‘Won’t be a minute.’
I get out and walk around to the SUV. This has got to be quick and effective.
Blond Hair gets out and slams the door behind him. His face is red with anger and he looks like he means business. His suit jacket has gone and he rolls his shirtsleeves up in a way that’s meant to be menacing. He slides a hand in his trouser pocket and slips a thick brass knuckle-duster over the fingers of his right hand. The old ways are always the best.
His associate, who I’ll call Blue Suit, gets out the other side. He’s a cocky-looking young guy wearing, as you may have surmised, a blue suit. He’s a big fucker and I can tell he works out. He’s got a low centre of gravity and big fists. He’s grinning all over his face as if he knows what’s going to happen next will be a foregone conclusion and is looking forward to it. Well, it won’t be a foregone conclusion if I can help it. I remember what he did to Rachelle and I’ll keep that in mind ten seconds from now. If there’re just the two of them that means that Sara is probably unconscious or incapacitated in the back and they don’t have to worry about her at the moment.
‘I warned you, you piece of shit,’ says Blond Hair, clenching his fat metal fist, his dead eyes threatening and sinister. He pulls his arm back ready for a fucker of a punch aimed at my face, but all that extra weight has made him too slow and he’s telegraphing too much.
Just as he lets fly, I catch his wrist, turn my back to him and then use both hands to quickly and powerfully break his elbow over my shoulder.
His arm snaps ninety degrees the wrong way and I can hear the bone splinter and the cartilage crack. Blood sprays the side of my face and the scream he produces will be giving me tinnitus for the rest of the day.
While he’s considering that, I elbow him in the side of the head and then grab his fucked arm by the wrist and bicep, twist it hard and use the excruciating pain to manipulate him to the floor. I kick him when he’s down just because I can and for hitting Sara. Then I kick him again.
That all took five seconds and now I’ve got Blue Suit charging at me. His expression has changed and he’s no longer grinning. Welcome to the party, shithead.
After what he’s just seen, a normal person would think twice about continuing with this but I can tell this one is far too dim, despite the smart suit and confident swagger.
Stupid he may be, but he’s got skills. His fists are up by his face and I can tell by what’s he’s doing with his feet that he’s about to launch into some sort of spinning hook kick, probably aimed at my head.
This is never a good idea. Spin kicks looks great on film, but in reality that half second when you’re standing on one leg and have your back to your opponent is fatal: bad balance, no visual. As Blue Suit gets to this point, I step forward and push him hard in the back. He falls flat on his face. I haven’t got the time to allow him to get up, so I travel down with him, grab his hair and smash his head against the road surface three or four times until he’s senseless. Forehead gashed, nose broken, front teeth out. That was for Rachelle, you piece of garbage.
Sara is just coming round when I open the back door of the SUV. She’s mostly down in the footwall of the back seat, presumably as a result of the emergency stop. Despite that, she doesn’t seem damaged. She puts her hands in front of her face in a defensive position and attempts to kick me. Well, at least she’s conscious.
She’s pale, groggy and has a swelling just starting to appear on the side of her face where Blond Hair punched her. I just hope she’s not concussed, but I can check for that later. I can hear Eve Cook doing a screechy five-point turn so she’s facing in the right direction. The John Lewis driver is tooting his horn impatiently. An old woman in a fur coat with a Chihuahua is pointing at me with her walking stick. No one has quite realised what’s happened here yet, which is good. They probably think it’s some sort of road traffic accident with added spectacular GBH.
I reach into the back of the car and start to help Sara out. She tries to kick me again. This time she clips me on the side of the arm and it hurts like a bastard.
‘Sara, it’s me. Come on. We’ve got to move.’
If she replied I didn’t hear it as I’m slightly deaf on one side thanks to Blond Hair’s scream. I take her hands and slowly help her out of the SUV until she’s standing on the road. She throws up over my shoes.
There’s a suit jacket hanging in the back of the car. Must be Blond Hair’s. I grab it and put it over her shoulders. I take a last look at Blond Hair and Blue Suit. Blond Hair is as white as a sheet and has tears in his eyes. He’s using his good arm to try and push himself up into a standing position, but he’s too stunned and uncoordinated. It looks like he’s pissed himself from the pain.
Blue Suit is on all fours and is throwing up over his hands. They’ll both need to visit the hospital, and pretty fast in Blond Hair’s case. That blood spray was from the brachial artery, which must have been ruptured by the elbow fracture. Bad break, in more ways than one. Still, I should care.
I propel Sara towards Ms Cook’s car. She’s trembling so much you could put a cocktail shaker in her hand and have a perfect vodka martini in less than five seconds. I get in the passenger seat and prop her up on my lap. She leans forward again and throws up.
‘Are you alright, Mr Beckett? You’ve got blood all over the side of your face,’ says Eve Cook, who seems remarkably unfazed by the last five terrifying minutes. Her skirt is rucked up and I can see her stocking tops and suspender straps.
‘It’s OK. It isn’t mine.’
