It wasn’t a grin. Curly turned when he heard the yelp, and snarled when he saw the kid was on the move. He barked at Larry—a cross between a threat and a prediction—and took off.
Behind him, he knew, Larry would be rooted to the spot. Glad to be left behind; hoping he could vanish.
No balls. With soldiers like him, the war was lost. Hell, it wasn’t even fought. It was all hot air and history.
But Curly was at war. If Larry didn’t know which side he was on, that was his lookout. The thing about an axe was, it didn’t need reloading.
The Paki was showing his heels again. He ran like a girl, elbows tucked into his sides. Curly, though, was flying. Days of tension, of built-up excitement, and here was the moment at last.
Call it a declaration of war.
Then his right foot landed on something slippery and wet, and for half a beat he might have lost his balance and sprawled on his back, while the axe went flying freely through the air—but it didn’t happen, he didn’t fall; his body was finely in synch with the natural world, and his left foot firmly in place on solid ground; his hip twisting just enough that his centre of balance held, and now he was moving even faster, and the distance between himself and his prey was disappearing by the second.
He wished the Paki had been looking back to see that. Get some idea of what he was dealing with.
But he was still making tracks, running like a girl. Scared as a mouse. Frightened as a rat.
Curly slowed his pace. This was too good. This was too good to hurry. This was what they meant by thrill of the chase.
Nick Duffy covered his phone with a hand and said, ‘They’ve got him.’
‘Where?’
‘Webb’s office.’
Taverner glanced at Lamb, who shrugged. ‘If my guys were any good, they’d be your guys.’
‘Why Webb?’ she asked. Then: ‘Never mind.’ To Duffy, she said, ‘Tell them to take whoever it is downstairs. And tell Webb to get up here.’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Thank you. Give me a minute, would you?’
Duffy left, talking into his phone.
Taverner said, ‘Whatever just happened, that was your last chance. Hope you enjoyed your morning, Jackson, because it’s the last you’ll see for a week. And by the time you’re back upstairs, you’ll have signed a confession, and anything else I tell you to.’
Lamb, sitting facing her, nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be about to say something important, but all he could manage was, ‘Mind, your lad Spider doesn’t half like a colourful tie.’
Behind her, the door opened.
‘Of course, my lad River can’t do a knot to save his life.’
The minutes spent swapping shirts with the unconscious Spider hadn’t been wasted after all. River Cartwright, wearing Webb’s jacket and tie, closed the door behind him, a black folder tucked under his arm.
Hassan couldn’t look back. Could barely look forward. Had to look at the ground, scan it for roots and stones and unsuspected dips; for anything that might grab his ankle and bring him to a sudden end. For dangers at head-height, he trusted his luck.
‘Having fun yet, Paki?’
Curly, gaining on him.
‘Playtime’s nearly over.’
Hassan tried to speed up, but couldn’t. Everything he had to offer, he was already pouring into this one aim: to keep moving. To never stop. To run to the end of the wood, and then beyond; to always be one step ahead of this Nazi thug who wanted to kill him. With an axe.
The thought of the axe should have been a spur, but he had nothing left to give.
A sudden dip in the ground almost threw him, but he survived. A root reached for his ankle, but missed him by an inch. Two escapes in as many seconds, and that was it: his luck ran out. A branch struck him in the face and Hassan staggered from the blow, ran into a tree without enough force to damage himself, but with more than enough to bring him to a halt. His legs didn’t quite buckle, nor his body quite fall, but there was nothing left. He couldn’t start the engine again. He held on to the tree a moment longer, then turned to face his murderer.
Curly stood on the other side of the dip, panting lightly. A doglike smile was painted across his face, colouring every aspect but his eyes, and he was swinging the axe gently, as if to demonstrate his total control over it. There was no sign of Larry. No sign of the digicam, either; no tripod; nothing. Hassan, though, had the feeling that events were moving to a conclusion regardless. Curly’s need to film this horror was paling beside his need to commit it. The axe was all he required now. The axe, and Hassan’s participation.
But even knowing that, Hassan had given all he had. He couldn’t move another step.
Curly shook his head. ‘The trouble with you lot,’ he explained, ‘is you’re just not at home in the woods.’
