Convicted Innocent(6)

Though the priest tried to yank one of the assailants away from his friend, a pair of burly arms grabbed David from behind and hauled him backward. Off balance, the priest was unable to resist to any effect and found himself crammed against the alley wall, trapped and immobilized by the owner of the burly arms.

David craned his neck around (as much as he was able with a meaty palm across his mouth) and managed to spy his friend lying crumpled and unmoving on the cobbles once the surge of men drew back.

Horror shocked its way through him like a bolt of lightning.

“Go about your way, if you please,” one of the men said abruptly, his tone startlingly polite, city accent mostly gone. “Just police business ‘ere.”

He was speaking to someone just out of the priest’s line of sight. Had help come? Had another passerby seen or heard the scuffle and thought to intervene? Surely the tumult had attracted attention, though the assault had lasted almost no time at all.

Hope faded in David’s breast when no further conversation was had with the newcomer, and their assailants – yes, a few more had joined the original four, for a total of seven – paused to confer with one another as they stood over the policeman.

“Wha’ we do now?” one asked as he caught his breath. “Leave ‘em ‘ere?”

“Two blokes knowed each other an’ seen our faces. They’d tell the blighted p’lice,” another fretted as he righted his fake bobby’s uniform, which had been pulled askew in the tussle.

“This one ‘ere is th’ p’lice, y’dullard.”

“Hi don’t fancy ha killin’ in broad daylight,” the first chap grumbled.

“Two killins,” another grumped.

David’s heart lurched unsteadily once – twice – at their casually spoken words, and then his pulse returned to a steady, if galloping, pace.

Oh God.

A thin, fair-haired bloke was going through Lewis’s pockets as the others muttered to each other; what looked like a letter or two, a little book, and a few other odds and ends disappeared into the attacker’s possession. When the blond fellow finished, he stood and silenced his comrades with a curt gesture.

“Shut yer soddin’ gobs. Botched hit, didn’t we? They know each other, ‘ave seen us, an’ killin’ ‘em now’d be daft. Too public. So we takes ‘em wif us. Load ‘em up in the wagon ‘afore someone wif more stones ‘appens upon us.”

Apparently this man was the leader, for the others did exactly as he said.

David found himself yanked around, frog-marched to a side alley, and bodily thrust into what looked very much like a police wagon, the sort used for inmate transport. Once he’d been thrown inside, the door was slammed shut, leaving the priest alone with two of his assailants. One of them trussed David up with eerie proficiency, binding his wrists behind him as though he were wearing a set of police cuffs, and then fitted him with a blindfold and gag made from a pair of musty handkerchiefs. The other helped himself to the contents of David’s pockets.

A few moments later, the sound of men dragging something – someone – heavy reached David’s ears, and he almost sighed in relief. Briefly, he’d thought they might decide Lewis was too much of a bother to haul away alive, and finish him on the spot.

“Oof!” One of the men said scowlingly from just outside the wagon. “Why’d you ‘ave to brain the bugger? ‘E’s bloody ‘eavy!”

“Shut hit!” the leader snapped as the door opened.

Amid a round of grunts and groans, David felt as much as heard them hoist his friend’s limp form into the vehicle, leaving the unconscious policeman to sprawl on the floorboards. Several more of their attackers jostled their way into the back, then the door slammed shut.