Killer Instinct tcfs-1

by Zoe Sharp

  Susie had either gone willingly with her attacker, meaning it might have been someone she knew, or she'd been too frightened by his threats to put up much of an initial struggle. He'd taken her out to a secluded spot, not far away, and there he'd had his fun . . .

  Now I faced my class with a new passion. We were in the ballroom, as usual. The light had gone early, dimming until only blackness was visible through the French windows, and all detail of the garden had disappeared from view. Years ago, the ornamental wall sconces had been augmented by a haphazard array of fluoro tubes. They added significantly to the overall light level, but did nothing for the ambience.

  It was a largish group, a dozen or so, ranging in age from late teens to late forties. They listened to me gravely. After the earlier rape, and now Susie's murder, I knew I had their full attention.

  “Attacks and sexual assaults on women,” I told them, “are rarely carried out in the place where first contact takes place. “We'll call this first location point A, and the second one B. A is where he picks you up, grabs you, and B is where the actual assault takes place.

  “Point B is his choice, his territory,” I added. “If you allow yourself to be immobilised and taken there, you will be on his ground. You will not only be at a major psychological disadvantage, but the risk to you doubles. You must do whatever you can to avoid being taken to point B.”

  I glanced round their serious faces. I didn't have to elaborate further than that.

  “Supposing he's got a knife?” one woman asked. Joy was in her late twenties, skinny to the point of gauntness, but with a very pretty face if you went for the emaciated look, and red hair cut in a bob. She was a relative newcomer, but keen, often turning up at several classes in a week.

  I gazed at her levelly. “Run away,” I said.

  There was a smattering of laughter at that, but it died away when I didn't join in.

  “I'm serious,” I continued. “Choosing to stand there and fight someone who's got a knife is lunacy. Trust me on this. Unless you're cornered, you turn and you run like hell. That's your best option by far.”

  “Yes, but supposing he's in trainers and you're in high heels,” Joy persisted. “You're not going to get very far, are you?”

  “True,” I allowed. “OK, I know it isn't always possible to run, which is why we're going to cover knife defences in this class.” I went over to my rucksack and pulled out the fake plastic daggers I used just for this purpose.

  I told the class to pair up and handed the daggers round. There was an odd number, and it was Joy who ended up with me. She looked nervous at the prospect. I grinned to reassure her as I handed her the dagger.

  “OK, to start off with, let's look at what to do if he's got the knife at your throat.” I positioned us so that she had a hold of the front of my sweatshirt with her left hand, the knife held against the side of my neck with her right. “Come on, Joy, take a firm grip,” I instructed. “Remember, you're trying to kill me here.”

  Whoever had killed Susie had got a firm grip on her, all right. A death grip. He'd jammed the knife so hard against her throat that the blade had peeled back the skin, slicing into flesh and muscle, opening up the blood vessels so her strength and her will to fight drizzled away. Had he enjoyed then violating her slowly weakening body? Had it given him an added thrill?

  I swallowed as I buttoned down tight on the thought. I showed the class how to twist suddenly away from the weapon, dropping away and down to the side, then striking at the hand that held it. By wrenching the wrist back on itself, you could turn the tables, taking control of the knife hand and using their own blade to shear at the arm that still held you captive.

  It was a fairly simple movement, and repetition made it surer. I went through it again a few times, then let them all practise for five minutes or so.

  “Remember,” I said, “go for the arm that's holding you. Don't be tempted to stab them anywhere else. You're not out for vengeance here, you're just effecting your escape.”

  “If it came down to it, could you actually do it?” Joy asked now, and there was an edge to her question. “Could you actually kill a man who was attacking you?”

  I paused, giving it some serious thought. I noticed the rest of the class had hesitated, stopped to listen.

  “It depends what you mean,” I said at last. “If you're asking have I got the ability to do so, then I suppose yes, I have. I know where and how to hit somebody to do them serious damage, but that proves nothing. You are all physically capable of ploughing through a bus queue in your car, or holding a cushion over your granny's face, but that doesn't mean you'd actually go through with it.”

  There was another twitch of amusement from the others and I grinned at them. I hoped nobody would notice I was side-stepping the question, because I didn't really know the answer.

  In the relatively short period I spent in the British army I was never required to get close enough to the enemy to actually shoot at them. I learned to fire handguns, rifles and light sub-machine guns simply as part of the training. I often wondered when I was out on the ranges how I would feel about squeezing the trigger if that cut-out board thirty metres away was a living, breathing person.

  When you went to paste the little squares of paper over the holes left by the high velocity rounds in your target, all you found were sets of splintered holes. No blood, no shattered bone or ripped intestines, no screams of the wounded. I avoided finding an answer. That was OK, because the occasion never arose.

  And afterwards, when my blood should have been up, when I should have been out looking for violent retribution, I folded like a coward. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that it was the only sensible course of action. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I'd run away.

  Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay. They'd threatened me with death, and I'd believed them. Believed them enough not to fight too hard to save myself. I'd always wondered what would have happened if I'd had the skills I now possessed. How far I would have gone to survive.

