The Babylon rite

130

‘Kilo 1? Can you see him?’

Silence.

‘Kilo 2? Can you see him?

Silence.

‘Kilo 1? Fuck sake, Kilo 2?

A breathless voice. ‘He’s running, sir.’

Running?’

‘He’s sort of running, and — and these little alleys are filled with shoppers — all the snow — it’s chaos. Maybe he knows we’re here

…’ The policeman was panting. ‘I can just see him, the snow is so heavy, Sir… is that… wait… I can’t…’

They were going to lose him.

Ibsen waited for half a second. He waited for another half a second, Pulse maybe 140, 145, 150.

Kilo 1: ‘I’ve lost him. No visual contact. Repeat, no visual contact.’

‘Kilo 2?’

‘Me too. Lost him. Sorry, sir. The bloody snow…’

‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.’

Ibsen slapped the dash again. He had one last hope. His brilliant junior, the one man he could rely on, his go-to guy for not utterly fucking things up all the fucking time.

‘Larkham?’

‘Same here, sir. I got a glimpse. Then he just- You should see the snow, you can hardly see your own…’

Ibsen let the bitterness seep into his conscience for another half a second, then switched into a more professional gear. ‘So he’s gone to ground. But he’s somewhere around. Who saw him last, and where, precisely?’

Kilo 1 answered: the antique parade; Kilo 2 agreed. Then Larkham said, ‘Think it was me who saw him last. He was jogging up Islington Green. Just a glimpse, through the snow. I could see his head, then nothing.’

Ibsen closed his eyes for a second. Repressing his anger and guilt. ‘Just stay there, patrol discreetly, and keep your eyes open, we might just get lucky again.’

Ibsen knew they weren’t going to get lucky. The suspect’s last movements were all too indicative of a professional criminal who was aware he was being followed. He watched the delicate star-clusters of snow fall and melt on his windscreen, in prolificity and profusion; like lemmings, killing themselves on his glass, and melting into nothing. Suicidal snow.

The driver pierced the silence, jolting Ibsen from his reverie.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘I’m fine. Bloody furious, but otherwise fine. So we lost him. We still have a lead. He must have had a reason to come here in the first place What is it? Why has he come to Islington?