‘They’ll meet in the station foyer, out of the way. Pull over here.’ Bryant had opened the door and was out before the car had stopped. ‘I’ll stay close by. You get ahead of them.’
He strolled past his subject and stopped by a magazine rack. It was growing dark, and the lights were on in the tiled ticket hall. Bryant glanced up from the magazines. If Whitstable was meeting his brother from a train, William would have to pass through the ticket barrier to his right.
Just then, Peter Whistable hove into view. He resembled his brother in complexion and corpulence, but was dressed in modern-day clothes. Behind him, Bryant could see May’s car stalled in traffic. There was no sign of the unmarked surveillance vehicle. If it had turned the corner it would be caught in a rush-hour stream from several directions. Bryant hoped his partner would be on hand to help. He was in no shape to single-handedly tackle a pair of angry fifteen-stone men.
The ticket hall emptied out. Hampstead was the deepest station in London, and reaching the surface involved waiting for a lift. Bryant stepped back behind the racks as the younger brother approached. He asked the stallkeeper for the time, then took a slow walk to the barrier.
His watch read exactly five o’clock. He could hear one of the elevators rising, its cables tinging in the shaft.
The lift doors parted to reveal a car crowded with commuters. As they began to filter out he caught a glimpse of William Whitstable’s black silk hat. Whitstable was checking a fob-watch on an elaborate gold chain. Bryant looked around anxiously. There was no sign of his partner. What could have happened?
Peter had spotted his brother and was moving toward the barrier. Bryant stepped aside to avoid the barrage of passengers, and in doing so revealed himself to both parties. William’s eyes locked with his, and he launched himself back to the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, he managed to slip inside.
Bryant looked around. Peter had pushed into May’s arms, while the two surveillance men ran past him in the direction of the stairs.
‘They’ll catch him, Arthur,’ called May from the entrance, but Bryant was already boarding the next arriving lift.
Below, home-going commuters filled the northbound platform. The south side was almost empty. Bryant could see his men working their way up through the passengers. A warm soot-haze filled the tunnel as the distant rumbling grew louder.
Moments later a crimson southbound train burst free from the tunnel and roared in. The few waiting passengers stepped back from the platform edge. There was a sudden commotion on the opposite side as William Whitstable was discovered by one of the policemen. Bryant saw arms flailing as people were pushed aside. Suddenly he knew that Whitstable would escape unless he did something to prevent it. He rushed on to the platform, stepped through the open doors of the stationary southbound train, and found his way to a seat, watching from the window as his quarry appeared, running along the empty platform, to jump between the closing doors three carriages further along.
As the train moved off, Bryant rose and moved forward. He had walked through the second carriage when he spied Whitstable standing in the aisle of the third.
The train was already starting to decelerate as it approached the downhill gradient to Belsize Park station. If he managed to alight before Bryant could stop him, Whitstable would be faced with the choice of reaching the surface via the lift or the stairs. Bryant knew that if his quarry took the stairs he might lose him. He reached the door to the third carriage just as the train rattled over points. The carriage lights flickered ominously. He tried to twist the door handle, but it would not budge. Whitstable was turning to face the doors, readying himself to jump through.
The train slowed as Belsize Park’s platform appeared. Bryant threw his weight down on the red metal handle, but was unable to shift it. He stared through the glass at William Whitstable. The pair were immobilized, hunter and hunted, unable to fix a course of action.
A muffled explosion slammed the tunnel air against his eardrums. He looked up to find that the window in the connecting door had suddenly become coated with dark liquid. For a moment he thought that Whitstable had thrown paint around the walls, in an act reminiscent of his attack in the gallery. As Bryant stumbled towards the next carriage, he could hear shouts of panic as passengers fought their way free of the wrecked compartment.
A shocked young woman with spatters of blood on her face tipped herself into his arms. Before he could ask what had happened, she turned and pointed back at the smoking detritus which had embedded itself in the walls of the train.
‘He exploded,’ she screamed at him and kept on screaming. ‘He was just standing there and he exploded!’