Murder on the Short List by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online

barracks at all, so he turned up Commercial Road. Almost immediately he heard footsteps behind him.
    They were steady and heavy. Male, for sure. His skin prickled. He resisted the urge to look round. With the collar strapped so tight, it would have required a complete about turn. He walked faster, trying to make the next lamp-post so as to be more visible to the rescue squad. How he wished he’d stuffed a truncheon up his bodice. “You’ll have surprise on your side,” Cribb had said. Thanks a lot, Sarge, Thackeray thought. And which would you rather have on your side – surprise, or an open razor?
    The steps quickened.
    They were closer.
    He felt a tug on his waist, but it wasn’t from his pursuer. He’d stepped on the hem of the skirt and the whole thing tightened. Thrown off balance, he lurched forward. Trying to recover, he planted the other boot on the skirt. He sank to his knees like a shot stag.
    The sensation of helplessness was horrible. Hampered already by the steel collar, he was dragged further down by the clothes. He struggled against them, hoping the material would give a little, but the weave was too strong and he pitched over and rolled on his back.
    Before he had time to sit up, the attacker was on him, a hand thrust against his shoulder, pinning him to the pavement, strong, vicious, bent on the kill. He couldn’t see who it was. There was just the gleam of the blade as it slashed downwards.
    H e had the sense to grab the arm with both hands just as the razor sliced open his collar. Thank heaven for the wad of stuffing inside. He held onto that arm, tugged it across his body and crashed the hand against the pavement. There was a yell. The razor slid away and out of reach.
    Now Thackeray used surprise to more effect, rolling sideways onto the arm that had held the razor. The move caught Razor Bill off guard and toppled him sideways. Thackeray raised a knee and heard a grunt of pain as it made contact with the man’s most vulnerable area. Legs flailed and the body arched, but Thackeray wasn’t distracted. He’d done some wrestling in his time. That was what this was about now: all-in wrestling. He hung onto that arm, pressing down on it with his body weight.
    Razor Bill struggled like an alligator, but Thackeray gritted his teeth and held on.
    Thoughts tumbled into his brain. Where was Cribb?
    He shouted, “Sarge!”
    The only response was from Razor Bill: a vicious kick in the kidneys, followed by another. Thackeray groaned. He shifted his hip, backing hard against Bill’s chest and stomach.
    Bill’s free hand groped at Thackeray’s face and clawed his cheek, missing his eye by a fraction. This couldn’t go on.
    Thackeray yelled, “Police!”
    They’re never around when you need them. Bill cracked his fist into Thackeray’s ribs. This was a strong man.
    â€œSarge!”
    â€œThe minute he strikes, we’ll pounce.”
    That vicious left hand came exploring his face again. This time he bit into the fleshy part and heard a screech.
    Encouraged, Thackeray said, “Better give up, mate. You’re nicked.”
    For that, he took a knee in the small of his back.
    Then he was grabbed and rolled aside. There was shouting. Hands grasped his arms and lifted him. Finally the reinforce-ments had arrived.
    Razor Bill was formally arrested and cuffed. He said nothing.
    â€œYou all right?” Cribb asked Thackeray.
    â€œA bit sore.”
    â€œCould be so much worse, though. Smart of me to think of the collar, wasn’t it?”
    W hen they tried to interview the prisoner at Chelsea police station, there was a snag. He refused to speak. Wouldn’t even give his name.
    Big and swarthy, with the coldest eyes Cribb had seen, he sat staring back like a caged bear.
    â€œIt won’t help you, saying nothing,” Cribb told the man. “You were caught red-handed. We picked up the open razor. You attacked one of my