Got one at once after passing Heaver-Tag Island. The only island in Suffolk. At the combine of the River Ore and the Buytle Estuary. A marshy nature reserve run by the RSPB and known for a population of pied avocets and terns.
Accessible by a narrow lane was a spot where I pulled off the road and stopped. There were three cars. Through a gap in the trees and low scrub, I noticed a group of seven or eight people. Walking to the shore, two hundred yards away. Carrying long boards for windsurfing.
Just over four metres, with a retractable daggerboard, and optimised for lighter winds or course racing.
Jumping out of the BMW, and I checked the cars. An Audi, Nissan Juke, and an old reconditioned metallic blue Jaguar.
The E-Type unlocked, and hidden in a cubby-hole by the steering column, was a spare set of keys, folded chamois cloth.
Stupid of me to leave the law enforcement vehicle there.
As long as the BMW's whereabouts were unknown, the hunt would focus on it.
Pay little attention to the common thief who took the other.
If the local constabulary found the German car in the layby, the county-wide pursuit switched to the Jaguar.
Thirty seconds later, I shifted the BMW back to the outskirts of Cape Ore. On the shore side of the road, a new housing estate of six houses was being built. There was no one nearby. I didn't hesitate. The first house included a concrete drive. Sped straight in under the open tip-up door of the garage. Shut off the engine. Reached up and pulled at the door.
I emerged soon afterwards, and anyone looking for me may have looked a second or third time before becoming suspicious.
Walking as to not arouse any unwanted attention, I reached the Jaguar in five minutes.
I waited for a juggernaut to grind past from the west. Started the automobile under the sound of its passing. The group of windsurfers I saw earlier were on the shoreline, but they might hear the distinctive note of this car's engine.
I made a fast U-turn and took off after the lorry. I was on my way back. The next roadblock isn't far north. This time, it'll be no makeshift affair.
Maybe presume I will fathom that. Conclude that I'll leave this road and make for the side-roads toward Heaver-Tag Island. Which is what I'd consider if I were in their position. Delightful spot to hide. So, I headed back towards Cape Ore. They guess that.
I pulled up at a petrol station a few moments later and bought cigarettes and a newspaper, along with a black coffee from a vending machine.
The clerk looked at me with curiosity.
"Not a nice day. Come far?"
"Campsea Ashe." I'd seen the sign three or four miles back. My efforts at a Suffolk accent made me wince. "Fishing."
"Catch any fish?" The tone was neutral enough.
"I did alright."
I thought. I didn't know what species were in the water.
"Lost them though."
My voice sharpened in remembered anger.
"Put the basket on the road. When this crazy idiot comes past doing eighty, knocked the box and my catch everywhere. And so much rain, I couldn't even get his number."
"You find 'em everywhere."
His eyes focused on a point a hundred miles away, then he said: "What car, mate?"
"It looked like a damaged BMW. Why, what's happened?"
"Are you serious?" he asks. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't – did you see who was driving it?"
"No. Too fast. I thought it was a police motor.
He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone.
I drove. Four miles further on, I turned right onto a road that led straight to the sea. At the end, a youth camp where children come in the summer to swing from ropes, play football and canoe, fresh air, and drunk, smoke and steal from local shops.
But now, apart from a few cars belonging to die-hard dog walkers, deserted. I parked in front of Reception, a green wooden shelter. I stayed in the car. The hut door locked. A cat lay on the step, sheltering from the rain, and peered at me with suspicion.
A couple of seagulls stalked around the bins, steadying themselves in the breeze with their huge wings.
Maybe ten minutes after I arrived, a black police vehicle came along the road from the west.
I watched in the rear-view mirror as it slowed. A policeman put his head out of the passenger side window to give the region a quick perusal. But their scrutiny was as cursory as it was swift. I saw they didn't expect to find interesting and pulled away before its speed dropped to a walking pace.
Half an hour later, two motor-cycle policemen swept through the entrance in faultless harmony.
They stopped in perfect unison. Killing their motors in the same instant. Helmeted, gauntleted, tough, and competent,
For a few seconds, they sat there, high gleaming boots astride on the ground, then they dismounted, kicked the rests, and started moving round the cars. One of them carried a gun in his hand.
They began at the car nearest the entrance, with only a quick glance for the Jaguar. A long penetrating wordless stare for the occupants. No explaining or apologising. Policemen who knew a desperate fugitive shot a colleague. And was dying. Or dead.
Or was the colleague a comrade?