And now she was away, faster than Marcus, who was getting a little heavy, frankly. A police car was coming; as she turned the corner it pulled up by the library, its blue light throwing ghosts onto wet surfaces. This new street was narrower, and right-angled a few hundred yards on; a figure was disappearing round the corner. Could be Chapman. Back at Slough House Ho was tracking his movements, relaying them to Marcus, but Louisa was offline.
She glanced behind. Marcus was following, his features set in a grimace.
At the corner, she turned left. The road ahead forked, one tine winding under a railway bridge where a pair of youngsters were sheltering, hand in hand. A woman was approaching, dragging a basket on wheels; beyond her, heading away, a figure in a raincoat was hustling along. On the opposite pavement a younger man, leather jacket, shoulders hunched, was moving fast.
Marcus caught her, one finger holding his earpiece in place. “He’s ahead of us. Two hundred yards?”
“Wearing a raincoat,” she said. “And there’s the pro. Leather jacket.”
“He see you?”
She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so.
Marcus said, “Loop round at this next junction. If you’re fast enough, you’ll overtake him before he hits the main road.”
Making it sound like a challenge, which was probably deliberate.
She nodded and took off, breaking into a run once she’d rounded the corner.
Two of them, thought Patrice. The target was ahead, walking briskly, and there were two behind him: a suspicion confirmed by a reflection in a ground-floor window, cracked open to release a veil of blue smoke. If they knew what they were doing they would separate soon, though if they knew what they were doing, they wouldn’t have let him spot them so easily.
They might come to regret that.
His hands were bunched inside his pockets. Rain slid down his neck. But the rain was his friend, keeping the backstreets clear, and people’s attention elsewhere. The target had turned another corner, but that was fine. There were only so many corners left.
Have to lose some weight.
That wasn’t so much Marcus’s own mind forming thoughts as a small version of Cassie, his wife, making a guest appearance in his head.
Then Shirley’s voice was in his ear, completing the duet: “He’s ahead of you. Why aren’t you running?”
“. . . Sort of am,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Why aren’t you running faster?”
He was tempted to toss the earpiece, but going dark was frowned upon, midway through an op.
The man in the leather jacket had turned the corner after Chapman, and any doubt he was following had dispersed now. True, there were only so many routes, and everyone looked furtive in the rain, but still: there was something about the way the man moved. He didn’t break stride to avoid puddles, but didn’t splash through them either. Handy gift to have. Marcus bet his feet were grateful.
Shirley said, “Chapman’s stopping.”
“Where?”
“Next left, then right. Taking shelter?”
“Taking guard, more like,” Marcus said, and felt something tighten in his chest; the same feeling he got playing blackjack, watching the dealer deal. Knowing, always, that he couldn’t lose, whatever experience might suggest to the contrary.
The extra pound or two didn’t fall away, but still: Marcus felt lighter as he picked up his pace, following the spook on Chapman’s tail.
Another bridge over the road, this one with a train crossing. Its thunder filled the world for a moment, and then it was gone, and the rain was heavier, pounding the pavements ahead.
It seemed to Bad Sam Chapman that everything had grown darker.
His breathing was rough, and his thigh muscles aching: this without breaking into a trot. What age did to you, and late-night drinking. But age was inevitable, up to a point; as for late-night drinking, this was not easily avoided either. All political lives end in failure, someone once said. Spooks’ lives, too, held more to regret than to cherish, a conclusion it was hard to ignore once the light drained from the day. You could stay up late brooding, or you could stay up late brooding drunk. There weren’t many other options.
Bad Sam hoped like hell he’d find Chelsea Barker. He hated to leave things unfinished.
