Road Kill tcfs-5

by Zoe Sharp

  “You OK?” he asked.

  I shrugged, feeling the protest in my muscles where the baton had bitten me. “More or less,” I said.

  He turned slowly towards Eamonn and made a slight sideways movement with his head, loosening the muscles in his neck. Eamonn smiled at him, reaching into his coat and bringing the baton back out into view.

  “Knight in shining fucking armour, are we?” he said, extending the weapon again with a practised flick of his hand.

  Suddenly he sniffed loudly, pulled a face of almost delicate distaste. “Now that wouldn’t be a bastard squaddie I can smell, would it? Seen plenty of your type. Think you’re a hard man, do you? Think you can take me on?”

  He made a couple of showy slashes with the baton, making the air whine as it sliced through.

  “Maybe not,” Sean said calmly. He inclined his head in my direction. “But between us we can.”

  Just for a second Eamonn faltered, then he grinned fiercely. “Oh, you think so?” And he beckoned us on.

  Sean didn’t respond to that, but something had died behind his eyes, like a light had gone out. He began to circle, clockwise, moving slowly. I circled in the opposite direction. Whether Eamonn liked it or not, we were moving in and out of his blind spots. He couldn’t cover us both at once.

  But the Irishman continued to smile. He knew that two against one were not good odds in his favour. He also knew, as we did, that if he could get a couple of decent blows in with the baton, he might yet stand a chance of coming out on top.

  His eyes went to Sean’s unprotected arms, then to my leather jacket and I saw he’d picked his first target. I wasn’t about to give him a chance to act on that decision. And I wasn’t about to let Sean take a hit to protect me, either.

  We continued to circle. I waited until Eamonn had flicked his eyes away from me again, then jumped him. He caught the flash of my attack and spun round, uncoiling the baton at shoulder height, aiming for my head. A killing blow. I ducked underneath it and crashed through his defence, getting in close to his body.

  I managed to snake my left hand round and get my fingers pinched hard into the pressure points at the back of his neck, controlling his upper body as I brought my knee up hard, once, twice, into his gut.

  Sean moved in smooth and fast, landing a massive uppercut to the other man’s face as he began to fold. The stinging blow broke Eamonn’s nose and sent blood flying.

  I let go and jumped back, getting out of Sean’s way. He twisted the baton out of the Irishman’s hand and into his own with almost negligent ease, turning the tables. His first slash took Eamonn’s legs out from under him, then he went for his upper arms just above each elbow. Hit the nerves there hard enough and they shut down like circuit breakers, disconnecting each limb.

  Sean hit him with a coldly scientific precision, throttling back to inflict pain rather than outright injury. Enough to put Eamonn down and make sure he wasn’t going to get up in a hurry, nothing more. Then he stepped back and watched the Irishman as he lay writhing and groaning on the dusty ground.

  It was too much for Isobel. She gave an outraged howl and launched herself at Sean, clawing for his face. He shook her off, sending the woman reeling.

  Jamie jumped automatically to his mother’s defence. I saw him start to sprint and turned to face him, taking half a step into his path to hook my right arm up inside his as it swung past me. His own momentum ensured that as he went on I jerked his arm up and back behind him. I twisted on the balls of my feet and locked his wrist up hard behind his own shoulder blade, a classic police restraint technique.

  He struggled against me for a moment longer but I grabbed the point of his shoulder with my other hand and carefully applied a touch more force. It was only as he felt the joint start to tear apart that he gave up. I relaxed the pressure a little but didn’t let go.

  Eamonn meanwhile, despite making noise like he was mortally wounded, took advantage of the distraction to rear up far enough to take a swing at Sean. He caught the baton, sending it flying. It clattered away across the forecourt and disappeared under Isobel’s Mercedes. If Eamonn thought that Sean would be easier to tackle without a weapon, however, he was to be severely disappointed.

  Sean never blinked. He reached down and roughly picked Eamonn up by the lapels of his jacket, throwing him about like a dog worrying a lamb. Eamonn came down sprawled on his knees, facing away from Sean, who stepped over his legs and took hold of a big handful of the other man’s shirt collar, using it as a tourniquet on his throat.

  Eamonn’s colour rose as he started to choke, his fingers scrabbling at his own clothing. Sean immediately shifted his grip so his forearms were clamped on either side of the man’s neck, just below the jawbone, and started to pile on the pressure.

  Restricting the blood flow through the carotid artery that feeds the brain will cause loss of consciousness in around ten seconds. It was a method I’d been taught a long time ago – by Sean as I seem to recall – for silently and effectively dealing with an enemy, but it was not something I’d ever shown to my self-defence students. Because when you’re scared and under pressure, it’s easy to misjudge the time and hold on too long. Somewhere around forty seconds, the starvation of oxygen to the brain starts to have permanent effects.

  But already Sean had held onto Eamonn for more than ten seconds. The other man had ceased to struggle but I could see Sean’s arms bunched with the effort of keeping the lock in place. And I knew full well that he wasn’t under pressure and he certainly wasn’t scared.

