Originally published in The Red, White & Blue 'old series' issue 2

"Eustace Craille 1893 – 1975"

The vicar was delivering a short summary of the great man’s many achievements in his life to the small crowd of high-ranking police and military figures, as well as a few members of the intelligence services. His time in the police, his war service and his later days in British Intelligence, processing information received from the Soviet Union. All had been carried out with dogged determination and the utmost professionalism. The vicar reached the end of the sermon, Craille had retired in 1971 and lived out his final days in a peaceful suburb... at least that was as much as anybody by the side of the grave knew.

Keeping a respectful distance, two more men, and a large bloodhound, sitting at heel silently as if sensing the solemnity of the situation, observed the service. The older had receding hair above a narrow, hawk-like face with piercing grey eyes and a slim, but athletic body. The younger neatly-combed blonde hair and a face that was normally bright and cheery, but not today. They wore black suits which appeared to be quite out of date, but which seemed very fitting for the occasion. They where Sexton Blake and Tinker, and they where attached to the Craille Institute, an above top-secret organisation which he had set up after his supposed retirement.

The funeral ended and the mourners filed away to waiting cars, Blake and Tinker remained as the grave was filled in and the workers walked away, glad to be out of the fog and light drizzle that had been soaking the earth all morning. Then the two detectives walked to the grave, and Tinker laid a small bunch of flowers alongside the other tributes. "Cor, Guv, I remember him being ‘my age’, and how he’s passed on. Makes you think sometimes doesn’t it?".

"mm" murmured Blake as he continued to stare at central London, barely visible in the distant fog.

"That case still on your mind?" asked the youthful assistant,

"quite" said Blake "...I'm sorry, I often find it hard to concentrate on much when there’s a mystery to be solved. Come, lets get back to the burrow, I hear Mitcham’s arranged a small spread, though I suspect they’ll all be far too busy to eat it".

"Hmm, sounds like it’d be right up old Paula’s street, eh?" Tinker reminisced as they walked down the hill towards Blake’s car, a powerful Jaguar XJ12 with several secret additions that where definitely not on the British Leyland accessories list.

As they drove back to the Burrow, the Craille Institute’s secret base concealed within a former world war 2 bunker, which was before that a London Underground station, Blake couldn’t help but think over the details of the baffling case that had distracted him earlier. It was not anything to do with the institute itself, or even an important job for the foreign office, just a series of strange, senseless murders which Blake and Tinker had inadvertently stumbled into. Stumbled into, in fact, whilst returning to England from a mission to South America, having heard of Eustace Craille’s death. The whole business had begun three days ago...

"Reckon there will be one big motorway going right around the city one day, guv" said Tinker as the Grey Panther purred along towards a turning into central London.

"Yes, I suppose it might take some pressure off the roads within the city" mused Blake, "though quite why people aren’t prepared to just wait their turn, like in the days of the horse-drawn carriage, I can’t work out". To these two Victorians, the pace of life in the 20th century had increased almost immeasurably, and only seemed like it was going to get faster still. Blake had often thought about where it was all going to end up.

"Hullo, something’s up" Tinker said, nodding ahead at some parked police cars and a forensic science van on the hard shoulder up ahead.

"Too many police for an accident scene, let’s take a look" Blake thought aloud, already pulling over. As they stepped from the car a police detective detached himself from a milling crowd in order to send them on their way, but was silenced at the sight of one of the many identity cards Blake carried. In the Craille institute’s highly secret area of work it was necessary for their operatives to gain access to numerous places whilst still maintaining absolute secrecy. To this end field agents including Sexton Blake and Tinker carried a series of cards identifying them as police officers, soldiers, MI5 agents etc.

The two detectives where led under a cordon and into a ring of police cars, photographers and scientists. The detective in charge of the case, Inspector Carlisle, bent down over the dead body that was the cause of all the activity.

"Hit and run" he stated, "the third victim of the motorway killer most likely, judging by the injuries and the absence of skid marks, the car didn’t slow down before it hit her".

