by Zoe Sharp
“Most of it was on the van, or I think Terry kept some stuff at home. His client book's here, though. He left it on the counter the last time he called in . . .” His voice faded away as though suddenly realising that Terry was truly dead and gone, and the last time he had been into the shop was actually the very last time.
My own last conversation with Terry came to mind, when he'd said none of his mucky video customers were written down in the usual book. “Paul, could Terry's death have had anything to do with those videos?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they are highly illegal, the people who make them must be a pretty nasty bunch to cross.”
“Exactly, so he never crossed them, cash with order, no questions asked. He wasn't a fool.”
I felt my shoulders slump. Somehow I'd been hoping that there might be an explanation other than the one that was forming in my mind. I didn't like the sound of the one I'd come up with. It was too close to home.
“Paul,” I said, “did you know anything about a lap-top computer Terry accepted as part of a debt for his porn videos?”
Paul shrugged. “Terry ran that side of the business his way. I didn't really want anything to do with it. He'd quite often work on a barter system as far as payment went.” He gave a half-smile at the memory. “He'd accept more or less anything, from servicing on his central heating system to booze and fags.”
“What about drugs?” I don't know why I asked it. The question just arrived on my lips without passing selection by the brain first.
Paul didn't need to think about that one. He shook his head emphatically. “No way. Terry may have been into some dodgy stuff, but he was dead against drugs,” he said, without apparently hearing the irony of his own words. “All you had to do was mention that you thought the government ought to legalise cannabis and he used to practically go up in flames. We used to have quite a laugh winding him up about it,” he finished sadly.
But, Terry's computer had come from the New Adelphi Club, and from what Dave had hinted at, there could be something going on there that was tied up to illegal substances. I recalled Terry's words when I told him what Sam had managed to get off the computer. “That's terrific!” he'd said, sounding tricky. “That should be enough to worry the bastard!”
“So if someone offered him drugs in payment for his porn videos, what do you think Terry would have done about it?” I asked slowly. There was a theory forming, but right now it was so fluid any slight imbalance might make it disappear.
Paul looked evasive, shuffling in his seat and taking a swallow of his coffee before he answered. “Well, he might have tried to use that information to, well, put a bit of pressure on them, in one way or another,” he said, eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Blackmail, you mean,” I put in.
Paul dipped his long nose back into his mug and gave a faint nod. “Yeah, something like that,” he muttered.
“Is that what happened this time?”
Paul didn't answer, looking more shifty than before.
“Paul, come on!” I said, losing patience. “Last night I think the same people who knifed Terry came after me. They took back the computer I was looking after for him and damned near killed me, too.” His head came up at that, shock blanking his expression. “I need to find out who it is, Paul.”
“God, Charlie, Terry would never have willingly got you into trouble, you should know that.” He hesitated for a while, then put down his coffee mug, standing and walking back into the shop. He was back a few seconds later, carrying a small blue book, which he handed to me.
“That's Terry's client book,” he said, “but the truth is, I don't know who he got that computer from,” he admitted. “He rang me just after he'd got it, told me it had come from someone at that club in Morecambe, but he didn't say who and I didn't ask. Like I said, I don't really get involved. When he didn't show up for work this week I had a look through the book, but he only kept a note of initials, and none of them mean anything to me . . .”
A sudden banging on the shop door made us both jump. Paul peered out through a gap in the stud partition wall between the kitchen and the shop.
“Oh shitfire, it's the police,” he said. He snatched the book I was still holding, grabbed an empty video case and shoved it inside. “Look, take this with you, see if you can unravel any of it,” he said hurriedly. “Don't worry, I won't mention anything to them about you. Go on, get out of here!”
I didn't argue as we both moved back through to the shop, trying to look nonchalant. There were a pair of uniforms standing with their faces pressed up against the door glass. One gave his mate a nudge and a leer when he saw us emerge together.
I have to give Paul credit, he did make a reasonably convincing display of surprise and concern at seeing two officers of the law on his doorstep. He unlocked the door and let them in. “Er, can I help you?”
They asked him his name in serious voices and, feeling like a traitor, I kept walking. “Cheers for this, Paul,” I said, motioning to the video case as I left. “I'll drop it back later in the week.”
He nodded and gave me a distracted wave, but one of the policemen turned round. “What's the film?” he asked.
I thought my heart was going to stop, or burst, or both. “Psycho Cop,” I said immediately. “It's the English version. A group of deranged lads from Traffic go berserk on the M1 in unmarked Maestro vans.”
He gave me a twisted smile. “Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he said, and they turned their attention back to Paul.
Once I was safely outside I shoved the video case down the front of my jacket, yanked on my helmet, and started up the Suzuki. I then made a complete fool of myself by trying to toe it into gear with the side-stand still down, which cuts the motor. Come on, Fox, get it together.
As I rode back towards the middle of Lancaster and home, I could feel the video case pressing against my ribcage. Did it hold the key to Terry's murderer? God only knew, and she definitely was keeping that kind of information to herself. What an unholy mess.
