The Devil You Know

About a minute later, a man turned the corner, then hesitated and looked to left and right, at a loss. He was followed a second or two after that by a second man, who loomed over the first like a bulldozer over a kid’s bike. The first man was Gabe McClennan. The second was Scrub.

They looked around a little more, then conferred briefly. It was clear even from this distance that Scrub was angry, and McClennan was defensive. The big man prodded the chest of the smaller one with a thick, stubby finger, and his face worked as he presumably chewed Gabe out for losing me. Gabe threw out his arms, pleaded his case, and was prodded again. Then there was a little more subdued pantomime of pointing fingers and anxious, searching glances, including several back the way they’d come. Finally they parted, McClennan going on down Bishopsgate, while Scrub retraced his steps.

I gave them thirty seconds or so to get clear, then set off after McClennan. It wasn’t a hard choice. He wouldn’t be able to squeeze my skull into a pile of loose chippings if he turned around and saw me.

I caught sight of him almost immediately because he was still looking restlessly left and right as he walked along, hoping to pick up my trail again. In case he decided to look behind him, too, I hung back and made sure there were always at least a couple of people between us. His white hair made a handy beacon, so I was unlikely to lose him.

He walked the length of Bishopsgate. Every so often he turned off along one of the side streets, but when he saw no sign of me there, he doubled back onto the thoroughfare itself, heading south toward Houndsditch. When he got there, he hailed a cab and shot off toward the river.

I swore an oath and legged it after him, since there was no other cab in sight. At Cornhill I got lucky, as one pulled out onto Gracechurch Street right in front of me and stopped in response to my frantic hail. “Follow the guy in front,” I panted.

“Lovely,” the cabbie enthused. He was a tubby Asian guy with the broadest cockney accent I’d ever heard. “I’ve always wanted to do a number like that. You leave it to me, squire, and I’ll see you right.”

He was as good as his word. As we turned right onto Upper Thames Street and fed into the dense stream of traffic along the Embankment, he faked and wove his way from lane to lane to keep McClennan’s cab in sight. In the process he earned himself a few blasts of the horn and at least one “Drive in a straight line, you fucking arsehole!” but I could see the back of Gabe’s head framed in the window, and he didn’t turn around.

We followed the river through Westminster and Pimlico, and I began to wonder where the hell we were heading. I’d only followed Gabe on a whim, hoping that he might lead me to Rosa—which required a long chain of hopeful assumptions, starting with the one where Damjohn had taken Rosa out of circulation in the first place. If she’d just had it away on her own two heels, then I was wasting my time.

That conclusion looked more and more likely as McClennan’s cab took a right at Oakley Street and drove on up toward the King’s Road. It was stretching credibility past breaking point to believe that Damjohn might have an establishment up here. As far as my understanding goes, the brothels of Kensington and Chelsea are very much a closed shop and, good manners aside, any East End lags trying to get into that particular game would be slit up a treat.

Gabe jumped ship at last just before Sands End, paid off the cab, and continued on foot. I did the same.

“That good enough for you?” my cabbie asked, deservedly smug.

“You could write the book, mate,” I said, tipping him a fiver. Then I was off after Gabe before he could get too much of a lead on me.

He didn’t go far, though. He stopped at the next street corner—Lots Road—under a pub sign that showed a horse leaping a brook, took out his mobile, and had an intense conversation with someone. He glanced up at the sign, said something into the phone, nodded. Then he put the phone away and walked on into the pub—the Runagate.

I debated with myself whether I should give this up as a bad job. It would be useful to see who Gabe was meeting up with—more useful still to be able to eavesdrop, but that was probably asking too much. In any case, having come this far, it seemed a bit ridiculous just to jump into another cab and go back into the City.

Cautiously, I followed Gabe inside. The place was reassuringly crowded, and I was able to pause on the threshold and get my bearings. I couldn’t see Gabe at first, but that was because his highly visible hair was momentarily eclipsed behind a row of tankards hanging up on the far side of the bar. A few seconds later, he turned away from me with a pint in his hand to walk over toward the side door—and out through it. As the door opened and then closed, I had a glimpse of a beer garden beyond, with small wooden picnic tables and bright green parasols.