"Motorway killer?" Blake enquired.

"The mad driver that’s been running hitch-hikers down and speeding away, it’s been in all the papers" stated the inspector, coldly and perhaps slightly suspiciously, knowing some criminals like to return to the scene of their crimes to check how the police investigation is going.

"We’ve been out of the country for a few weeks, south America" replied Blake, idly wondering if the Cubans had noticed the papers in his glove box were even missing yet.

Tinker glanced up at his master, and noticed the look on his face, the kind of look that meant there was a mystery to be solved and nothing was going to prove too great a distraction until a solution was found. He wondered if the police knew they where about to be helped by the world’s greatest investigator.

Scarcely a moment passed before the questions came- where they sure it was one killer? Where they sure it was the third victim? Any sightings of the car? Only one car? Connections between the victims? The list went on, some questions had not been considered by those on the case, and radio messages and low-ranking officers sped this way and that, checking facts, dates, background information...

Sexton Blake and Tinker sat in the inspectors office, a battered desk, typewriter and phone nearly buried under mounds of unfinished paperwork, similar mess spilled from cabinets in the corner upon which sat a dead cactus and un-used dartboard. The walls of the office where partly made up of thick blocks of yellow glass, and the distorted shapes of people rushing around with files in their hands could be seen through it. The air was thick with strong aftershave and cheap cigarette smoke. To the two detectives it seemed a world away from the cosy, organised way in which their own investigations where conducted.

Inspector Carlisle paced the room, occasionally passing over a file or photograph as he gave a summary of the case so far. A killer driver in a car that outwardly appeared to be an ordinary saloon was hitting people hitch-hiking on the hard shoulder of motorways before speeding away. On the second occasion the killing had actually been seen by police officers in the very same type of car, but they where left behind as they attempted pursuit. Another time the car had been seen shooting off into the countryside after committing a murder, but again pursuit had proved impossible. Traces of paint and oily dirt on all three victims had proven the same car had been responsible. Between the victims themselves there seemed no connection at all, different families, different workplaces, and schools before that... the murders appeared completely random. Something which had frustrated investigation as no pattern could be predicted, though so far all three killings had happened on Mondays, with the corresponding increase in patrols.

"No sign of the car at any other time?" Blake cut in suddenly.

"Not a thing!" Carlisle responded, "it could be a ghost for all we know".

"A ghost would hardly leave such physical traces, Inspector. Now, this paint which is left on the victims, surely an impact with something such as another car would be needed to scrape off paint?"

"That’s one thing the boffins have been looking at" Carlisle mused, his imagination fired by this new investigator on the case who was, as far as he knew, a superintendent in the channel islands. "I ought to chase up on the results of that, actually. Though if you ask me all this science stuff is a waste of time, you don’t catch a criminal with test tubes, what we need is faster cars out on the street, chase ‘im down..."

"In my experience, the best way to solve a case is when all the elements of the investigation work together, inspector" Blake cut in. "The paint being left on the victims suggests it isn’t dry, meaning the car may only be black for the purposes of the killings. Now, such impacts must surely cause damage to the car, have the records of sales of replacement body panels been checked?"

"Now that is one thing that has got me, and the scientists, sir" Carlisle turned to rummage through a drawer in one of his filing cabinets, "the car doesn’t seem to be dented or damaged in any way, as if it’s..."

"specially strengthened" Blake finished his sentence. "Now, are we dealing with somebody with knowledge of bodywork, or have they had stronger panels specially made?" The questioning and checking of documents continued for hours, until the Inspector had to leave to deal with other cases, leaving the two detectives alone in his office. "A serial killer using the car as a weapon" mused Blake, lighting his pipe,

"It's a new one on me too, guv" agreed Tinker, "and the funeral’s on Monday, too... how are we going to work out where he’ll strike next?"

