Chapter 70

Peter Prance had boarded the first bus that he saw. He didn’t care where it was heading. He chose the seat nearest the central exit doors and hunched down low in it. He’d decided not to put on the hat because it made him conspicuous on such a warm day. He’d crammed it into the pocket of the jacket, which he was wearing despite the heat because he didn’t think the Khans would recognise it.

He delved into his pocket and brought out a fistful of change, which he counted: he had £10.59 left. Besides the clothes he stood up in, his only other possessions were the cheap mobile phone and Visitor Oyster cards that Jas had given him for the abduction and a fake passport, also courtesy of Jas. He checked to see that the mobile was turned off. He didn’t understand technology, but he knew enough about Jas to be certain that if it was trackable Jas would be tracking it.

He had to get out of London, and fast. He needed money, also fast.

Looking out of the bus window, he saw it had reached Tottenham Court Road. It was a good place to get off: a long way from both his flat and Jas and close to several railway stations.

He decided to risk the hat, pulling it on surreptitiously and jamming it low over his forehead. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and tried to disguise his limp by feigning to slouch. He kept his head down, his shoulders knotted back. He would have considered his own behaviour risible if he weren’t consumed by panic. He knew that whether or not he managed to vanish would dictate whether he continued to exist. The irony that the two girls he had captured had no future precisely because they had vanished did not escape him.

He was still haunted by his memory of the skinny one. There was something about her that had appealed to him, a defiance, a pluckiness that he believed mirrored the character of his younger self, a resilience which, sadly, he acknowledged he’d long since lost.

He paused to examine his reflection in a shop window. The marks on his face were still livid: he resembled a drunkard who’d been scrapping in a pub brawl. His clothes were dirty as well as shabby and the hat looked ridiculous. He snatched it from his head and put it back in his pocket. He could weep for the beautiful young man he’d once been, or even the urbane middle-aged Peter Prance who, though he might on the odd occasion have been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, had always presented a decent façade to the world. He’d kept up appearances, had cut a figure of substance and, although he said it himself, had not been devoid of a certain witty sang froid. How had he come from being a person of bearing to this? He hadn’t deserved to be the victim of such penury; he felt quite indignant about it. And the barbarisms that Jas was subjecting him to, just because he was poor, were outrageous. He squared his shoulders a little. He’d have to stand up for himself more. But he’d always hated violence, and had no answer for it except flight or abject submissiveness.

Were they being violent to that girl?

Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

He stared into the shop window, past his reflection, to the goods inside. It was a television shop. The half-dozen televisions in the window had all been switched on and were all projecting the same image. He peered at one of them. It was that policewoman, the one he’d met when they were after poor Hedley. Yates’s sidekick. What was her name? It was impossible to hear what she was saying through the plate glass, but he understood immediately when she was replaced by a photo of Margie Pocklington. It wasn’t a very good photo, but even if it hadn’t been labelled, he’d have recognised that uncompromising look.

After a long minute the policewoman was back again, talking animatedly, almost certainly asking for help. Then two numbers flashed up on the screen: a mobile number with her name below it (Juliet Armstrong, that was it!) and a Crimestoppers number. Crimestoppers was offering a reward of £5,000 for information that led to Margie’s safe return to her family. For a wild moment, he wondered what his chances might be of claiming it, but he knew the idea was ludicrous. After some hesitation he took out the mobile and programmed the policewoman’s number into its memory.

One of the shop assistants came outside for a smoke.

“You going to stand there all day?” he said, good-naturedly enough, but Peter realised he was drawing attention to himself and quickly moved on.

The best way to escape would be to board a train. Peter liked trains and in the past had ridden on them buckshee many times. It was such a bore that the arrangement of barriers and programmed tickets they had these days made free-loading almost impossible. King’s Cross was his favourite station – he preferred it to Euston, which had no character – so although he’d have to be careful, because Jas knew it was one of his stamping-grounds, he decided he’d go there. He crossed Tottenham Court Road and cut through one of the many side streets leading off it. Walking briskly, he soon reached Gower Street.

Gower Street was the home of his favourite bookshop. He’d spent many hours browsing in there and even paid for the odd tome on occasion: he’d always considered stealing books to be too grubby a pursuit for someone of his calibre. But needs must, and he entered the shop with the purpose of acquiring a little reading matter for the journey ahead. He’d work out how he was going to accomplish the practicalities of the journey while he loitered among the shelves: he was safer in the shop than out on the streets.

He’d picked up a book on rococo art and was just leafing through it when he noticed that the woman operating the till nearest the door was a novice. An older woman from an adjacent till had to keep coming across to help her. Peter watched them. The novice was very slow and clearly embarrassed she needed so much assistance, especially as the colleague’s patience was becoming frayed.

Peter continued to watch them for a while. At length, during a period when the novice had no customers, the colleague disappeared, perhaps to take a break. The novice was left glancing anxiously up and down her part of the shop, which luckily was deserted. Peter moved in.

“I’d like to buy this,” he said, giving her a winning smile and handing over the art book.

“Thank you.” She scanned the bar code on the back of it. “That’s twenty-five pounds, please.” She pressed some buttons and the till drawer opened.

“Oh, I’ve just remembered,” said Peter, “I have a book token that I’d like to use. It won’t cover the whole amount: I think it’s for ten pounds. It is all right to pay part in cash, part by voucher, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, I think so.” The novice bookseller craned her neck across the counter and scanned the shop floor with a wild eye. “I’m not quite sure how to do it. Just let me ask one of my colleagues to help.”

“Of course,” said Peter. “No hurry.” He stepped back a little and folded his hands patiently in front of him.

He was a little alarmed when the woman rang a bell under the counter, but when this produced no effect she said, “Excuse me,” to Peter and, to his great delight, emerged from her station to go in quest of aid. He’d expected to have to snatch the money from under her nose, but as it was he was able to empty the drawer of twenties, tens, fives and even a single fifty quite casually before he sauntered out of the shop. He didn’t start running until he was in the street. He carried on running until he reached Fitzroy Square. He looked over his shoulder. No one appeared to be following him. There was a pub on the corner. He really needed a drink, but made himself press on. He wasn’t out of the wood yet: the police would be after him now, as well as Jas’s henchmen. There was no need to kill himself, even so: his heart was hammering away and his injured leg throbbed. He slowed his pace to a fast walk.

This unexpectedly large windfall would allow him to change his plans. He didn’t know how much money he’d lifted from the till, but it was way more than he’d expected: enough to take him to France and keep him for a few days until he decided on what to do next.

The girl popped up in his imagination again. There was no other remedy, he was going to have to help her. He found the number that he’d saved in his phone and pressed ‘call’.

“DC Armstrong,” said a woman’s voice. He hesitated. Was this really such a good idea?

“DC Armstrong. Who’s calling?” She sounded impatient now. She’d probably ring off if he didn’t speak soon.

“The girl you’re looking for,” he said, trying to disguise his voice by making it deeper and more monotonous than natural. “Margery Pocklington. She’s being held at a private hotel in the Mile End Road. It’s called Caspiania. Be careful. The people there are armed.”

“Thank you for the information,” said the woman. “Who are you? Please identify yourself.”

She’ll trace the phone, thought Peter. And Jas will trace it, he panicked. He pressed the red button and hurled the phone into the road. Immediately it was flattened by a passing lorry.

Peter Prance allowed himself the smallest puckering of a grin. His conscience was salved. Weary, but walking more jauntily despite his injuries, he continued steadfastly on his way.