  I shook myself out of it as Joy looked vaguely dissatisfied and I tried a different tack. “The law says you're allowed to use the minimum amount of force necessary,” I said. “Gauging exactly what constitutes minimum force is not an easy one. You just have to use common sense.”

  I picked up one of the fake daggers again. “Look at what we've just been learning today,” I said. “When you've got the knife away from your attacker, use it to skewer his hand to the ground – just remember if you're on concrete that doesn't work so well, so take the knife with you.”

  More laughs, short, nervous, fading quickly. I waited a beat, then went on. “Do not sink the knife hilt-deep into his jugular vein. I'm afraid that doesn't really constitute minimum force in the eyes of the law, whatever satisfaction it might give you at the time.”

  But if it was me – now, today – I considered privately, I might just be tempted. I thought again of the list of dreadful injuries inflicted on Susie Hollins. Oh yes, I'd be tempted to go for it and to hell with the consequences. I looked into Joy's eyes, and saw the same thoughts reflected there.

  “OK,” I said, “let's go through that again. Change partners this time so—”

  I broke off suddenly. I'd turned as I'd started to speak and a movement at one of the French windows had arrested my eye. The curtains were rarely drawn at Shelseley. I think the faded velvet drapes in the ballroom would have disintegrated if you'd try to release them from their tie-backs, in any case.

  As my eye passed over the window I'd just caught the flash of a moving shadow on the other side of the glass. It's amazing the way the human eye works. It only needs a fraction to fill in the missing pieces and put together a complete image.

  A man, watching.

  I knew I shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion over gender, because I didn't see his face. Not even a pale suggestion, which implied a mask of some sort, but I was working on instinct.

  He ducked back out of sight i
nstantly, and I felt a corresponding crunch of fear. Nobody goes lurking round windows with their face covered unless they're up to no good. I remembered the figure Nina claimed to have seen, and I just knew it was the same man.

  A few of the others had seen him, too. There was a ripple of fright, anger, at this furtive observer. The first instinct of some of the women was to retreat. Others went straight on the attack.

  “Come on!” cried Joy, heading for the door. “If we're quick we can catch him!”

  I ran, too. I told myself it was to see that she didn't get herself into trouble, but I was lying. I wanted the bastard who was playing games with Nina, and now with me. I wanted him badly.

  We pelted along the hallway and took the front steps in a flying leap, neck and neck. I vaguely remembered that Joy ran half marathons and tried not to disgrace myself. A couple of the others soon fell back.

  With the gravel slick under our feet we slithered round the corner of the house, heading for the back garden. There were no exterior lights, and we slowed from necessity, unable to see a clear way forward. I wished I'd stopped to grab a torch. Ailsa kept a couple in their sitting room, in case of power cuts, but I hadn't wanted to let Joy race on ahead. Not alone, at any rate.

  The back garden at Shelseley consisted of a large lawn area leading down to trees and shrubbery at the bottom end. Nearest to the house was a mossy terrace, now criss-crossed with washing lines, which flew rows of brightly-coloured children's clothes like a regatta.

  The far end of the garden, down past where the ballroom jutted out from the main body of the house, was a place of shadows and imagination. I didn't want to go poking about down there in the dark, but Joy started forwards again, and I had little choice but to press on.

  The air was grainy with early evening mist. When we stopped near the line of laurel bushes at the edge of the lawn, we could see our breath in clouds against the cold night air.

  “He's gone,” I said, trying not to pant. “There's no chance of finding him out here. I don't even want to try looking.”

  “Who on earth do you think it was?” Joy asked. She didn't seem to be out of breath at all. God, I needed to do a better cardiovascular work-out. My stamina levels were lousy.

  I shook my head. “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe it was just some guy who gets his kicks looking at a bunch of girls wrestling with each other.”

  “Jeez, some people!” Joy said, pulling a face. “Doesn't he have satellite TV?”

  Noise from up the garden behind us made us turn. Ailsa appeared from the back door, carrying a flashlight. There was a big group of Lodge residents with her, spilling out onto the terrace. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

  “Charlie?” Ailsa called, her voice high with alarm. “Are you all right, love?”

  I shouted back that we were fine, and we started trudging back up the grass to where she was standing. Ailsa had pulled on a huge knitted shawl against the cold. Tris was beside her, huddled into his old parka.

  “That does it,” Ailsa said tightly when we were closer. “I've called the police. They've said they'll send somebody out right now.”

  Not wanting to just sit around twiddling my thumbs until the cops arrived, I took my students back into the ballroom and continued the class. For all the good it did me. They were nervous and distracted, and I admit that I taught the rest of the lesson with half my attention on the row of French windows, just in case our mysterious observer was stupid enough to put in a reappearance. Needless to say, he wasn't.

  The police, in the form of a small Asian WPC in a Fiesta panda car, turned up about half an hour after I'd finished. By that time my students, including Joy and any other potential witnesses, had all gone home.

  She had a noisy poke round the back garden, came and made a few desultory notes, and left again. It didn't do much to inspire confidence in anyone, least of all me. I gathered from Ailsa that Nina had locked herself into her room and was refusing to answer the door. I couldn't really say I blamed her.

