Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [2]
‘Pitt!’ Gower clutched at his arm. ‘This way! Quickly.’ His fingers dug into Pitt’s flesh, making him gasp with the sudden pain.
Together they ran forward, Pitt along the broken pavement beside the dark walls, Gower in the gutter, his boots sending up a spray of filthy water. Pace for pace, they went round the corner into the open entrance to a brick yard and saw a man crouching over something on the ground.
Gower let out a cry of fury and darted forward, half crossing in front of Pitt and tripping him up in his eagerness. They both fell heavily. Pitt was on his feet in time to see the crouched figure swing round for an instant, then scramble up and run as if for his life.
‘Oh God!’ Gower said, aghast, now also on his feet. ‘After him! I know who it is!’
Pitt stared at the heap on the ground and saw West’s green jacket and bright hair. Blood streamed from his throat, staining his chest and already pooled dark on the stones underneath him. There was no way he could possibly be alive.
Gower was already pursuing the assassin. Pitt raced after him and this time his long strides caught up before they reached the road. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded, almost choking on his own breath.
‘Wrexham!’ Gower hissed back. ‘We’ve been watching him for weeks.’
Pitt knew that, but only the man’s name was familiar. He had never seen Wrexham’s face, but there was no time to explain that now. There was a momentary break in the stream of vehicles. They darted across the road after Wrexham, who, thank heaven, was an easy figure to see. He was taller than average, and – in spite of the mild weather – he was wearing a long, pale-coloured scarf, which swung in the air as he twisted and turned. It flashed through Pitt’s mind that it might be used as a weapon; it would not be hard to strangle a man with it.
They were on a crowded footpath now, and Wrexham dropped his pace. He almost sauntered, walking easily, swiftly, with loping strides, but perfectly casual. Could he be arrogant enough to imagine he had lost them so quickly? He certainly knew they had seen him, because he had swivelled round at Gower’s cry, and then run as if for his life. Perhaps he was trusting to his very appearance of normality to make him invisible.
They were now walking at a steady pace, eastwards towards Stepney and Limehouse. Soon the crowds would thin as they left the broader streets behind.
‘If he goes into an alley, be careful,’ Pitt warned, now beside Gower, as if they were two tradesmen bound on a common errand. ‘He has a knife. He’s too comfortable. He must know we’re behind him.’
Gower glanced at him sideways, his eyes wide for an instant. ‘You think he’ll try and pick us off?’
‘We practically saw him cut West’s throat,’ Pitt replied, matching Gower stride for stride. ‘If we get him he’ll hang. He must know that.’
‘I reckon he’ll duck and hide suddenly, when he thinks we’re taking it easy,’ Gower answered. ‘We’d better stay fairly close to him. Lose sight of him for a moment and he’ll be gone for good.’
Pitt agreed with a nod, and they closed the distance between them and Wrexham, who was still moving with no apparent concern. Never once did he turn or look back.
Pitt found it chilling that a man could slit another’s throat and see him bleed to death, and a few moments after be walking in a crowd with outward unconcern, as if he were just one more pedestrian about some trivial daily business. What passion or inhumanity drove him? In the way he moved, the fluidity – almost grace – of his stride, Pitt could not detect even fear, let alone the conscience of a brutal murder, the blood from which must be on his clothes.
Wrexham wove in and out of the thinning crowd. Twice they lost sight of him.
‘That way!’ Gower gasped, waving his right hand. ‘I’ll go left.’ He swerved round a window-cleaner with a bucket of water, almost knocking the man over.
Pitt went the other way, into the north of an alley. The sudden shadows momentarily made him blink, half blind. He saw movement at the end and charged