by Anne Perry
Had West run into Wrexham by the most hideous mischance?
Pitt retraced in his mind the exact route they had taken. He knew the streets well enough to picture every step, and see the map of it in his mind. He knew where they had first seen West, where he had started to run and which way he had gone. There had been no one else in the crowd running. West had darted across the street and disappeared for an instant. Gower had gone after him, jabbing his arm to indicate which way Pitt should go, the shorter way, so they could cut him off.
Then West had seen Gower and swerved. Pitt had lost them both for a few minutes, but he knew the streets well enough to know which way West would go, and been there within seconds . . . and Gower had raced up from the right to come up beside Pitt.
But the right dog-legged back to the street where Pitt had run the minute before, not the way Gower had gone. Unless he had passed Wrexham? Wrexham had come from the opposite way, not following West at all. So why had West run so frantically, as if he knew death was on his heels?
Pitt stumbled in the road and came to a stop. Because it was not Wrexham West was afraid of, it was either Pitt himself, or Gower. He had no reason to fear Pitt. Gower was a superb runner. He could have been there before, ducked back into the shelter of the alley entrance and then burst out of it again as Pitt arrived. It was he who had killed West, not Wrexham. West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. Pitt could see it in his mind’s eye. Wrexham was the harmless man he appeared to be, the decoy to lure Pitt to St Malo, and keep him here, while whatever was really happening came to its climax somewhere else.
It had to be London, otherwise it was pointless to lure Pitt away from it.
Gower. In fifteen or twenty minutes Pitt would be inside the walls of St Malo again, back to their lodgings. Almost certainly Gower would be there waiting for him. Suddenly he was no longer the pleasant, ambitious young man he had seemed only this morning. Now he was a clever and extremely dangerous stranger, a man Pitt knew only in the most superficial way. He knew that Gower slept well, that his skin burned in the sun, that he liked chocolate cake, that he was occasionally careless when he shaved himself. He was attracted to women with dark hair and he could sing rather well. Pitt had no idea where he came from, what he believed, or even where his loyalties were – all the things that mattered, that would govern what he would do when the mask was off.
Now suddenly Pitt must wear a mask as well. His own life might depend on it. He remembered with a chill how efficiently West had been killed, his throat cut in one movement, and his body left on the stones, bleeding to death. One error and Pitt could end the same way. Who in St Malo would think it more than a horrific street crime? No doubt Gower would be first on the scene again, full of horror and dismay.
There was no one Pitt could turn to. No one in France even knew who he was, and London could be in another world for all the help it could offer now. Even if he sent a telegram to Narraway it would make no difference. Gower would simply disappear, anywhere in Europe.
He started to walk again. The sun was on the horizon and within minutes it would be gone. It would be almost dark by the time he was within the vast city walls. He had perhaps fifteen minutes to make up his mind. He must be totally prepared once he reached the house. One mistake, one slip, and it would be his last.
He thought of the chase to the East End, and finally the railway station. He realised with acute self-blame how easily Gower had led him, always making sure they did not lose Wrexham completely, and yet the chase seemed natural enough to be real. They lost him momentarily, and it was always Gower who found him. It was Gower who stopped Pitt from arresting him, pointing out the use of watching him and learning more. Gower had had enough money in his pocket to buy tickets on the ferry.
Come to that, it was Gower who said he had seen Linsky and Meister, and Pitt had believed him.
What was Wrexham? Part of the plan to take Pitt away from London, knowing precisely what he was doing, and why? Then why had he not actually killed West? Too squeamish? Too afraid? Not paid enough?
Of course Pitt must go back to London; the question was what to say to Gower. What reason should he give? He would know there was no message from Lisson Grove. Had there been, it would have been delivered to the house, and simple enough to check on anyway. All Gower would have to do was ask at the post office.
The sun was already half gone, a burning orange semicircle above the purple horizon. Shadows were deepening right across the road.