  I told myself that finding out the details about Susie had made me jumpy, that was all, but that didn't have much of a calming influence, somehow. When I left the Lodge later and started up the Suzuki I was aware of a sudden overwhelming vulnerability that I didn't like.

  I didn't like it at all.

  Eight

  By the time I started my stint at the New Adelphi Club that Saturday night, the police had made little progress in tracking down Susie Hollins' killer. According to Clare's contact on the crime desk, at any rate.

  I asked her to keep me informed, and she promised to give me an update when I went over to eat lunch with them on the Sunday. I think it was Clare's not-so-subtle way of reminding me to turn up.

  I was still smiling to myself at her heavy hints when I pulled into the car park of the New Adelphi Club. I left the bike in a corner. Out of the way, but still covered by the cameras, of course, and ambled round to the back door.

  Deciding what I was going to wear had been a difficult one. Marc eventually relented on the black jeans front. Considering my limited wardrobe, he didn't have much choice.

  Some discussion had taken place about the rest of me, apparently. The best compromise they could come up with was one of the badged polo shirts worn by the bar staff. It was the only thing they'd got that was something like the right size.

  Marc said if it worked out on a longer-term basis, he'd see about getting me something more suitable. He didn't specify what. I had visions of the mini-skirt and stiletto outfits worn by the girls waiting on the tables at the club. My acid comment that putting me in high heels would reduce my agility to that of a kipper had been received in noncommittal silence. Ah well.

  I hammered on the back door until it swung open. I was expecting Gary, but it was Len who admitted me, dressed in his usual dinner suit uniform. I could imagine him going to ASDA, or down the launderette in it.

  He looked me up and down insultingly, making it clear he didn't think he was looking at much. I kept my expression bland while he played his little game. I've dealt with the Lens of this world before, and this time I didn't want to join in. So I didn't challenge, didn't show fear or irritation. I just stood and waited until he decided I'd had enough.

  “Let's just get this straight from the start,” he said at last, bolshy, jabbing a sausage-like finger a millimetre from my nose. I resisted the urge to bite at it. “The boss may have hired you, but I'm in charge of security in this place, see? You got a problem, you come to me. You don't go running to Mr Quinn. Clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said, making my voice drawl just because I knew it would wind him up.

  He grunted, but said nothing, turning and stamping off down the corridor and leaving me to follow on in his wake.

  I sighed. It was going to be a fun evening.

  Len eventually led me to one of the bars where the rest of his team were gathering. He didn't bother to introduce me while we waited until the last of them turned up. There were six of us altogether, including me, which proved me right in my own mind about Marc's problems. For a place the size of the New Adelphi, a dozen working security wouldn't have been overdoing it.

  They were uniformly big men, who walked with their arms pushed out from their sides because of the amount of time they spent working on their back and chest muscles. It must be a qualification for the job that you have to have your neck shortened. I made an educated guess that their combined police records would make long and interesting reading.

  They obviously all knew each other, judging from the friendly jokes and comments that were being tossed back and forth. I was carefully excluded from this display of macho camaraderie.

  As opening up time approached, the walkie-talkies came out. Some of the team looked mildly taken aback when Len handed one to me.

  “This is never the new lass is it, Len?” one of them asked. “Sorry, love, I thought you were bar staff,” he said to me. “The way Dave described you, I thought you'd be bigger.”

  “Has
nobody ever told you that size is not important?” I asked dryly. “You do surprise me.”

  There were a few jeers at that. Even Len grinned, but he didn't ease up enough to show me how the walkie-talkie worked. He left me to work out the tangle of wires by myself.

  Eventually I got it sorted. The main device, about the size of a mobile phone, hooked onto my belt, with a separate earpiece and a clip-on mic. The mic had its own remote transmit button. By leaning over someone's shoulder I gathered the channel we were operating on.

  Len's only advice was short and sweet. “Unless it's a real emergency, stay off the air,” he told me, then turned to the others. “We're still spread thin, so you all know your areas. If you get a problem, give us your location first, then what's happening, otherwise we don't know where to come and get you out of the shit, do we?”

  “So what's my brief?” I asked as the rest of the team each headed off to their own pitch.

  “You can stick with me for tonight, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “You can make regular checks on all the ladies' loos, and if Angelo needs you to search anyone on the door he'll send for you. He's not allowed to search the birds.”

  At risk of appearing stupid, I chanced a question. “What am I looking for?”

  He shrugged. “Nobody gets in if they're carrying a weapon,” he said. “If they've got drugs on them, it depends how much. If it's for their own use, we take it off them and let them in. If it's enough to deal, they're banned.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said, nodding.

  He swung round and glared at me unsuccessfully for signs of insubordination. That meaty finger prodded at me again. “They might offer you something to turn a blind eye. Don't take it – and if you do, don't think I won't find out about it,” he advised grimly. “Nothing – but nothing – goes on in this club that I don't know about. Clear?”

  ***

  The evening started slowly enough. I shadowed Len for the first couple of hours or so as he made his rounds. It was interesting to take note of the reaction he received from the punters in the club. Most people dived out of his way as he strutted past, anxious not to attract his beady eye.