The chilly evening air met Sexton Blake as he left the burrow later that dreaded Monday, by one of it’s inconspicuous side-doors in an alleyway which looked to the outside world like a small bookshop which was rarely open. Increasingly frustrated telephone calls to every car body repair shop in half of England had been made with little result, both by Blake and Tinker along with every employee of the Craille institute they could rope in. They knew the London CID had been making similar enquiries, with a similar level of success, all weekend. There was always the possibility their killer owned one of these, or was simply adept at making the panels and special paint himself. However the time in which the killer normally struck was now fast approaching, and if another death was to be prevented tonight it would have to be, as Inspector Carlisle had said, by faster cars on the street.

Tinker was already circling the capital in his own car, a yellow Ford Capri, itself with numerous secret additions to give it incredible performance. "Too many of those ridiculous spy films!" had been Blake’s initial reaction to such modifications, but he had grown to like them in recent times, and was sure they’d make all the difference tonight.

Tinker had been driving for hours, but was still alert for any suspicious black cars. He noticed a large number of police cars driving on the sections of motorway and other roads with encircled London. Hitch-hikers and people walking along the side of the road where being moved on or told to keep well away from the hard shoulder by police officers. The stories about the killer had of course been making front-page news, but there was still the people who had suffered an unexpected breakdown or change of plans. To them the news was the last thing on their mind as they trudged their weary way home, hoping for a lift.

Suddenly Tinker heard a powerful car approaching and sat up straighter, concentrating. He then saw the sleek, grey Jaguar of Sexton Blake shoot past in the opposite direction. So now both ace detectives were on patrol around the city, surely the killer would be caught if he tried to strike?

After around 15 minutes more driving, Tinker sighed as he saw yet another person standing under the glow of a light, alone. No other cars where around, in his mirrors or ahead. He was considering stopping himself to tell the person to keep back from the road, when an explosion of noise from right next to his right ear shattered his senses, and a black car, unmistakably the one he had been seeking, shot past him at high speed. It was indeed a very common model of family saloon, but something about this particular one made it look sinister, almost demonic.

Before the horrified young ‘tec could react it had mown down the lone man standing by the side of the road and vanished into the night. Murder! And committed right before Tinkers eyes! He sprang into action, reporting over his CB radio what had happened, before narrowing his eyes and giving chase to the rapidly-fleeing killer car.

"Keep after him, old chap, and give us directions so we can cut him off!" the voice of Sexton Blake came over the radio as Tinker pursued the murderer down a suburban street leading away from the heart of the city. The chase went this way and that, both cars expertly handled, and pushed to their limits. A small van skidded out of the way and crashed through a garden fence, Tinker calling this in too as he gave the following police directions.

Suddenly the suburb ended, the cars rocketed down countryside lanes, scarcely wider than the width of their wing mirrors. "Where are you now?" many people asked over the CB.

"The countryside! No road names! I’ll keep after him!" Tinker gasped, before pushing the accelerator as far down as he dared, gaining ground on the car in front. Suddenly it made a hard right turn, Tinker followed, his rear wheels breaking free, he corrected effortlessly, but wondered how the other car had managed such a turn without also skidding. Swiftly back on it’s rear bumper he became confident of overhauling the killer as soon as the road widened enough. Suddenly with the same roar it had made earlier, the car gained a huge burst of speed and rocketed away, bursts of flame coming from it’s double exhausts. Not even slowing, it crashed through a wooden farm gate, the shattered wooden planks clattering onto Tinker’s bonnet as he followed into the field, his rear wheels again lost grip as they came into contact with the wet mud. As the powerful coupe slithered helplessly the sinister black car turned back and rang rings around it, Tinker stared hard into the dirty black windows, but could see absolutely nothing within, the sight was chilling. "How can it grip so well?" he wondered aloud as he regained control and began to pursue his quarry across the field. The thought occurred to him he was dealing with an expert rally driver, or a car built by some sort of off-road expert.

"Or both!" he uttered angrily as the fast-vanishing car rode up an embankment at the far end of the field and vanished over the top with a dull flash of red light from it’s mud-covered lamps.