Should Pitt try to elude him, simply go straight to the harbour now, and wait for the next boat to Southampton? But that might not be till tomorrow morning; and Gower would realise what had happened, and come after him some time during the night. Pitt didn’t even have the rest of his clothes with him. He was wearing only a light jacket in the warm afternoon.
The idea of fighting Gower here was not to be considered. Even if he could subdue him – and that was doubtful; Gower was younger and extremely fit – what would Pitt do with him? He had no power to arrest him. Could he leave him tied up, and then escape – assuming he were successful anyway?
But Gower would not be alone here. That thought sobered him like a drench of cold water, raising goose bumps on his skin. How many of the people at Frobisher’s house were part of his plan? The only answer was for Pitt to deceive him, make him believe that he had no suspicions at all, and that would not be easy. The slightest change in manner and he would know. Even a selfconsciousness, a hesitation, a phrase too carefully chosen, and he would be aware.
How could Pitt tell him they were returning to London? What excuse would he believe?
Or should he suggest he himself return, and Gower stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, just in case there were something after all? In case Meister or Linsky came back? Or anyone else they would recognise? The thought was an immense relief. A weight lifted off him as if it were a breathtaking escape, a flight into freedom. He would be alone – safe. Gower would stay here in France.
A second later he despised himself for his cowardice. When he had first gone on the beat in London, as a young man, he had expected a certain amount of violence. Indeed, now and then he had met with it. There had been a number of wild chases, with a degree of brawling at the end. But after promotion, as a detective he had almost exclusively used his mind. There had been long days, even longer nights. The emotional horror had been intense, the pressure to solve a case before a killer struck again, before the public were outraged and the police force disgraced. And after arrest there was testimony at the trial. Worst of all was the fear, which often kept him awake at night, that he had not caught the right man, or woman. Perhaps he had made a mistake, believed a lie, drawn a wrong conclusion, missed something, and it was an innocent person who was going to face the hangman.
But it was not physical violence. The battle of wits had not threatened his own life. He was chilled in the first darkness of the early evening. The sunset breeze was cold on his skin, and yet he was sweating. He must control himself. Gower would see nervousness; he would be watching for it. The suspicion that he had been found out would be the first thing to leap to his mind, not the last.
Before he reached the house, Pitt must have thought of what he would say, and then he must do it perfectly.
Gower was already in when Pitt arrived. He was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs reading a French newspaper, a glass of wine on the small table beside him. He looked very English, very sunburned – or perhaps it was more windburn from the breeze off the sea. He looked up and smiled at Pitt, glanced then at Pitt’s dirty boots, and rose to his feet.
‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he offered. ‘I expect you’re hungry?’
For a moment Pitt was attacked by doubt. Was he being ridiculous thinking that this man had swiftly and brutally killed West, and then turned with an innocent face and helped Pitt pursue Wrexham all the way to Southampton, and across the Channel to France?
He mustn’t hesitate. Gower was expecting an answ
er, an easy and natural response to a very simple question.
‘Yes I am,’ he said with slight grimace as he sank into the other chair and realised how exhausted he was. ‘Haven’t walked that far in a while.’
‘Nine or ten miles?’ Gower raised his eyebrows. He set the wine down on the table near Pitt’s hand. ‘Did you have any luncheon?’ He resumed his own seat, looking at Pitt curiously.
‘Bread and cheese, and a good wine,’ Pitt answered. ‘I’m not sure red is the thing with cheese, but it was very agreeable. It wasn’t Stilton,’ he added, in case Gower should think him ignorant of gentlemen’s habit of taking port with Stilton. They were sitting with wine, like friends, and talking about etiquette, as if no one were dead, and they were on the same side. He must be careful never to allow the absurdity of it to blind him to its lethal reality.
‘Worth the walk?’ Gower enquired. There was no edge to his voice; his lean brown hand holding the glass was perfectly steady.