  “Sean,” I said sharply. He looked over at me but his eyes were blank and empty.

  “Sean!” I said again, and this time the anguish and the pleading in my voice seemed to reach him where anger had not. He abruptly relaxed his grip and Eamonn slid limply to the ground at his feet.

  Isobel gave a fearful cry and knelt alongside the Irishman, cradling his head. I let go of Jamie. He wrenched himself away from me, rubbing his shoulder reproachfully, but didn’t make any moves to continue his attack on Sean, nor to help his mother.

  Isobel gave Eamonn a couple of businesslike slaps across his cheek. He started to come out of it, limbs spasming as life and control returned. He knocked her hands away angrily and instinctively tried to get to his feet, but his co-ordination was shot.

  “You bastard,” Isobel spat at Sean.

  He shrugged. “He brought it on himself,” he said, indifferent. He took a step forward as Isobel started to hoist Eamonn to his feet. “Wait, I’m not done with him yet.”

  “Oh yes, I think you are. We’re leaving – unless you plan to keep us here by force,” she said, with surprising dignity. “Help me get him into the car,” she ordered her son in a peremptory voice. Jamie did as he was told without making eye contact with anyone.

  Eamonn allowed himself to be shovelled into the passenger side of the Mercedes with ill grace. Isobel slammed the door on him and went round to the driver’s side, starting up the engine with her foot heavy on the accelerator. She stuck the big car in reverse and it shot backwards across the forecourt, sweeping round to head off up the drive, sending up a cloud of dust. The baton must have been lying close to one of the tyres. As she set off it was sent skittering away across the mossy stone cobbles.

  And all the while Eamonn stared at us through the glass, blood covering his nose and mouth like he’d taken a bite out of something not yet dead. There was an evil intent in that gaze. Humiliation was not something he’d suffered much and he didn’t like it. He would not easily forget this.

  I glanced across at Jamie. “Your mother should watch the company she keeps,” I said.

  His eyes flicked to Sean, then back to me.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And so should you.”

  Six

  Though I did my best to get answers out of him, Jamie was saying nothing. He left soon after his mother, collecting his helmet and his rucksack from inside the house as though he wasn’t planning on coming back. I didn’t try and persuade him to st
ay. My mind was on Sean and the actions he’d taken.

  “Don’t you think you went in a bit hard on Eamonn?” I demanded as we walked back into the house with the Honda’s exhaust note still fading up the drive.

  Sean had collected the fallen baton and was turning it over in his hands. He held it up towards me. “This is an older baton,” he said, not answering my question. “The police-issue ones have a plastic end – this one’s steel. You know why they don’t let the police use ones like these any more?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because you have an unfortunate tendency to split people’s skulls wide open with them,” he said, his voice like stone. “If Eamonn had caught you a good one with this he could have killed you. And he was certainly trying.”

  I swallowed. “The rules on self defence don’t allow you to kill someone if you can disarm them another way,” I said sharply, even though I knew he was right. “We’re not in the jungle now.”

  For a moment there was a silent gulf between us. Yes, I’d seen the violence and the cruelty running through Eamonn. But that didn’t mean I was prepared to dispense instant justice to deal with him.

  Sean gave me a humourless smile and twisted the baton shut with the same kind of practised ease that Eamonn had shown. “A snake is still a snake, Charlie, regardless of where you find it.”

  “Yeah? So what does that make you?”

  I’d thrown it at him without thinking and regretted the words as soon as they were off and running.

  Sean’s head came up and he turned towards me, moving very deliberately, making the hair prickle at the base of my neck. Suddenly I was reminded of a big dog you’ve always been wary of and who’s now decided he doesn’t want to obey your commands any longer. Instinctively, I flinched, took a step back.

  A mistake.

  I saw the flare in Sean’s eyes as he came for me. We were still in the hallway and I went back until the study wall brought me up short with a gasp. My heart was a leaden weight in my chest, the staccato beat echoing fiercely in my ears.

  “Sean,” I said. “Don’t.” A breathless protest. Ignored.

  He followed me back, crowded in on me. With my elbows against the wall behind me, I locked my wrists and wedged my fists into the tensed muscles of his stomach to keep him back. He leaned his weight against them, trapping me, and brought his head down until his mouth was within a whisper of mine. I could feel his breath fanning my cheek.

  “You know what I am, Charlie,” he said in my ear, very quietly, mocking. “And we both know you’re out of the same mould, however much your damned parents have tried to have it psychoanalysed out of you.”

  Anger pushed fear aside. I abruptly relaxed my wrists so I could squirm my right hand down the front of his jeans to grab a handful of his belt. Then I shoved the heel of my left hand up under his chin and pushed back, hard.

  Sean’s spine arched as his head was forced back. I kept a tight hold of his belt to unbalance him, using the leverage to run him back a couple of strides, giving me room. Then I let go, breathing harder than I should have needed to.

  Sean recovered his poise like a falling cat and smiled coldly at me.

