Fisk didn't run. Running wasn't his jurisdiction. That was what the force had uniforms for: pelting off after toe-rags, carried along by the inexhaustible momentum of their own inexperience, scrambling their way over and inevitably getting their freshly ironed pants caught on fences. Fisk had done enough running in his day, long long ago, and now made a point to avoid it wherever possible – and yet his feet were punching the concrete and tarmac beneath them. Lungs burning and coat flapping at his heels, about as streamlined as a hedgehog. He was running and he was damned if he wasn't going to catch the little shit who'd pushed him to it.

Following the curve of Longacre onto Heyrod Street, he froze and frantically looked up and down the length of the empty avenue. There was a burst of movement to the left, a shadow ducking into Betley Street. No time to catch his breath, Fisk sprinted after it.