Tinker drove slowly up to the side of the embankment and stepped out of the car, certain the driver must have crashed on the other side. He switched off his engine and silence descended upon the area. Climbing to the top of the embankment, once a railway that had fallen victim to the Beeching axe, he looked down into the field beyond and was astonished... there was nothing there!

As the sun rose, Sexton Blake and Tinker both stood around the only indicator of the car’s presence, deep gouges in the mud of the other field behind the embankment, where the killer car had evidently made a perfect landing and sped away. "I hardly believe it, guv" Tinker grumbled, still kicking himself over losing a chase, and after being witness to the most senseless, horrible act of murder too!

Policemen stood around, Inspector Carlisle looking particularly despondent that the killer had been within reach and had escaped, claiming yet another victim and seeming to taunt the forces of law and order.

Deep down the gruff inspector also had reservations about the credentials of these two so-called policemen who had leapt into his case. The true identity and occupation of Blake and Tinker had been kept concealed from him in all the excitement, and they intended to keep it that way until the conclusion of the case, for simplicity if nothing else. He joined Blake and Tinker as they paced along the field, following the still-visible tracks the car had made.

The tracks ended abruptly near a small copse just beyond the farm gate, in the car’s direction of travel. The ground here was disturbed and churned up, but towards the road a definite impression of a large trailer being pulled away was evident. "See here," said Blake, crouching and pointing to an area of yellow grass, "the trailer, or perhaps large van or truck, was parked here some time. It would appear our killer hides his car inside a larger vehicle after the crime, which would explain the disappearance of the car afterwards."

"Crafty, but pretty simple" Carlisle cut in, "I’ll ‘ave door to door go around, see if anybody has spotted anything". He sounded rather pessimistic about this prospect. The road beyond the field was narrow and evidently not well-travelled. Opposite the field was a high wall forming the boundary of an abandoned, ruined factory. Even the coming and going of a large truck with no apparent purpose would have gone relatively unnoticed. The case had stalled yet again!

Agents from the Craille institute took Tinker’s battered car back to secret workshops hidden in the fens for repairs, as Blake drove him back to Baker street before carrying on to the burrow to finish off some important work regarding the Cuban documents.

"I see master Blake’s still busy sortin’ out them communards" was their housekeeper, Mrs Bardell’s comment as she handed Tinker a plate piled high with ham sandwiches. He waited for her to leave the room before dropping a slice into the waiting mouth of Pedro, their ever-faithful bloodhound. Details of the case ran over and over in his mind, but if the great Sexton Blake was having trouble with it, Tinker felt even more helpless. Restless he picked up the TV guide and flipped the pages whilst reaching over and switching on the large and expensive colour television, a recent addition to the Baker Street drawing room. As it warmed up, as thr early colour sets needed to do before the picture would appear, he looked around the cluttered room and thought that this most modern of additions seemed very out of place. There had been talk of giving the offices a substantial rebuild, but that might not be done for some time with all the business to attend to.

Finally the picture appeared, a typical colourful gameshow, the earnest host in his large, thick-rimmed spectacles and brown suit with an enormous collar was attempting to get a contestant to gamble his winnings of £57 against the contents of a glittering box. Tinker flicked to another channel, a saloon car race was just beginning. "Now this is more interesting" he said to himself as he watched the cars surge to the first corner and round it, a few scraping against each other and one spinning off into the gravel. The racers increased speed down a long straight and began to spread themselves out. They came to the second corner, as the first placed car braked hard the one following, number 12, deftly moved around it and took the lead with little effort. A series of tight corners followed on which number 12, driven by a Ricky Wallace according to the commentators, increased his lead. As the cars shot back into the long straight by the pit lane the former leader began to catch up, his car’s greater speed in a straight line beginning to tell. By the time they where back at the first corner the other car was almost on the rear bumper of the leader, a scene Tinker found familiar.

