He cannoned down the stairs, heaving against the surge of bodies that were bustling in both directions, and triggered more angry cries. A hand tried to grab at his collar and he twitched away.
At the bottom of the stairs, the ticket hall teemed with commuters, many of them tourists peering about in confusion as they tried to orientate themselves. He slowed for a second to pinpoint Saburova. Saw her passing through the automated barrier and head for the escalators towards the Victoria Line.
Purkiss ran to the barrier and vaulted over and reached the top of the escalator. He saw Saburova pushing her way down. Custom required passengers to stand on the right, to allow those in more of a hurry to pass, but not everybody knew about that. It meant that several rucksack-laden bodies blocked the left side. She shoved them aside.
Next to the escalator was another one, travelling upwards.
Purkiss considered forcing his way down that one. It was crowded with people ascending from below, but he could probably do it. It would bring him level with Saburova, and perhaps allow him to cross between the escalators and grab her.
But he didn’t know yet whether she was fleeing, or whether she had something else in mind, and he needed to find out.
He joined her escalator at the top and descended on the left, though at a slower pace than hers. When she stepped off at the bottom and began striding to the right, he increased his speed.
He leapt the last few steps and hurried to the right. A tunnel curved away towards the platforms.
Purkiss moved swiftly along, peering down the side-passages as he went. The southbound Victoria Line platform lay ahead. He could see the crush of bodies on the platform, typical for a Saturday afternoon.
On the platform, it was more difficult to push through the crowd. The passengers were packed together so closely that there was little room for them to be pushed aside. Purkiss had emerged approximately halfway down the platform. He craned his neck to peer left and right, but could see no sign of Saburova.
He looked at his watch.
Four thirty-seven.
If the explosive was on a timer, then it was probably set to go off at some kind of landmark time. On the hour seemed the most obvious. So, if five o’clock was the scheduled time of detonation, perhaps Saburova was trying to put enough distance between her and the explosion before then to escape injury.
It was rampant conjecture, and didn’t help him.
He had a sense of events slipping out of his grasp. He’d been a fool to let her run, even though his hope had been that she’d lead him to the bomb.
Lights emerged from the tunnel, and the train eased to a standstill with a prolonged screech and a hiss.
The manic ritual of disembarkment and boarding began. Passengers squeezed free from the sliding doors and dropped onto the platform like released livestock. At the same time, those on the platform pressed forward, determined to secure their place before the carriages became too packed to accommodate even one more body.
Purkiss’s eyes searched the platform, and the carriages nearest to him through the windows. He couldn’t see her. There were just too many people.
He pushed his way along, his eyes scanning constantly. He’d chosen to go left, towards the rear of the train. It was a random decision, and there was just as much chance that she’d gone the opposite way.
The last successful boarders were cramming themselves past the doors, their necks twisted awkwardly. Others were stepping back, resigned to wait for the next train.
A man’s voice, distorted by static, barked across the tannoy: ‘Doors closing. Stand clear. Mind the closing doors.’
As one, the sets of twin doors on all the carriages began to slide shut.
They opened again, as they inevitably did when the trains were overcrowded. The driver repeated his request for passengers to stand clear.
The doors began to close again.
Purkiss saw her.
Her back was to him where she stood in the narrow space between seated passengers’ rows of knees, and he would have missed her if she hadn’t turned her head, only slightly, and afforded him a one-quarter view of her face.
Purkiss grabbed a rolled-up umbrella from the hand of the woman at his side and lunged forward and thrust it between the nearest set of doors just before they met one another.
He felt the doors close on the umbrella, almost pulling it from his grip.
The doors slid open once more.
He dropped the umbrella and shouldered his way onto the carriage. A man snarled, ‘There’s no more room, mate.’ Purkiss felt toes under his heels, heard the sharp cry.
Saburova glanced up, and caught his eye.
She moved immediately, barging against the row of passengers standing with her in the central walkway, heading away from Purkiss. He grabbed the shoulders in front of him and shoved sideways, clearing a path for himself. Someone landed a punch in his back but he ignored it.
She was almost at the next set of doors, and Purkiss noticed something different about her.
She was carrying a hold-all.
She’s moving it. She knows it’ll be found if she doesn’t.
The doors began to close and then opened yet again, no doubt because someone was leaning against them. The driver’s voice came over the speaker, exasperated, admonishing them collectively.
Saburova lunged for the doors and got through.
Purkiss shoved his way back through the doors he’d come through and caught sight of her, sprinting along the platform, knocking people aside as she went. She was heading towards the rear end, where another exit gave into a passage leading towards one of the other lines.
Purkiss was probably ten years older than her, but he had longer legs, and he was able to charge through the obstructing passengers more forcefully. He reached the passage and saw her at the far end, about to emerge onto the northbound platform.
He heard the rumbling of an arriving train.
He reached the tunnel and saw the lights of the front carriage as they broke from the tunnel. Saburova was heading down the platform, close to the edge, clearly intending to board as soon as the doors opened.
He put all he had into the sprint, charging up the platform and seeing her turn her head and raise the hold-all defensively.
He dived, launching himself at her, his arms outstretched for a tackle.
She stepped back quickly.
Too quickly.
Her boot heel caught on a ridge in the concrete of the platform and she lost her balance and toppled backwards into the oncoming lights.
The train was slowing, but the impact of the edge of its front against her back flung her forwards onto the platform again like a marionette. A collective gasp rose from the assembled passengers, who’d moved aside when first one person and then another had come running onto the platform.
Then the screaming started, a Babel of horror that echoed off the arched ceiling and down the tunnel.
Purkiss, who’d landed in a stoop, threw himself prone and grabbed the hold-all where it had dropped on the platform and clutched it to him.
He crawled over to Saburova.
She lay face down, one knee bent beneath her, her arms sprawled to either side. Her head was turned and he saw her face, one eye open and staring at him. Blood gouted from her nose, and a thinner rivulet crawled from her ear toward the corner of her eye.
Her back was grotesquely deformed, indented as if a groove had been scored in a lump of clay.
Purkiss crouched, put his face close to hers. He felt her shuddering, intermittent breath against his skin. Saw the crimson bubble forming on her lips.
‘Yulia,’ he said, his mouth at her ear. ‘It’s over. All that can happen now is that Rossiter gets away. You’ve failed to achieve your goal, a goal you believed to be the right one, however warped your reasoning. But you can still die having done some good.’