'That one can,' my passenger said. 'It's the same make as yours. It's a B.M.W. R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That's what they're usin' nowadays.'
The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.
'This is real trouble,' I said. 'I don't like it one bit.'
'Don't talk to 'im any more than is necessary, you understand,' my companion said. 'Just sit tight and keep mum.'
Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on to the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.
We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.
'Watch out for this man,' my passenger whispered. ''Ee looks mean as the devil.'
The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. 'What's the hurry?' he said.
'No hurry, officer,' I answered.
'Perhaps there's a woman in the back having a baby and you're rushing her to hospital? Is that it?'
'No, officer.'
'Or perhaps your house is on fire and you're dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?' His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.
'My house isn't on fire, officer.'
'In that case,' he said, 'you've got yourself into a nasty mess, haven't you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?'
'Seventy,' I said.
'And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?'
I shrugged and didn't say anything.
When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. 'One hundred and twenty miles per hour!' he barked. 'That's fifty miles an hour over the limit!'
He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. 'And who are you?' he asked sharply.
'He's a hitchhiker,' I said. 'I'm giving him a lift.'
'I didn't ask you,' he said. 'I asked him.'
''Ave I done somethin' wrong?' my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.
'That's more than likely,' the policeman answered. 'Anyway, you're a witness. I'll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,' he snapped, holding out his hand.
I gave him my driving-licence.
He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded books of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.
'Now you,' he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. 'Name?' he snapped.
'Michael Fish,' my passenger said.
'Address?'
'Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton.'
'Show me something to prove this is your real name and address,' the policeman said.