***
It was too late by the time I got back to the flat to do more than glance at Terry's book that night, but the following morning I spent a couple of hours going through it.
He seemed to have a good system, keeping careful track of dates the porn videos had been borrowed and returned, by whom, and when the monies were collected. I say seemed because it told me just about nothing.
I managed to work out that the videos themselves weren't named, just numbered. They were expensive enough for one night's hire to make my eyebrows lift. And some people seemed to get anything up to half a dozen of them out at a time. It was hardly surprising that those paying on a weekly or monthly basis suddenly found themselves with a hefty bill.
As for the people, they were a mystery. Terry hadn't named anyone in full, relying on sets of initials. AC, AZ, BT, CA, DJ, EG, FA, GB. I stopped when I found PC, just in case it was connected to the lap-top, but the initials cropped up so rarely there was no way that PC – whoever he was – could have owed Terry enough to give him a computer.
As well as initials, there was a three-digit number preceding each one. A lot of people had the same number prefix. Eventually I cottoned on to the fact that the numbers probably related to an address. An office building, a private house – or a nightclub. I couldn't really find enough to identify there, either.
The only thing that was easy to understand was the day of the week when Terry called at each undisclosed location. He'd brought the computer round to see me on a Sunday morning, but that could mean anything. Did he usually call round at the club then, or had he just dropped in unexpectedly to do his debt collecting?
I tried again later that evening, when I got back from teaching my Tuesday evening class at the university leisure centre all about head-locks, but it made no more sense than it had done earlier.
With a sigh I shut the book and threw it down on the coffee table, rubbing at my aching eyes. Last week I was just an a
verage person, living my life and paying my bills on time – mostly.
Now I was mixed up in porn videos, illegal drugs, rape and murder. I had a feeling things were going to get worse – and probably much worse – before they got better.
Sixteen
I taught my usual class at Shelseley Lodge the next day. A couple of nights' sleep made my grisly discovery seem more distant. It was as though I was disturbed by having seen a violent film, rather than witnessing it in real life.
When Marc rang, asking how I was, it was difficult to recall that he was referring to my own attack, rather than simply my reaction to Terry's murder. I must have sounded vague and unfocused. He asked me three times if I was sure I was OK, and seemed dissatisfied with my woolly answers.
Despite another work-out and a couple of saunas at Attila's, I was still as stiff as an elderly Labrador with dodgy hips, so I abandoned my normal syllabus again and taught the class kicks and punches instead.
That didn't require much active participation on my side. I arranged the crashmats standing up, four-deep against the wall, and unrolled the targets over them. There was general giggling amongst my students as I set up. When I was done I grinned at them.
My targets were two long rolls of vinyl with life-size thugs printed on them. I'd chosen vinyl because they had to stand up to quite a bit of hammer. They were representations of big ugly fellers with bulging muscles and scowling faces. I found a long time ago that unless I gave my students something a bit more realistic to aim at, they were never going to be able to defend themselves against anything other than attacks by rabid gym mats.
“Meet Curly and Mo,” I said. “I want you to divide into two groups and form an orderly queue to give these two a bit of stick. Basically, do what you like to them. Punch them, kick them, knee them in the knackers. Pretend they're your boss, your spouse, or whoever's been giving you grief lately.”
There was laughter at that. I showed them the basic line to aim for with a punch, from the temples down to the groin, taking in the nose, jaw, throat, and solar plexus on the way.
“OK,” I said. “Anybody – where would be your first choice target?”
It was Joy who answered first. “The goolies,” she said promptly. Several others concurred, with varying degrees of embarrassment.
“Go for his eyes,” said another. She was one of my older students, a middle-aged lady called Pauline, who'd only recently joined the class, but was taking to it with real enthusiasm.
When there were no further guesses I turned to the targets. “Actually, you're all right,” I said. “Any one of those areas can be very effective, as long as you practise it so it's second nature; so you don't have to think about it. If you have to nerve yourself up to hit someone, it'll show in your face, your body language, and they'll be ready for you. Given a choice, I'd go for the nose.”
I demonstrated with several different techniques. An open-handed chop with the edge of my hand, a swinging elbow, and a hammer fist, as well as a straightforward punch. I knew where the nose area of my targets was without having to sight on it first. I kept my eyes on my students instead, gauging their reaction.
“The nose will be unprotected by heavy clothing or glasses and a blow there will stop most attackers in their stride,” I told them. “It's difficult for someone to keep fighting while their eyes are streaming.”
My own favourite was a sweeping chop upwards just underneath the nose, right on the sensitive septum between the nostrils. Get the angle right and even the biggest, toughest of blokes will hit the dirt.
Of course, angle the blow too straight onto the top lip, and you run the risk of paralysing the respiratory system by damaging the cranial nerves. Angle it too high and you can splinter the nasal bones where they meet at the bridge of the nose, with the inherent danger of then driving the fractured ends onwards, into the brain.
To do that you had to deliver an accurate and powerful punch. I glanced briefly round the group in front of me and considered that none of them were potential heavyweight boxers in the making. Their strength was limited to the point where telling them about the dangers would inhibit them too much. None of them were street-fighters by nature. In an attack situation, I wanted them to hit out as hard as they could, not worry about exactly where they placed the blow.
