by Max Manning
The Mastermind
Norton tugged the hood of his top down over his forehead, leaned against the bus shelter, and watched the car pull up outside the house. A tall, athletic woman climbed out from behind the steering wheel and strode up to the front door. It opened before she reached it. Norton recognized the silhouette framed in the rectangle of light, remembered the pain as her teeth tore into his flesh, and smiled to himself.
He dug a hand into his pocket, found the coin, and caressed it with his fingers. He’d been watching the house for a couple of hours and was confident that he hadn’t been seen. When Bentley had returned home from his plush office in the city, Norton had deliberately brushed past him on the sidewalk. The lawyer had been too preoccupied to notice.
Why, Norton wondered, are the police making a house call so late in the evening? Perhaps the woman hailed by the Daily News as a warrior for women, the victim praised for bravely fighting off an attacker twice her size, was running scared? Maybe it had dawned on her that all her talk, her blatant self-promotion, her disgusting allegations, had been a huge mistake? The possibility widened his smile.
Gem the Warrior
Gem Golding led Shields along the hallway into the living room where Drew stood with his back to the window, expertly swirling a glass of whiskey in his right hand. He acknowledged the detective with a curt nod and sniffed the amber liquid.
“I assume you’re here to tell us that you’ve made an arrest,” he said, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt with his free hand and tugging the knot of his tie loose. “I must say it’s about time.”
Gem looked at Shields, shrugged an embarrassed apology, and sat down on the sofa. She was beginning to find Drew’s attitude toward the police unsettling. She understood his impatience, but sniping at detectives who were doing their best was not going to help.
“I’m afraid not, not yet,” Shields said. “But Detective Inspector Day asked me to call in to reassure you, both of you, that we’re doing everything we can to track the suspect down and get him off the streets.”
Drew took a small sip of his drink, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“With all due respect, Detective, wouldn’t your time be better spent getting on with solving this case rather than making house calls just to let us know how hard you’re working?”
Gem’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing. “There’s no need to be like that, Drew. What’s the matter with you tonight? I’m sure Detective Shields and her colleagues are doing their best, and I, for one, appreciate that she’s made the effort to keep us informed.”
Shields joined Gem on the sofa and offered her a grateful smile. “This is bound to be a stressful time for you both,” she said. “I understand that, believe me. Another reason for this visit was to check how you are doing. I know you fought the carjacker off, but that doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t traumatic for you. Sometimes shock can creep up on people. There is plenty of support and expert counseling available for the victims of violent crime, and I can put you in touch with the right people if you feel you need it. If you want, we can arrange for you and Drew to talk to someone together. This kind of situation can put big pressure on relationships, especially if they are already under strain.”
Gem looked across the room at her boyfriend, as if half expecting him to object. He met her gaze briefly before he turned away and took another sip of his drink. She knew he’d picked up the reference and she’d have to explain why she’d opened up to the detective about their relationship troubles.
“It’s good to know that the help is there if I want it,” she said. “I’ll think about it. Can I think about it? Drew has been supportive, but maybe it would be a good idea for me to talk to an expert.”
Drew put his drink down on the coffee table, walked around behind the sofa, and started to gently massage Gem’s shoulders. “The worst thing is that you’re not getting any decent sleep,” he said. “I think being so tired is making everything worse. Maybe something simple like a trip to the doctor for some sleeping pills would sort you out.”
Gem didn’t like the idea of taking pills to sleep, but Drew sounded so sure of himself, she didn’t know how to respond. Uncertainty and doubt were alien to Gem. Her childhood had been tough, but her mother had stressed that not having a father simply meant she had to be strong and determined to get what she wanted, and she’d been right. Gem had worked in bars to pay her way through university and landed her dream job in publicity. Maybe she just needed to pull herself together.
“Thanks for the offer of counseling,” she said. “I promise I’ll think about it, but I’m not really a victim, am I?”
Shields nodded slowly and stood up. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening, but remember that the help is available. Don’t be afraid to ask for it. Physically, you certainly got the better of your attacker, but you may have suffered psychological trauma.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, Detective,” Bentley said. “Personally, I think Gem will be absolutely fine. She’s had an ordeal, but she’s an incredibly accomplished and determined woman. She won’t let these anxieties get the better of her. I’ll make sure of that.” He threw his head back and drained his glass. “I would offer you a drink, but I assume you’re on duty. Gem will see you out. I’ve promised to cook dinner, and if I don’t get going soon, we won’t be eating until midnight.”
Once he’d disappeared into the kitchen, Gem got to her feet and led Shields to the front door. “Please take no notice of Drew,” she said. “He can seem prickly sometimes, but he’s just being a bit overprotective. This business has hit him harder than he’s letting on. I think he feels guilty about what happened, that he wasn’t on hand to help me. It’s illogical, I know, but it’s probably a guy thing.”
Shields smiled and stepped out into the crisp evening air.