Then, as they reached the second corner, it happened. The faster car left his breaking too late and slammed right into the back of Wallace. Number 12 went straight off the track, missing the gravel pits and heading towards a small hill. His car mounted it and leapt into the air, but by shifting his body around and positioning the wheels just correctly, the car was landed perfectly back on it’s wheels before coming to a halt. Tinker found this familiar too… too familiar! The young detective stared intently at the screen as the ‘slow-motion’ replay was shown. The skill and control... they would put Hollywood’s best stuntmen to shame. But was it really possible this was the killer? "There’s so little else to go on, it’s better than nothing" he grumbled as he picked up the phone. Getting through to the Craille Institute he told them to check the address of Ricky Wallace on their files, and that he was heading down there himself by cab.

As Tinker walked into the Burrow the receptionist, such as she was, Rose, looked up. "Mr Blake’s commandeered file room 5 and as many staff as he could get his hands on, right ruckus he caused" she half-grumbled as Tinker walked past into the main office.

Compared to the police office where Inspector Carlisle was struggling with the case alongside all the other day-to-day policing, the Craille Institute was a model of efficiency and organisation. A huge map dominated one wall with many pins in it. As Tinker walked past various desks he heard snatches of conversation, "tank that can become invisible?", "right up the side of the building?", "and this van has been parked near all the buildings that caught fire?". Such where the mysterious crimes the institute normally dealt with, to have their finest investigator concentrating on the case of one crazed driver must have been irritating. Then again Sexton Blake and Tinker were not technically employees of the insitute, and could take any case they wanted.

As Tinker entered file room 5 he found a flurry of activity, a map of London was stuck to the wall, with four red pins and a green one. "What do you make of this, then?" Blake asked, "Green is his house, red is the site of the killings".

"The green is pretty much central... most killers do work within an area familiar to them... we might ‘ave him, guv!"

"Now, lets not jump to conclusions too soon, a lot of houses are in the area of the murders, not just his one..." As the two ‘tecs continued to speculate, Rose walked in.

"Call for mister Blake, it’s your housekeeper, she says she has some inspector to talk to you".

"Ah, a racing fan, perhaps?" wondered Blake aloud as he walked out to a telephone on the wall and picked it up.

"Hello sir" came the unmistakable voice of Carlisle over the phone, "might ‘ave a lead for you, though it sounds a bit crazy..."

"Yes, my assistant was watching the very same race... if you are getting at this driver, Wallace, being the culprit, that is".

"You two are on top of things, well anyway I’ve been going into racing records, they tend to happen mid-week, giving him plenty of time to return home and set up everything for the murders, with the car transporter and painting his car and that." Blake could only smile, as the case was beginning to come together in a sudden and unexpected way.

"We have his address, Inspector, I’ll be going down to his house now to stake it out"

"Ok, but there’s one more thing, that race was the last in the season, and he’s just missed out on the championship after that crash. If he is our killer, there’s no telling what that will do for his state of mind!"

"I see, well, I’ll be in touch later" Blake hung up and called Tinker over. "We’re following up this lead... and it may be urgent. Have the Panther ready to go".

The Grey Panther, as Sexton Blake had named his Jag in memory of his old Rolls-Royce, sat idle just across from the house of Ricky Wallace. Blake and Tinker sat in it, unable to see any obvious activity. It was the middle of the day, and the sun was shining, though the weather was very cold. As soon as they arrived the two ‘tecs noticed the car parked outside his house. The very same type as had been used in the murders, though this one was red and spotlessly clean. A large garage stood next to the house, "strange" Blake commented.

"Well, most people with garages manage to fill ‘em with junk", Tinker cut in.

"No sign of life either way... I'm going for a closer look" Blake said, climbing out of the car, and checking a small automatic in his pocket was ready to fire. "We can’t take any chances with this kind of crook" he added, sure that if the maniac disturbed him he would be fighting for his life.

