Lambeth headed down a side street that was barely wide enough for a car to pass the parked vehicles beside the sandstone curb. Behind her she could hear what her pursuer wanted her to hear – his footsteps, implacable and on her trail. Her next turn took her into a laneway built for night carts that was now lined with garages and back gates, offering no hope of anyone hearing her being chased. The laneway should have led back to the main street, but someone had built a gate across it. Lambeth could go no further and turned to face her pursuer.
He wasn’t bad looking in the admittedly poor light, but that was probably part of his stock in trade to get his victims to go with him. “Many a wise head has been turned by a pretty face,” as her grandma said.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” His voice wasn’t bad either, if you liked that sort of thing. “Think I was a mark, did you?” Well she had stolen his wallet to get his attention. “Not clever enough to avoid a dead end are you, girly?” He pulled out his knife. “Who do you think you are?”
The tranquilliser dart went into his neck from the roof to her left.
“Professional bait,” and she let him fall.