‘Yes,’ Pitt said. ‘Yes it was. He confirmed what I suspected. It seems Frobisher is a poseur. He has talked about radical social reform for years, but still lives in more or less luxury himself. He gives to the occasional charity, but then so do most people of means. Talking about action seems to be his way of shocking people, gaining a degree of attention for himself while remaining perfectly comfortable.’
‘And Wrexham?’ Gower asked.
There was a moment’s silence in the room. Somewhere outside a dog was barking, and much further away someone sang a bawdy song and there was a bellow of laughter. Pitt knew it was vulgar because the intonation of the words was the same in any language.
‘Obviously a different matter,’ Pitt replied. ‘We know that for ourselves, unfortunately. What he is doing here I have no idea. I hadn’t thought he knew we were after him, but perhaps I was wrong in that.’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.
‘We were careful,’ Gower said, as if turning the idea over in his mind. ‘But why stay here with Frobisher if all he is doing is trying to escape from us? Why not go on to Paris, or anywhere?’ He put down his glass and faced Pitt. ‘At best he’s a revolutionary, at worst an anarchist wanting to destroy all order and replace it with chaos.’ There was stinging contempt in his voice. If it was false then he belonged on the stage.
Pitt rethought his plan. ‘Perhaps he’s waiting here for someone, and he feels safe enough not to care about us?’ he suggested.
‘Or whoever’s coming is so important he has to take the risk?’ Gower countered.
‘Exactly.’ Pitt settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘But we could wait a long time for that, or possibly fail to recognise it when it happens. I think we need a great deal more information.’
‘French police?’ Gower said doubtfully. He moved his position also, but to one less comfortable, as if any moment he might stand up again.
Pitt forced himself not to copy him. He must appear totally relaxed.
‘Their interests might not be the same as ours,’ Gower went on. ‘Do you trust them, sir? In fact, do you really want to tell them what we know about Wrexham, and why we’re here?’ His expression was anxious, bordering on critical, as if it were only his junior rank that held him back from stronger comment.
Pitt made himself smile. ‘No, I don’t,’ he answered. ‘To all your questions. We have no idea what they know, and no way of checking anything they may tell us. And, of course, our interests may very well not be the same. But most of all, as you say, I don’t want them to know who we are.’
Gower blinked. ‘So what are you suggesting, sir?’
Now was the only chance Pitt was going to have. He wanted to stand up, to have the advantage of balance, even of weight, if Gower moved suddenly. He had to stiffen his muscles and then deliberately relax to prevent himself from doing it. Carefully he slid a little further down in the seat, stretching his legs as if they were tired – which was not difficult after his ten-mile walk. Thank heaven he had good boots, although they looked dusty and scuffed now.
‘I’ll go back to London and see what they have at Lisson Grove,’ he answered. ‘They may have much more detailed information they haven’t given us. You stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham. I know that will be more difficult on your own, but I haven’t seen them do anything after dark other than entertain a little.’ He wanted to add more, to explain, but it would cause suspicion. He was Gower’s superior. He did not have to justify himself. To do so would be to break the pattern, and if Gower were clever, that in itself would alarm him.
‘Yes, sir, if you think that’s best. When will you be back? Shall I keep the room on here for you?’ Gower asked.
‘Yes – please. I don’t suppose I’ll be more than a couple of days, maybe three. I feel we’re working in the dark at the moment.’
‘Right, sir. Fancy a spot of dinner now? I found a new café today. Has the best mussel soup you’ve ever tasted.’
‘Good idea.’ Pitt rose to his feet a little stiffly. ‘I’ll leave first ferry in the morning.’
The following day was misty and a lot cooler. Pitt had deliberately chosen the first crossing to avoid having to breakfast with Gower. He was afraid in the affected casualness of it he might try too hard, and make some slip so small Gower picked it up, while Pitt would have no idea anything had changed.
Or had Gower suspected something already? Did he know, even as Pitt walked down to the harbour along ancient, now-familiar streets, that the pretence was over? He had a desperate instinct to swing round and see if anyone were following him. Would he pick out Gower’s fair head, taller than the average, and know it was he? Or might he already have changed his appearance and could be yards away, and Pitt had no idea?