Blake quickly crossed the road and, checking the coast was definitely clear, darted down the side of the garage, a narrow alley between it and the wall leading to the back garden. The garage had two side windows, each of them obscured on the inside by blankets. After listening to ensure the garage was devoid of life, Blake began to work at an old technique he had been taught by a reformed cracksman, for opening the basic type of latch on the window from outside. After a few tense minutes the window opened outwards and he climbed in, pushing the old blanket ‘curtain’ aside.

Within he found that the blankets formed a primitive spray-booth, for painting car body panels. From stains all over the blankets it was clear which colour the car that had been in the booth had been painted – black. Taking a small torch from an inside pocket, Blake began investigating. Under a bench where several large cans of black paint, they bore no manufacturers label, other empty cans of various chemicals from scientific suppliers showed this was no ordinary paint, but one which had been made inside this garage. A small, old safe stood at the end of the bench, on the floor. Blake pulled a lock-picking kit, made by the same reformed cracksman, and set to work on the safe. In it’s day it would have been regarded as a rather sturdy type, but once the trick was found to picking the lock, it could be opened in mere minutes.

Inside where several green canisters, also un-marked apart from hand-written labels saying "Cleaner". "Fascinating" Blake whispered to himself. Returning to the cans of black paint, he poured a small quantity on the floor. Then, fetching a canister of the cleaning fluid, he picked up a small amount of it on the end of a pencil. "There’s so little of this compared to so much paint, it must be pretty potent" he thought, and he was proven right, a single drop fell into a puddle of the black paint, and caused it to immediately undergo a dramatic chemical change. It became clear almost instantly, then seemed to dry up and shrivel to a kind of dust. Blake tried to pick some of the dust up, but it almost instantly crumbled away into even smaller particles, which drifted away on the slightest air current.

"A kind of invisible ink..." he murmured aloud, also noticing that the patch of the floor where the puddle of paint had been was now visibly cleaner too. "So that’s how it’s done... blood, mud, paint, this fluid dissolves it all away, leaving a pristine clean red car. On the outside identical to it’s millions of contemporaries".

Suddenly, the sound of the horn of the Grey Panther sounded outside. Blake’s head snapped up as he heard the sound of a large truck approaching, and the beeps as it reversed onto the drive in front of the garage! Realising it was too late to escape, he instead shut the open side window and hid himself behind the blankets used to make up the spray booth. The garage door was opened with a loud, rumbling clatter. Blake’s eyes swiftly adjusted to the light, and he saw a large truck parked in front of the doors, inside it was a small spraying booth. A man, whom Blake guessed to be their quarry, the racing driver Ricky Wallace, walked down from the truck’s cab and over to the safe. He was mere inches from Blake, who could see he had longish, blonde hair and a wide, down-curling moustache, along with a large, athletic figure underneath his colourful racing team overalls. Taking a canister of the cleaning fluid from the safe, he walked to the back of his truck and opened a small compartment, pulling out another canister and throwing it back into the garage.

"He must plant the truck somewhere and use the booth inside it to clean off the black paint" Blake pondered, "and he must be planning on another killing – tonight!" Suddenly the phone in wallace’s house rang, and he walked inside to answer it. Blake rushed out of the garage, receiving a "thumbs up" from Tinker, who had arranged the distracting phone call to be made over his CB. Blake waved Tinker away and concealed himself in the back of the large truck.

In minutes Wallace returned from his house, looking more annoyed and distantly angry than ever. He slammed the back door of the truck, and the door of the garage, before beginning to drive the truck to where it would be left that night... with Sexton Blake on board!

Tinker immediately put a call over the CB to have the truck followed by Craille institute cars. Fully five cars, in constant communication, followed for a short distance in turns. The truck was driven over a long, complicated route, as if the driver was expecting to be followed anyway. But in the end was finally stopped in the overgrown gateway to a long-disused warehouse in the countryside. From the rusting, twisted metal, Tinker guessed it had been wrecked by a bomb during the war. He found his mind drifting back to that era as he purred past the truck, Wallace stepping out and mounting a small scooter he had been carrying with him in the cab, returning to the city on that.

