Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [96]
Pitt thought of his quick humour, how he had watched the girl in the pink dress, admiring her, taking pleasure in her easy walk, the swing of her skirt, imagining what she would be like to know. He remembered how Gower liked the fresh bread. He drank his coffee black, even though he pulled his mouth at its bitterness, and still went back for more. He pictured how he stood smiling with his face to the sun, watched the sailing boats on the bay, and knew the French names for all the different kinds of seafood.
People fought for their own causes for all kinds of reasons. Maybe Gower believed in his goal as much as Pitt did; they were just utterly different. Pitt had liked him, even enjoyed his company. How had he not seen the ruthlessness that could kill West, and then turn on Pitt so easily?
Except perhaps it had not been easy? Gower might have lain awake all night wretched, seeking another way and not finding it. Pitt would never know. It was painful to realise that so much was not as you had trusted, and your own judgement was nowhere near the truth. He could imagine what Narraway would have to say about that.
The constable came back, stopping just outside the bars. He did not have the keys in his hand.
Pitt’s heart sank. Suddenly he felt confused and a little sick.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable said unhappily. ‘I called the number you gave. It was a branch o’ the police all right, but they said as they’d got no one there called Narraway, an’ they couldn’t ’elp yer.’
‘Of course Narraway’s there!’ Pitt said desperately. ‘He’s head of Special Branch! Call again. You must have had the wrong number. This is impossible.’
‘It were the right number, sir,’ the constable repeated stolidly. ‘It was Special Branch, like you said. An’ they told me they got no one there called Victor Narraway. I asked ’em careful, sir, an’ they were polite, but very definite. There in’t no Victor Narraway there. Now you settle down, sir. Get a bit o’ rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. I’ll get you a cup o’ tea, an’ mebbe a sandwich, if yer like?’
Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realised that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have got rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup : a right-hand man, possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.
‘Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?’ the constable repeated. ‘Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?’
‘Yes . . .’ Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. ‘I would. Thank you, Constable.’
‘Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?’
‘Very good, thank you.’ Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problems for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know who to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.
It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.
‘We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,’ he said, watching Pitt carefully. ‘Yer look awful!’
Pitt tried to smile. ‘I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.’
‘Comes with being in gaol, sir. ’Ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll’elp.’
‘Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,’ Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the