I showed them a few other locations, for good measure. “Most areas of the face are pretty vulnerable to attack, like the hollow in the cheeks, the skin just under the eye, and then there's always the throat,” I went on. “The throat is always a good one to go for, as is the side of the jaw. On the down-side, you are just as vulnerable to attack in that area, so be careful. That's why boxers keep their chins tucked in.”
“I always thought it was because they had glass jaws,” Joy commented.
I shook my head. “If you keep your jaw shut it's more difficult to do it damage. You're much more vulnerable when you've got your mouth open.”
“My ex-husband would agree with you there,” muttered Pauline. There was laughter again.
I showed them how to form a fist without danger of dislocating their thumbs the first time they hit anything solid, and explained how you had to imagine punching straight through the object you were hitting, rather than pulling back when you made contact.
Then I let them get on with it. It never ceased to amaze me how much built-up anger and aggression came out during this particular lesson. People always claimed to feel surprisingly better afterwards. I know I usually did. I could recommend having a punchbag in the corner of the living room for stress relief and relaxation to anyone.
My mind drifted as I watched a group of normally sober and well-behaved women beat Curly and Mo to a pulp. I wondered how things might have turned out with the Scouser if I'd taken my own advice and hit him, hard, with no mercy and no hesitation.
Maybe my own doctrine that the law of self-defence was to use the minimum amount of force necessary had taken over. But maybe, if I'd known that he'd already got Terry's scalp on his belt, I would have been a lot less squeamish. I reflected, with some bitterness, that the Scouser and his mate certainly overcame their initial reluctance to beat up a woman with remarkable speed.
The thought jarred with me and I struggled to work out why. I backtracked. Somebody at the club gave Terry a computer as part of a debt. OK, I was clear on that. Then he'd tried to worry them by hinting that he knew what information had been stored on the machine. I was guessing for this part, but it seemed feasible.
He must have succeeded in worrying whoever it was. To the point where they had come round to retrieve the computer, with violence. Terry must have told them that I'd got it, and having seen what they'd done to him, I couldn't honestly say I blamed him for giving me away.
OK, so having failed to get the computer from Terry, why had they then waited a day or so before coming round to see me? Why hadn't they turned my place over on the Saturday night, when I was safely out of the way at the New Adelphi? And why, if they were connected to the club themselves, hadn't they known that Charlie was a female name . . .?
The pieces of the puzzle just didn't fit together. Without them I was never going to see the picture clearly.
“Charlie, are you OK?” Joy broke into my thoughts, peering anxiously at me.
I shook them loose and smiled at her. “Yeah, sure. What's up?”
She asked a question about elbow strikes and I stirred myself to demonstrate the technique. Joy wasn't a bad student, quick and smart, even if she did tend to forget some of the moves from one lesson to the next.
I kept stressing practice, practice, practice, but everybody was there by their own choice. I couldn't exactly put them in detention if they didn't do their homework.
She stayed behind to help me clear away after the rest of the class had gone, which was another point in her favour, considering my current state of health.
“So,” I said, stifling a groan as I bent to pick up the final mat, “I saw you at the New Adelphi at the weekend. Have fun?�
��
I glanced up at her as I said it, and was surprised to see a strange mixture of expressions frozen on her face. Guilt warred with defiance, mingling into embarrassment.
In a heartbeat, I knew.
“Fun?” she repeated, her voice pitched slightly too high. She swallowed and lowered the frequency. “Er, yeah, it was great. I didn't know you were into clubbing, Charlie.”
“I'm not,” I said as I straightened up. I fixed her with a grim smile, turning the screw. “I work security there.” I paused just long enough to let the implications sink in, then spelt them out for her anyway. “I keep the druggies out.”
She jumped as though I'd dropped ice down her neck. A strong suspicion became a dead certainty.
“Oh, really?” she said nervously.
“Yeah,” I said. “So, purely as a matter of interest, what did you take on Saturday night?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, saw the expression on my face, and shut it again.
“T-take?” she tried, circling her head as though by doing so she could evade the line of questioning.
I sighed, dropping the mat back onto the pile and turning to face her. “Joy,” I said. “I have no interest what shit you want to shovel into your system in your own time, but I do have an interest in finding out where you got something at the New Adelphi, when I'm supposed to be doing a job there.”
She wavered for a moment, then sat down on one of the row of chairs that were pushed back along one wall, not quite meeting my eyes. I waited for her to form the right words.
She began with justification. “I'm not into anything heavy,” she protested. “A few tabs of Ecstasy at the clubs; a couple of joints to chill out again afterwards. Sometimes I'll go months without anything, then some stuff will come my way again.” She flickered her eyes up to mine, then slid them away, suddenly fascinated by a hangnail on her thumb. “It's less addictive than alcohol and—”
I held up my hand, cutting her off. “Joy, I've already said I don't care what you take, just tell me where you got it. Did you already have it before you got into the club?”