Tinker waited further up the road for an hour before leaving the powerful Jaguar and walking back to the truck. He knocked on the side of it and was startled as Sexton Blake appeared behind him. "Locks are even easier to pick from the inside, old chap" he said, suddenly gripping the youth’s shoulders.

"I thought he’d never stop Guv" Tinker grumbled.

"I did wonder myself if I was going to end up on a cross-channel ferry or something. I gather we’re not actually far from London, and he’s planning another attack".

"Looks that way, guv" Tinker continued, "I’ve let the inspector know, and they’re investigating the most common hitch-hiking places between here and there as we speak. There’s talk of setting a trap".

"A good plan... take the Grey Panther and follow him if he leaves the house. As soon as it looks like he’s going to attack, crash into him and warn him off it, then chase him but allow yourself to be lost as you near this point. Give me a few minutes then bring yourself and every policeman you can find".

"Will do, guv, might have trouble convincing the inspector not to pounce on him right away" Tinker wondered, but Blake was insistent,

"I think if we pounce right away he is likely to be desperate, and put up a fight. If however we can let him think he has escaped then surprise him, he’ll be too shocked to do anything... nobody else needs to be hurt in this business."

"Well you’re right there, I’ll, er, ‘pull rank’ on the inspector if I have to" Tinker joked, winking. He then left and began to walk back to where the Panther was parked, whilst Sexton Blake settled down for what would be several hours, if not days, wait.

"We’re on" Tinker stated into the CB matter-of-factly as he saw the sinister black car pulling out of Ricky Wallace’s garage. It’s lights dimmed by the spray of paint, grease and mud it had been given an hour or so earlier. Tinker began to follow at a distance, the lights of the Grey Panther could be adjusted in brightness by the use of a ‘dimmer’ type switch. On a dark night like this he could appear to be several different cars by making these adjustments.

The black car quickly picked it’s way to the major roads encircling the city, on one occasion even passing by a police patrol car on a dark road, going completely un-noticed. "Crafty, picking a route for it’s darkness, making sure the car is covered in mud so it doesn’t gleam..." tinker whispered to himself as his quarry pulled out onto a section of motorway. Adjusting the lights and switching the inner pair of the four off, Tinker pulled out and followed. "He’s on the northwestern section of motorway now" Tinker reported "approaching junction 3".

"The trap is near there, make sure she’s out in the open and ready to jump!" came Carlisle’s voice back. Another un-marked police car responded, a WPC was posing as a driver who had broken down and was looking for a lift. An even more dedicated campaign of foot patrols ensured she was the only hitch-hiker for miles around.

The Black car moved over to the fast lane, Tinker could see the ‘stalled’ police car ahead with it’s bonnet up. It was now or never! A great burst of noise, followed by the spluttering flames from the exhaust, signalled the killer car had also seen its prey. Tinker pressed a small red button on the gear lever of the Grey Panther and engaged it’s own powerful overdrive, rocketing up to the speeding car. 160... 170... he was pulling alongside, suddenly the killer turned in to hit it’s intended victim... and the Grey Panther was there! The Panther lurched with the heavy crunch of the impact, the killer car may have been smaller but it must have been almost as heavy. Suddenly the diving ‘victim’ flashed past, she had just dodged the attack in time! The killer car rocketed away with all its power and a tremendous sound, and Tinker gripped the wheel and steeled himself for the chase to follow.

Across the motorway, weaving in and out of sparse traffic. Once or twice a police car lost it’s wing-mirrors as the two speeding cars flashed by. Suddenly they where on a more narrow road, twisting and turning. A short skid across a muddy patch saw them speeding on the dusty track which was to become another new section of motorway, to one day be joined up into the M25. Cones and planks of wood clattered off the killer car as Tinker did all he could to keep behind it, he put up a convincing fight but knew he’d eventually be lost by the other’s superior skill, if he wasn’t intending to be lost anyway.