The Mastermind
Norton stepped away from the bus shelter as the detective emerged from the house. Dusk had fallen, the streetlights stretching shadows across the sidewalks. He crossed the street, darting between the traffic, and walked swiftly toward her car.
It’s all about timing, he told himself. Timing and confidence. He tugged at his hood, pulling it further over his forehead, and dropped a hand to his pocket, caressing the blade through the material of his jeans.
The policewoman yanked the driver’s door open and glanced briefly in his direction. Thirty yards from the car now, he bowed his head a little but kept striding. He would have one chance, one split second to act. If he timed it wrong, he’d have to keep walking. He’d get another opportunity, but he hated having to adapt.
The detective ducked her head to climb into the driving seat, then flicked him another glance. She hesitated for a moment but turned away, distracted by the sound of raised voices approaching from the other direction.
Norton lengthened his stride to make sure that he reached the trunk of the car at the same time as the young couple arguing about whether to go home or find another pub and carry on drinking stepped off the sidewalk in front of the vehicle as they staggered across the road.
Close enough now to see the detective shake her head and glare at the couple as she slipped behind the wheel, Norton pulled the passenger door open and slid into the seat.
The detective’s eyes widened, and she started to swing her left elbow at Norton’s face. She’s quick, he thought, but not quick enough. She felt the hard, cold pressure on the inside of her upper left thigh and froze. She turned her head to try to look at the figure beside her but jerked it back when Norton increased the pressure on her leg.
“That’s right, you’ve got it,” he said. “Keep your eyes looking straight ahead. Do exactly as I say unless you want to bleed to death. I guess you’re smart enough to know that the blade of this extremely sharp knife is pressing on an artery. The femoral artery to be exact. Isn’t it amazing what you
can learn from TV crime and medical dramas? You’re pretty slim, so there won’t be much flesh between the edge of the blade and certain death.”
The policewoman didn’t answer. Norton could see she was doing her best to keep calm, struggling to keep her breathing steady. Why was she bothering? he wondered. He knew that right now, her heart would be trying to jump out of her chest.
“I’m a police officer,” she said. “You’re making a big mistake. The best thing you can do is give up your weapon.”
The fear in her voice made Norton smile. Taking a detective like this was even more satisfying than he’d expected. He’d prove to Gem Golding, to the police, to the newspapers, that the carjacking fiasco was a one-off. He’d been careless, too soft. Everything was as it should be again.
He shifted in the seat, pulled the seat belt across his chest, and looked across at the detective. Her breathing was ragged, and her eyes were busy as if her brain was desperately searching for a way to escape.
“If you want the chance to live, then do as I ask, without question,” Norton said. “If I slice the artery, and I will if you disobey me, it’ll take two minutes, max, for you to bleed out. There’s no way an ambulance would get to you on time. Do you understand?”
She said nothing. Instead, she reached for her seat belt, pulled it across her body, and clicked it in.
Norton chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “You’re pretty smart for a cop. Now start this thing up and get driving. Straight on to the end of the road, then take a right.”
The detective did as he ordered, the blood draining from her fingers as she gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop her hands from shaking. She put her foot down on the accelerator, and the car surged. The knife bit deeper, cutting through the material of her trousers. She braked hard.
“Don’t even think about crashing,” Norton growled. “That would be incredibly dangerous for you. This knife is super sharp.”
At the end of the street, the policewoman turned right as instructed, into a narrow, unlit lane. Norton had checked it out earlier and found the perfect spot to play. The car headlights lanced through the darkness, and they soon arrived at a small industrial estate. The place was deserted, most of the units dilapidated wooden structures.
Norton pointed ahead to the entrance of what appeared to be a tire-fitting workshop, the only unit with a working security light. “Park right there, in front of the gates.”
As the car pulled up, he opened the glove compartment and laughed out loud. “This is just perfect,” he said. “I know you detectives haven’t got the belts the uniforms use to carry around equipment, so I was hoping there would be something like this in the car.” He rattled the handcuffs and offered them to the detective.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s a key here too.”
She hesitated, her eyes flicking down to the hand holding the knife against her thigh. “You really don’t need to handcuff me,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want, I swear, but I don’t want to be cuffed. I’m not doing it. That’s final.”
Norton knew what she was thinking. Being handcuffed would mean giving up control, total surrender. She’d be helpless, at his mercy. He had to explain to her that she had no choice.
“Now, Detective, tell me your name.”
She opened her mouth, paused, then nodded. “Cat Shields. Detective Sergeant Cat Shields.”
The blade pierced her skin, and she cried out. Warm blood trickled down her thigh, pooling on the seat between her legs.
“Take a moment to think carefully about the situation you’re in,” Norton said. “Take as long as you like; there’s no rush. Then ask yourself this question, Detective Sergeant Cat Shields: Are you really going to make me do it?”