  “Face it, Charlie, you’ve got the reflexes and the moves and you’ve got the killer instinct,” he said. “Either you learn to master them or they’ll master you.”

  “And you’re always so in control, are you?” I shot back. Another jibe I shouldn’t have voiced aloud.

  “Half the secret of being in control is knowing when to let go,” he said. He fixed me with a bleak stare. “When we were in Germany you told me to accept you as you were or to get out of your life and leave you alone,” he went on, relentless, tearing me with my own bitter words. “That I should make a choice because you wouldn’t settle for half measures. Well maybe it’s time you made that same choice about me.”

  I looked up, ripped inside, feeling my eyes begin to burn. I opened my mouth but he reached out and put a finger to my lips, shushing me.

  “Don’t say anything now,” he said, gently, “but soon. Think about it and give me your answer soon. Because I need to know one way or another where I stand with you, Charlie.”

  He took his finger away again and I could still feel the imprint of his skin on mine. The noises of the house intruded, grown suddenly louder. The ticking of the clock, the whining of one of the dogs behind the kitchen door. It was like they’d gone away and only just returned.

  Sean stepped back, shrugged into a different day.

  “So, who were they, that pair?” he asked, suddenly practical, level.

  I shrugged too, trying to match him. “Isobel is Jacob’s ex-wife – or his estranged wife, at least,” I said. There was a wobble in my voice and I cleared my throat to get rid of it. “Erm, she wanted to make a deal over something. We didn’t quite get down to the details of what. I’m afraid I turned her down. Maybe,” I added ruefully, “I should have played her along a bit more.”

  “Hmm, it didn’t take her long to find out the place was empty, did it?” he said. He gave me a tired smile, recognising the effort we were both making to strive for normality. “Did Jamie tip her off, d’you reckon?”

  “She must have moved fast, if he did,” I said. “She lives in Northern Ireland. How long does the ferry take from Belfast? Four hours if you catch the fast cat to Heysham?” I shook my head. “She would have had to be on starting blocks.”

  “So,” Sean said, “was she here already, or did they know in advance that Clare was going to be out of action?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Eamonn made a weird comment, though. Before he had a go at me he wanted to know who sent me, then told me to tell my boss man it was a nice try, but if they thought that was going to stop him they could think again. Whatever that means.”

  Sean’s expression had gone blank while he thought, the mental equivalent of an hourglass on a computer screen.

  “So, what were they looking for here?” he asked. “And, more to the point, did they find it?”

  “I don’t know where Eamonn was when I arrived, but Isobel was ransacking the study.”

  “OK,” he said. “Let’s start there then, shall we?”

  It took Sean less than five minutes to discover the safe I never knew existed. It was set into the study wall, hidden behind a loose section of the wooden panelling that lined the room from floor to ceiling, which was in turn behind a large limited edition print of the Isle of Man TT.

  The safe itself was a small steel door, painted dark grey, with a handle and a combination dial. Sean tried the handle. It was locked.

  “Do we assume Jacob would have changed the combination after his ex moved out?” he said.

  I thought of Jamie’s comment the night before about his father being a creature of habit and shook my head. “Somehow I doubt it.”

  “So, either Isobel’s been into the safe and re-locked the door behind her,” he said, “or she didn’t have time to get into it in the first place. What’s your guess?”

  I frowned. “When I arrived she was throwing stuff all over the floor and not being too careful about it,” I said. “She didn’t strike me as the type who would have even shut the safe door, never mind put the panelling and the picture back.”

  Sean shook his head. “The art of distraction,” he said. “What better way to make us think she hadn’t touched it?”

  Something about Jamie nudged at my memory. When I’d entered the room I’d stood with my back to the wall where the doorway was – the same wall which housed the safe – and Jamie’s gaze had slid past me. “When Isobel said we were after the same thing, I thought Jamie couldn’t look at me, but he could just as easily have been looking at the safe behind me,” I said.

  “One way to find out,” Sean said. He sighed. “OK,” he said. “I haven’t had to sneak my way into one of these for a while but it’s an old model so I might get lucky.” He shifted a small table away from the wall so he could get up close to the safe. “Why don’t you
make yourself useful,” he said, smiling over his shoulder, “and go and put some coffee on?”

  “Yes sir,” I said, sarky. But I went back to the kitchen and fed the dogs and messed about with the cafetière as I was told. As I waited for the water to heat I leaned against the sink and absently rubbed at the bruise on the side of my arm where Eamonn had hit me, and tried not to think about Sean’s ultimatum.

  That I loved him wasn’t in doubt. I’d admitted as much to myself when I thought I’d lost him for good in America. But the reality of Sean was more complicated than the idea. He brought out the best and the worst in me and confirmed my darkest fears about what I was capable of. In the end, it wasn’t Sean I was scared of.

  It was me.

  When I took the filled cafetière through to the study, Sean was still up against the wall in a half crouch with his ear pressed against the safe door, inching the lock dial to the right with those long agile fingers of his. His movements slowed and finally stopped. He reached for the handle and I was aware of holding my breath.