He crossed the road into a sidestreet and passed a pair of wooden gates, chained closed, but loosely enough to allow for a gap. For the first time, he looked behind. His follower wasn’t in sight; was leaving enough space between them to give Chapman the illusion of safety. Here it was, then. He took hold of one gate, pushed at the other, and ducked under the chain. He was in a garage forecourt: two black cabs parked against one wall; a workshop with its doors concertinaed open, a naked bulb glowing, but nobody in evidence. There’d be a hammer, a monkey wrench, something. Just give me a minute, Sam thought. Give me two. Time to catch my breath. He didn’t even know why this was happening, but that hardly mattered: this, or something like it, had always been on the cards. He wasn’t the only one who hated unfinished business. It went with the territory.
Patrice almost walked straight past, but there was that odd hint of movement; the suggestion that the gates were trembling in the rain. Chapman must be past the point of pretence—when you found yourself hiding in back yards, you were beyond caution and into the fear. Now was as good a time as any. His own pursuers had yet to show themselves; if he moved quickly, he and Chapman might finish their mission without interruption. Because it was a joint mission. Chapman had a significant role to play in its fulfillment. A murder is nothing without a victim.
Overhead, an airliner on the Heathrow approach was briefly visible below cloud, and then was gone.
Patrice slipped under the chain, one hand on the gate to prevent it wobbling. The yard seemed empty, though a light glimmered in the workshop. From his pocket he took a pair of thin leather gloves. When he snapped the poppers to tighten them at the wrist, the sound was the loudest thing on the planet.
When Louisa reached the junction the street was empty except for a fat woman, barrelling along like a boat in turbulent water. Louisa swore under her breath and did a quick 360-degree scan: there was nowhere for them to have gone. There hadn’t been time. Which meant they’d left the street altogether: entered a building, a shop, something . . .
There were no shops. A wall this side of the railway bridge was so plastered in graffiti it looked camouflaged, ready to be dropped unnoticed into someone’s acid trip; on the other side was a former gym, forfeiture notices pasted to its whitewashed windows. She glanced up at the bridge, but they’d have to be Spider-Man to have got up there. Spider-Men. And it wasn’t like they’d be working in concert.
A pro, Marcus had said. The way Chapman had ducked for cover, he’d known there was someone on his tail. So he’d have gone to ground first chance he got . . .
Beyond the bridge, set back from the road, was a pair of wooden gates: a garage perhaps, closed at the moment, a loose chain dangling from slack brackets.
Through there.
She should wait for Marcus who wouldn’t be more than a minute—make that a minute and a half. But a minute and a half was a long time for a pro; long enough to do anything he wanted.
A sudden squall of wind chased a curtain of rain down the road. It had a bracing effect. She had a task in hand: take Bad Sam Chapman to Slough House. A taxi was approaching, slowing down for her, but Louisa was nobody’s fare today. She trotted towards the gates, pushed them as wide as the chain would allow, and slipped into the yard in time to see a crowbar come hurtling at her head.
He moved like he could walk between raindrops. That was Bad Sam’s uninvited thought, watching from behind one of the taxis while Patrice crossed the forecourt, heading for the workshop. In Sam’s hand was a crowbar, plucked from a toolboard nailed to the wall, and its heft in his hand triggered a slow-motion flashback: some things you don’t forget. Like: don’t swing a weapon that’s more than a foot long. The motion leaves you open as a wardrobe. No: jab, hard, at the back of the skull. Then take as long as you like to line up your second shot; your man’s not going anywhere. He’s lying on the ground, his childhood memories leaking from a punctured head.
