I mount the bike and head back to the cycle path before following it through a thickly-wooded, shallow valley gently sloping downhill.  The path is deserted: presumably the rain has dissuaded the kids that normally hang out late into the evening here.  After the hard running, the cycling provides something close to a breather and I cover the next couple of miles with relative ease.  I know that I can’t take the bike all the way to the bolt-hole, the rough terrain just won’t allow it, and I’ll have to dump it before resorting to foot again, but if I’m going to avoid capture, now is the time to put distance between me and the police.

Within ten minutes I’ve reached the perimeter of the park and the boundary provided by the Abbey Lane.  I get off the bike and cautiously peer out from behind a massive oak tree, and then, with the road deserted, I nip across and head for the seclusion of Beauchief Abbey Woods on the far side.  Back under the cover of the trees, I hear for the first time the distinct whirring of helicopter blades.  I glance upward to see the markings of the police chopper as it flies low above my head in the direction of the town centre but feel some sense of relief as it continues on its way without slowing or doubling back.  Checking my watch, I’m satisfied with my progress: it’s twenty-five minutes since I left the pub and I’ve put a little over three and half miles behind me.

For the next mile I follow a meandering bark-chip path that cuts through the dense woods.  The rain continues to pound, and with water and sweat dripping into my eyes I struggle to make my way in the darkness.  The handlebars and my shoulders frequently collide with the tree trunks that border the narrow footpath, and I have to focus my concentration on staying upright rather than on speed.  Eventually I reach the end of the tree-line and arrive at the busy main road of Meadowhead.  With some reluctance I leave the safety of the dark woods and join the traffic heading out of town.  After slowing to a near crawl in the woods I soon pick up the pace again and speed past the numerous pubs, wine bars and takeaways.  I cycle on, negotiating the heavy traffic, the numerous weaving taxis taking their boozy clientele home or on to late bars.  Occasionally a police car with blue lights flashing shoots past, but always in the direction of town and mercifully never slowing to give me a second glance.  I’ve no doubt that by now most of the city’s police are aware of the attack and a description of me will have been circulated.  I can only hope that my change of clothing and the fact that I’m now on a bike will buy me precious time.

My next destination is Graves Park and a place I know well from my childhood.  At close to 250 acres it’s the largest park in Sheffield, and for a kid growing up in the area it was heaven: a vast expanse of grass and woodland, as well as sports fields, children’s play areas, and even a small farm with a rare breeds centre.  All those years ago, I’d learnt every short-cut and cycle route through the park, and during the long summer holidays I’d built bivouacs and camped overnight in the woods with school friends.  Now, with Graves Park less than half a mile away and the entrance almost in view, I begin to relax a little for the first time, knowing that I’m close to home turf.  But almost as if my newly found optimism has tempted fate, as I round a bend in the road and half a dozen or so car lengths in front, a police car is parked at the curb-side. Too close for me to consider turning back, I’ve got no choice but to continue on towards it. Stay calm, Julian, stay calm, I whisper to myself as I reach the car and glance through the rear window.  The driver and front-seat passenger are facing each other and showing no obvious interest in my presence.  Relieved, I take a slow deep breath with my destination now so tantalisingly close; but again, as if my renewed optimism is provoking the Gods, the passenger door of a taxi parked in front of the police car abruptly opens.  I have a moment to react, and I brake hard and swerve to avoid a collision, but my front wheel skids on the greasy road and I lose control.  Within a split second I’m flying over the handle bars and then the side of my head and shoulder impacts hard with the tarmac.  I’m momentarily stunned, lying face-down in the road with the bike next to me and the front wheel spinning but buckled and useless.

The passenger of the taxi, a woman in her twenties, clearly drunk, stumbles towards me in ridiculous six-inch heels. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she screams hysterically.  She begins pulling at my arm as she tries to help me up.  But as I get to my hands and knees and turn to face her, she stops short with a look of horror and then shrieks, “You’re bleeding, oh my God, oh my God … You’re bleeding.”

I glance down at my grey top to find it soaked in blood that’s been dripping from my neck wound, the hanky and scarf having clearly provided no effective barrier.  Dazed, I struggle to my feet, and shrugging off her attentions I say, "Don't worry. I'm fine, I'm fine.”

Behind me I hear a car door open, and then another, and vaguely familiar, female voice.  “Sir, are you okay? ... Do you need help?”

In the corner of my eye a woman picks up my bike and places it on the pavement.  Then I hear the crackle of a police radio, which cuts through the fuzziness of my thinking.  I turn around to see a woman whose face bears a look of recognition that I suspect mirrors my own: WPC Shaw.  My thoughts are now more lucid but I still can’t quite believe what’s happening.  How can I explain all the blood? There’s no way she’ll believe it’s all from the bike accident.

I know I can’t take any chances. I turn, and sprint in the direction of the park, leaving behind the bike and a stunned Shaw.  Within seconds a car door slams, followed by the sound of grit flying up as the tyres on the police car lose traction on the wet road.  Shaw isn’t stupid; I can’t be sure of course, but I suspect she’s already pieced it together and I’m the prime suspect in the attack on Musgrove.

I’m exhausted both physically and mentally but keep pushing myself on, knowing that my freedom depends on it.  I picture Musgrove’s face: although I know he must be dead, my capture would be a victory for him and there’s no way I can let it happen.  Within sixty seconds I reach the heavy iron gates at the entrance to the park.  I frantically pull and push, desperately trying to get through, but after a wasted few seconds I see the heavy chain and padlock, not in use on my previous reconnaissance trips and now blocking my way.  Without conscious thought I scale the gate, a good metre above head height, and then lower myself down on the far side just as Shaw’s car arrives.  For a fraction of a second I lock my gaze with her through the windscreen of the car.  Etched in her face is what seems like a mixture of disbelief and sympathy.  I look away – I suppose with a sort of embarrassment – and then head into the darkness of the park.

The full moon flits from behind the thick cloud cover and provides just enough light to pick out the route through the children’s playground and then up the steep, heavily wooded hillside.  In the near distance I can hear more sirens as reinforcements join the hunt, and briefly glance over my shoulder to see the pursuing officers decamp and give chase some twenty-five metres behind me on the far side of the gate.  I pass the thicket of dense rhododendron bushes where I’d planned to ditch my already redundant bike, and then head up the steep winding path.  The rain is torrential and drives into my face while the wind whistles aggressively through the trees above my head, almost as if it’s bombarding me with insults.  The narrow path is covered in mud and wet leaves, and even in my cross-country trainers with their heavy-duty tread, I slip continuously and often resort to scrambling on all fours.  Some way behind, I can hear the police presence, with their heavy breathing and the distorted voices and crackles from their radios.