Betrayal at Lisson Grove (23 page)

‘Are you sure?’ he said as politely as he could. However he said it, he was still questioning McIver’s judgement.

‘As sure as anyone can be,’ McIver replied. ‘Made a lot of noise, prancing about striking poses, but never done a thing in his life.’

‘He had some very violent and well-known people visiting him.’ Pitt clung to the argument, unwilling to concede that they had spent over a week here for nothing, still more, that West had died for a farce, a piece of pointless pretence.

‘See ’em yourself?’ McIver asked.

‘Yes. One of them in particular is very distinctive,’ Pitt told him. Then even as he said it, he realised how easy it was to ape a man as unusual as Linsky. He had never seen Linsky except in photographs, taken at a distance. The hatchet features, the greasy hair would not be so hard to copy. And Jacob Meister was ordinary enough.

But why? What was the purpose of it all?

That too was now hideously clear – to distract Pitt and Gower from their real purpose. It had succeeded brilliantly, until this moment. Even now, Pitt was confused, struggling to make sense, and with no idea what to do next.

‘I’m sorry,’ McIver said sadly. ‘But the man’s an ass. I can’t say differently. You’d be a fool to trust him in anything that matters. And I hardly imagine you’d have come this far for something trivial. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I don’t get into St Malo very often, but if there’s anything I can do, you have only to name it, you know.’

Pitt forced himself to smile. ‘Thank you, but it would really need a resident of St Malo. But I’m grateful to you for saving me from making a bad mistake.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ McIver brushed it away with a gesture. ‘I say, do have some more cheese. Nobody makes a cheese like the French – except perhaps the Wensleydale, or a good Caerphilly.’

Pitt smiled. ‘I like a double Gloucester, myself.’

‘Yes, yes,’ McIver agreed. ‘I forgot that. Well, we’ll grant the cheese equal status. But you can’t beat a good French wine!’

‘You can’t even equal it,’ Pitt agreed.

McIver poured them both some wine, then leaned back in his chair. ‘Do tell me, sir, what is the latest news on the cricket? Here I hardly ever get the scores, and even then they’re late. How are Somerset doing?’

 

Pitt walked back along the gently winding road as the sun dropped towards the horizon. The air glowed with that faint patina of gold that lends unreality to old paintings and makes them seem landscapes of the imagination. Farmhouses looked huge, comfortable, surrounded by barns and stables. It was too early for the trees to be in full leaf, but clouds of blossom mounded like late snow, taking on the delicate colours of the coming sunset. There was no wind, and no sound across the fields but the occasional movement of the huge, patient cows.

In the east the darkness was no more than a fading in the sky, a purpling of the colour behind the streamers of cloud.

He went over what they knew in his mind again, carefully, all he had seen or heard himself, and all that Gower had seen and reported.

It did not make sense, therefore there must be something missing. Or something seen but misunderstood?

A carter passed him on the road, the wheels sending up clouds of dust, and he smelled the pleasant odour of horses’ sweat and fresh-turned earth. The man grunted at Pitt in French, and Pitt returned the greeting as well as he could.

The sun was sinking rapidly now, the sky filling with hot colour. The soft breeze whispered in the grass and the new leaves on the willows, always the first to open. A flock of birds rose from the small copse of trees a hundred yards away, swirled up into the sky and circled round.

Between them Pitt and Gower had seen just enough to believe it was worth watching Frobisher’s house. If they arrested Wrexham now, it would unquestionably show everyone that Special Branch was aware of their plans, so they would automatically change them.

They should have arrested Wrexham in London. He would have told them nothing, but they had learned nothing anyway. All they had really done was waste time.

How had he allowed that to happen? West had arranged the meeting, promising extraordinary information. Pitt could see the letter in his mind, the scrawled, misspelled words, the jagged edges of fear in the letters, the smudged ink.

No one but Pitt himself and Gower knew of it. How had Wrexham learned? Who had betrayed West? It had to be one of the men plotting whatever it was that poor West had been going to reveal.

But they had not followed West. Pitt and Gower were on his heels from the minute he began to run. If there had been anyone else running they would have to have seen him. Whoever it was must have been waiting for West. How had they known he would run that way? It was pure chance. He could as easily have gone in any other direction. Pitt and Gower had cornered him there, Pitt along the main street, Gower circling around to cut him off.

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 answer, 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.