They where nearing the parked truck, suddenly the Killer car shot off across a field, smashing through a flimsy fence. Tinker yanked at the handbrake and wrenched the wheel, convincingly "losing control" and coming to a halt against some stacked barrels, toppling just enough to make it look from a distance like a serious crash. Now came the waiting game.

Ricky Wallace breathed more easily... Yet another un-marked car had almost caught him out, and this time he had lost his victim too. He was too angry to notice the fact that these cars should have been left easily in his dust, and yet where capable of keeping right behind him. But now he was coming up to his parked truck. A quick spray of the cleaning fluid and all would be well, he’d be able to go home and sleep, to plot his revenge another day. They would pay, all right, they would all pay, for sending him telepathic messages as he drove... for his deranged mind told him he was hearing voices transmitted by secret agents involved in a conspiracy to rule the world. Agents who waited by the side of the road, knowing he’d be driving by.

He pulled up behind his truck and switched off his lights, looking around for distant sirens and blue lights. He could see none, so climbed out and quickly opened the rear door of the truck, before returning to his car, driving it inside and closing the door. He walked around to the front of the truck, appearing for all the world to be a normal driver who had just been answering the call of nature. He climbed into his darkened cab and went to turn the key, when suddenly a cold metal object pressed against his head. "Raise your hands" said a firm, measured voice.

Wallace attempted to hit out, but Blake fended off the blows with his one free hand. The gun had its safety catch on, so that it wouldn’t go off by accident during a struggle. Blake was quite prepared to change that if his quarry pulled a knife or other weapon out. However after a tense, desperate close-range fistfight in the cab, Wallace was subdued and bound with some quick-action plastic cable ties that came to hand.

That same moment sirens and blue lights sprang up from all directions, and a considerably dented and scratched Grey Panther pulled up alongside the truck, shortly followed by Inspector Carlisle in a marked police car. "Your man, Inspector" said Blake, handing over the despondent Wallace. "And you will find his car in the back of the truck, un-cleaned and the perfect piece of evidence".

"’MOTORWAY KILLER’ GETS LIFE IN ASYLUM"

"So, how did his car manage to handle so well on those muddy fields anyway?" Tinker asked, folding the newspaper and putting it to one side.

"Four wheel drive, like those Jeeps and the like, but built like a racing car rather than a tractor, quite a nice idea actually" Inspector Carlisle said, reading over a report on the car. "Plus he used laughing gas as a sort of speed booster, by adding it into the engine, strange".

"But it worked though, he was able to fly away from me when he wanted" Tinker continued as Sexton Blake entered the room.

"Well that Cuban business is now sorted out, ah Inspector, I had heard you where coming around"

"Curiosity got the better of me" Carlisle said, businesslike as he turned to the great detective "I think it’s pretty obvious you’re not a real copper, not from the channel islands at any rate. While I'm grateful for help on the case it was a bit against regulations..."

"That’s strange, you didn’t strike me as the sort of person to listen too closely to the regulations" Blake broke a short silence "I can assure you, though, inspector, I am perfectly qualified to assist the police with cases, I could give you a phone number to ring-".

"Nah, it’s alright, I did a little digging myself and came to the conclusion you must be MI5 or something... I reckoned so pretty soon after I heard your name, Sexton Blake, he was an old penny dreadful detective wasn’t he?"

Blake laughed "I am afraid, inspector, that you have me there... you understand that my real job must remain secret of course, but remember I'm always willing to give the police my assistance on particularly difficult cases... if I'm not busy on matters of national security too, that is".

"Yeah, I understand, well hopefully I won’t have as many cases quite as difficult as that last one. It’s been nice to get all that out in the open, Mr Blake, but I’ve gotta get back to it, all those muggings won't solve themselves, you know". The Inspector turned to leave, knocking a table and sending a pile of papers tumbling "oh, sorry" he mumbled.

"Quite alright" said Blake as he bent to pick them up, "I’ve been telling Tinker this place needs a good sort-out for a while now... but there’s another case that needs working on first..."

Tinker laughed, it was back to work again!

THE END