins.
Anonymity kept me alive for many years.
In one morning, I flushed that inconspicuousness surrounding me down the toilet.
Using the butt of the gun, I smashed away into the centre of the laminated safety glass. The hole, a hundred times bigger.
But it wasn't enough, and I knew it. The police maintained a communication blackout. I didn't discover what they were planning for me.
I turned on the radio, and a fast-talking voice broke into the music. The announcer gave a direct, if not an over-elaborated, account of my escape. Warning local road users to look out for and report the stolen police BMW.
I knew I needed to abandon the motor, and at once. It was too recognisable. On the A12, the chances of escaping detection just didn't exist.
I needed a new car fast.