But his allies, Frobisher’s men, or Wrexham’s, could be anyone: the old man in the fisherman’s jersey, lounging in a doorway, taking his first cigarette of the day; the man on the bicycle bumping over the cobbles; even the young woman with the laundry. Why suppose that Gower himself would follow him? Why suppose that he had noticed anything different at all? The new realisation loomed gigantic to him, filling his mind, driving out almost everything else. But how self-centred to suppose that Gower had nothing more urgent to consume his thoughts! Perhaps Pitt and what he knew, or believed he knew, was an irrelevance anyway.
He increased his pace and passed a group of travellers heaving along shopping bags and tightly packed portmanteaux. On the dockside he glanced around as if to search for someone he knew, and was flooded with relief when he saw only strangers.
He stood in the queue to buy his ticket, and then again to get on board. Once he felt the slight sway of the deck under his feet, the faint movement, even here in the harbour, it was as if he had reached some haven of safety. The gulls wheeled and circled overhead, crying harshly. Here on the water the wind was sharper, salt-smelling.
Pitt stood on the deck by the railing, staring at the gangway and the dockside. To anyone else, he hoped he looked like someone looking back at the town with pleasure, perhaps at a holiday well spent, possibly even at friends he might not see again for another year. Actually he was watching the figures on the quay, searching for anyone familiar, any of the men he had seen arriving or leaving Frobisher’s house, or for Gower himself.
Twice he thought he saw him, and it turned out to be a stranger. It was simply the fair hair, an angle of shoulder or head. He was angry with himself for the fear that he knew was largely in his mind. Perhaps it was so deep because, until the walk back to the town yesterday evening, it had never entered his mind that Gower had killed West, and Wrexham was either a co-conspirator, or even just a tissue-paper socialist posing as a fanatic, like Frobisher himself. It was the shock at his own blindness that dismayed Pitt. How stupid he had been, how insensitive to possibilities. He would be ashamed to tell Narraway, but he would have to; there would be no escaping it.
At last they cast off and moved out into the bay. Pitt remained where he was at the rail, watching the towers and walls of th
e city recede. The sunlight was bright on the water, glittering sharp. They passed the rocky outcrops, tide slapping around the feet of the minor fortress built there, guarding the approaches. There were few sailing boats this early: just fishermen pulling up the lobster pots that had been out all night.
Pitt tried to imprint the scene on his mind. He would tell Charlotte about it: the beauty, the tastes and sounds, how it was like stepping back in time. He should bring her here one day, take her to dine where the shellfish was so superb. She hardly ever left London, let alone England. It would be fun, different. He imagined seeing her again so vividly he could almost smell the perfume of her hair, hear her voice in his mind. He would tell her about the city, the sea, the tastes and the sounds of it all. He wouldn’t have to dwell on the events that had brought him to France, only on the good.
Someone bumped against him and, for a moment he forgot to be startled. Then the chill ran through him, and he realised how his attention had wandered.
The man apologised.
Pitt spoke with difficulty, his mouth dry. ‘It’s nothing.’
The man smiled. ‘Lost my balance. Not used to the sea.’
Pitt nodded, but he moved away from the rail and went back into the main cabin. He stayed there for the rest of the crossing, drinking tea and having a breakfast of fresh bread, cheese and a little sliced ham. He tried to look as if he were at ease.
When they reached Southampton he went ashore carrying the light case he had bought in France and looking like any other holidaymaker returning home. It was midday. The quayside was busy with people disembarking, or waiting to take the next ferry out.
He went straight to the railway station, eager to catch the first available train to London. He would go home, wash and dress in clean clothes. Then, if he were lucky, just have time to catch Narraway before he left Lisson Grove for the evening. Thank heavens for the telephone. At least he would be able to call and arrange to meet with him wherever was convenient. Maybe with his news about Gower, a rendezvous at Narraway’s home would be better.