She reached out, took the handcuffs, and slipped them onto her wrists, clicking them into place.
Norton got out of the car and dashed around to the driver’s door. He opened it, waving her to her feet. He pressed the hunting knife against her ribs.
“Don’t try anything stupid, or, at the very least, you’ll lose your right kidney. Remember what I said. If you do what you’re told, you won’t get hurt. I guarantee it.”
He slid the blade around to the small of her back, gripped her shoulder with his other hand, and guided her toward the iron gates at the entrance to the tire fitters. The security light was attached to a pole to one side of the gate, with a camera fixed to a bracket below it. As they walked, Norton crouched, using Shields as a barrier to hide his face.
When they were roughly ten feet from the gates, he swiveled her around until they both had their backs to the light and the camera. Norton stood motionless and silent for a few seconds before releasing his grip on the detective’s shoulder and stepping back.
“You can turn around now,” he said. “Turn around and hold your arms out in front of you. Don’t try to be brave or clever, and don’t speak unless I ask you a question.”
She did as he asked, and he grinned at her confusion when he unlocked the handcuffs, twisting the key with the same hand that held the bloodied knife, and slipped them into his pocket. He’d simply wanted to see if he could get her to put them on, to see if even a police officer could be made to decide to make themselves helpless if it meant they might survive. That had worked perfectly, but the real test was yet to come.
Shields flexed her wrists and raised a hand to protect her eyes from the glare of the security light. Norton stood no more than an arm’s length away. He lifted the knife until the point almost touched the hollow of her throat.
“You are doing very well. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll be able to walk away from this in one piece. Who knows?”
The detective’s left leg trembled, and Norton noticed the muscles of her jaw tighten. She’s fighting to stay composed, he thought, trying to draw on her training, waiting for that all-important opening.
“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not too late to stop,” she said. “Please listen to me. If you give yourself up, the court will take it into consideration, and you could end up with a lighter sentence.”
Although she looked far from calm, her voice was steady, and Norton was almost impressed. He moved the knife closer to her throat until the point pricked her skin, drawing a tiny droplet of blood.
“You were doing so well. Now you’ve gone and spoiled it. I told you not to say a word.”
Her leg trembled again, and this time, she couldn’t stop it. A smile slanted across Norton’s face. “Do you know what, Detective? I’m in a generous mood. I think I can give you one more chance.”
He pulled the knife back and dropped his arm to his side. With his left hand, he pulled the handcuffs from his pocket and rattled them in her face. Shields stared at them as if hypnotized. At that moment, he let the knife slip from his grasp and fall to the ground, instantly squatting to retrieve it.
Norton was on his haunches, turned slightly away from the detective for less than a second. In that moment of truth, he felt her eyes on his back, imagined her heart hammering at her rib cage, sensed her brain weighing up her options, assessing the risk should she fail to overpower him.
Rising swiftly to his feet, he turned to face her. She looked confused, panicky, and disappointed. He stepped forward, snapped one of the handcuffs over her right wrist, and dragged her to the gates, locking the other cuff to a vertical bar.
Norton watched the detective drop her chin to her chest and slump to the ground in despair. She had spurned an opportunity to fight back, and now she was helpless and at his mercy.
He turned and walked slowly away into the darkness.
28
Surrender
Gem the Victim
Gem stepped carefully through the revolving doors and strode up to reception. A heavily made-up blond wearing a red jacket with a matching knee-length skirt stood behind the counter, talking animatedly on the telep
hone. When she saw Gem waiting, she lowered her voice and turned away.
Hanging on the wall behind the receptionist were twelve life-size tabloid front pages displayed in black frames. Above them, giant chrome letters spelled out the slogan Always First with the Daily News.
After a couple of minutes, the blond put the telephone down, turned to Gem, and flashed an impressive set of recently bleached teeth. “What can I do for you?”
Gem stepped closer and placed both her hands flat on the counter. The sleeves of her jacket rode up, exposing the cast on her right wrist, the once pristine white plaster now a dirty gray.
“I’d like to speak to one of your reporters if that’s possible,” she said. “I think I have a news story your paper would be interested in.”
The receptionist looked her up and down, pursing her lips as if she found the suggestion hard to believe. “Would you mind telling me what this so-called news story is about?”
Gem frowned. “You are a receptionist, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Then yes, I do mind. I mind quite a lot actually. I’m here to talk to a reporter.”
The receptionist glared back at her and snatched up the telephone, her smile now more like a sneer. “If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll call the news desk, but I can’t guarantee that they’ll have anybody available. Our reporters are constantly working to deadlines, you know. You’re likely to have a long wait. I can take your name and telephone number and get someone to call you if you’d prefer.”
“I’m happy to wait.”
Gem walked over to the seating area and made herself comfortable on the faux leather sofa. She watched the receptionist glance toward her as she spoke into the receiver and suspected that she wouldn’t be doing her best to encourage a journalist to make an appearance.