This is just the opening section of a short story i'm working on. Any comments, impressions would be welcome.

Parallel streaks of white and red light skim by and swirl all around like random tracer fire from a berserk dream.
Guy Holt peers into the wet glare-smeared darkness for the tail-lights of the red 4x4 in the jostling cars ahead. Pushing 90mph behind the wheel of his Audi, he is calm, oblivious to the hum of engine and the rain on his roof, drumming like gentle lunatics. The windscreen wipers wave and clunk but he doesn’t see them. His staring eyes are narrowed, hardly blinking, trying to decipher the squealing vehicles swerving and dodging across the on-rushing lanes.
He touches the brake and nudges the steering wheel when he senses the mayhem is about to begin, one of the cluster – a Subaru Impreza – dropping by and behind him having almost clipped a car up ahead. A burst of high-beams tells Holt the prey is warning his pursuers to FUCK OFF, but the pack of luxury cars – the red 4x4 among them – is closing in.
A muted crunch and the light pattern discharges into a deadly kaleidoscope of colour and blinding flashes as the prey, an Alfa Romeo, spins across the middle lane, across Holt, right to left. Holt checks and dinks into the fast lane, feeling his wheels lose traction for a second, then breaks as he finds himself in the middle of the pack.
And out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses the tail-lights of the red 4x4 disappearing up a turn-off on his left.
The pack speeds away, touching 100, 110, lights dwindling, gone.
Holt does not report the accident to his colleagues at Wilton Police Station. But he does call the ambulance service anonymously before driving home.

Diary: Tuesday
My darling Poppet, It’s raining again today – teeming, in fact. It made me think of that photo we have of you in the kitchen, twirling in the rain outside, head back and mouth open. You’d love it today, plenty of puddles for your wellies to splash in. I was going to go fishing up at the stream this morning. I enjoy sitting there in the shade, trying to understand the movements of the roach, listening to the breeze. But it’s pouring down and something’s come up anyway. I’m leaving my job and have to clear up a matter quick as I can, something about what happened to us last year. Haven’t heard from mummy for a couple of months and wasn’t really expecting to, but I hope she’s OK.
Ever yours, daddy

Guy Holt walks into reception at Wilton Police Station.
He doesn’t say anything to the desk sergeant, just stands there.
A woman wearing a pink velvet track top and black lycra leggings, lower-back tattoo and thong on display, is saying, ‘He went right through a red facking light. Almost flattened me. What you going to do about it?’
The sergeant, jowly, bald, ignores her, picks up the phone and says, ‘He’s here.’
Holt turns, stares out through the glass door, all the while listening as the sarge tries to brush the woman off. ‘Don’t suppose your know the model of car?’
‘Yeah, I do actually…’
DC Randall appears at the security door leading to the station’s interior, jerks his skinhead sideways, beckoning Holt.
Top of the stairs, Randall goes through the door first, leaving Holt to catch it before it slams into his face. Another corridor, Randall saying, ‘So, why d’you deck Tommo like that? …’
Open office now, desks, screens, filing cabinets; heads turning their way, eyes lingering on Holt.
Another corridor, this one smarter. Photos on the wall, plants. ‘That wasn’t too clever, was it?’ Randall is saying. ‘Thumping a DI.’
Through a door and into an outer office. ‘Tell him Holt’s here,’ Randall says to the personal assistant. She gets up, knocks on the door with the nameplate on it and goes in. Reappearing, the PA nods Holt through.
Deputy Chief Constable Barr is sitting behind his desk in a crisp white uniform shirt. He looks like a trim company exec. He looks younger than the desk sergeant, but probably isn’t.
He stares at Holt, says, ‘Sit down.’
Barr’s head pivots to one side, eyes peering, says, ‘People reckon you’re an arsehole. Certainly behave like one, getting yourself suspended. Why shouldn’t I kick you out right now?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I would. But amazingly, you have a friend in Serious Crimes. DI Frazer has bent my ear, says you should be given time to re-think your pigheadedness.’
‘I won’t say anything against McGarvey.’
‘It was purely personal, you assaulting him like that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ve got no time for idiots like you … But I respect Duncan Frazer. He says you’re an effective officer, been under strain since your personal tragedy last year. Reckons you should be given time to change your mind and tell us what went on between you and McGarvey.’
Holt looks away. Barr catches the impatient sigh.
‘Personally, DC Holt, I think we’re wasting our time on you. This morning a pregnant woman in Salisbury was shot in the face after a row over a parking space. That’s what I should be overseeing now, not your playground tiffs. You’ve got five days to tell us your side of things, or you’re out on your arse, pronto. Clear?’
Holt gets up and walks out, past Randall and down the corridor. Randall hurries after him.
In the open-plan office, Holt spots Duncan Frazer, propped against his desk, waiting. Big Dunc waves him over. ‘Beer tomorrow night? Your local, 8pm?’
‘Come on, Guy,’ Randall says, who’s caught up. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Kindly fuck off,’ Frazer says. ‘I’ll see him out.’
Randall saunters off, nonchalantly as possible. Holt glimpses an accident report on Frazer’s computer screen. ‘Traffic duties now, is it, Dunc?’
‘More serious than it looks. Car cloning, false plates to dodge speed fines – it’s all getting out of hand. And three of these in the last twelve months. Yobs ram and swerve into other drivers – this one spun across the A30. Miracle no one was killed.’
‘How’s the victim?’
‘Thanking his lucky stars. Broken arm, whiplash. Car’s for scrap, though.’
Two words on the screen abruptly siphon the colour from Holt’s face.
Red 4x4.
He stares at the computer, feeling a surge in his chest.
Red 4x4. Toyota.
‘So, eight o’clock good for you?’ Frazer is saying. ‘The Talbot … Guy?’
Holt has moved round Frazer’s desk for a better view of the report. ‘Always the red 4x4?’
‘Not sure,’ Frazer says. ‘Couple of the victims didn’t even clock the bastard rammer. Smash and run each time, though. More and more of these road-rage prangs kicking off, eh? Barr decided to throw Serious Crimes at it, stop some of these radges.’
Then Frazer remembers – red 4x4. ‘Look, Guy, the chances of it being the same driver…’
Holt says nothing, starts walking out.