‘I know this isn’t quite the time or place, Miss Holt,’ says Ms Cook to Sara as we drive away. ‘But I am such a big fan of your work. I’m actually wearing a pair of your French knickers at the moment. The Oread line?’
Sara nods her head and throws up again, this time all over my shirt and trousers.
‘If you wouldn’t mind taking us to Covent Garden that would be fantastic.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘And you’ve got my card. This car will need a full service and a good valeting after all of this. I insist on paying for all of that and for a rental car while you’re inconvenienced. And thank you. You’ve probably saved her life.’
‘Can I call you?’
‘Yes. As soon as you know how much the car will cost, give me a call.’
‘No. I mean can I call you?’
19
I NEVER SLEEP WITH CLIENTS
Eve Cook drops us off right outside Joe Allen’s amid the usual surprised comments that I actually live in Covent Garden and, furthermore, right above one of its most famous and fashionable restaurants. I make sure she still has my business card and she gives me hers. I tell her to call me as soon as the bill for her car needs to be paid. She asks me to call her as soon as I’m free. She says if I don’t call her soon, she’ll call me.
Sara is groggy and sick. She threw up again in the car just before we arrived here and both of us are now pretty thoroughly covered in her vomit. I feel bad about Eve Cook’s car, and decide I’ll take her out to dinner when I’ve finished with all of this. On top of everything else, she is an attractive woman and out of the whole dramatic episode, the most notable moment was when I felt her suspender straps as we swapped places in the car. I must be losing my mind.
It was incredibly lucky that she went along with the whole thing, because if she hadn’t I’d certainly have lost Sara and God knows what would be happening to her by now. It was also a stroke of luck that she’d heard of Maccanti and was such a skilled driver, apart from the one-way insane scary bit.
I’ve got to get both of us inside and out of our clothes, and get her cleaned up and checked out. I’ve got to check if she’s concussed and if she is I’ll have no choice but to get her to a hospital. Immediate practicalities aside, I’m extremely concerned about this turn of events. Whatever this is, it’s suddenly become a lot heavier.
She’s small and light, so I lift her up in my arms and get her upstairs, laying her down on the h
allway floor when I have to negotiate the locking system on my front door. I start to feel hungry, then remember that it’s only a little past midday. I feel like it should be midnight.
Once we’re inside, she moans a little as we walk over the nightingale floor, then quietens down as I take her into my bedroom and lay her on the bed.
I close the curtains to cut the light out and head into the bathroom, getting out of my vomit-soaked clothes, checking my blood-spattered face in the mirror and having a quick, hot shower.
When I’ve dried myself off, I put on a robe and go and check Sara. She’s still lying on the bed, but at least she’s conscious, if a little groggy. If you’re not used to it, being hit hard in the face like that even once can be extremely traumatic, particularly if you’re Sara’s build and it’s unexpected.
I still don’t know if she totally lost consciousness in the SUV or not. Still, first things first. I put my arm around her shoulder and lift her to a sitting position. She’s floppy and uncoordinated.
‘Listen, Sara. You’re covered in puke. I’m going to have to take these clothes off you and put them in the wash with mine. Then I want you to have a quick shower, then I’m going to take a look at you. You might be concussed and if you are, we’re going to have to think about what to do next. We may have to go to a hospital. Understand?’
Her blouse is covered in dark patches from the vomit and her skirt is in an even worse mess. There are spots of blood on her clothing as well, but that’s probably from me, or from Blond Hair, to be more accurate. The jacket I took from the SUV lies on the floor, also covered in vomit.
‘Are you OK with me undressing you? I don’t think you’re up to it. We have to move on with all of this. We can’t hang about.’
She looks up and gives me an arch glance. She sounds sleepy. ‘I’m not wearing a bra under this. It might be too much for you. Men have taken their own lives.’
I suddenly remember our kiss on Baker Street and wonder where we stand now. That seems like it was a few days ago, but I can still remember the softness of her mouth.
‘Listen, Sara. I’ve seen millions of naked women. Just in the last week there’ve been so many I’ve genuinely lost count. Think of me as a doctor or a priest.’
She laughs and holds her arms out to the side. I undo the buttons on her blouse and she moves each shoulder forward as I take the sleeves down. The fabric is soaking. I try to avoid looking at her breasts, but it’s impossible. They’re small and exquisitely well shaped. She catches my eye.
‘I can see where you’re looking, you know. I’m not silly.’
‘You’re imagining things. We’re going to stand up now. Are you ready?’
‘For what?’
I take her hands and get her to a standing position. I undo the clasp at the side of her skirt and let it fall to the floor. I’m obviously being punished for some appalling crime or crimes committed in a previous life, as she’s wearing a tiny delicate black silk thong with lace around the edges.
I take her hand and lead her into the bathroom. She’s a bit shaky, but nothing too serious. I resist putting an arm around her waist, patting her bottom, rubbing her back, biting her neck and a million other things that are occurring to me. I guess I’m something like a modern-day saint. I may have to contact the Church.
‘Have a quick shower and wash your hair. There’s some shampoo and conditioner in there and a Molton Brown shower gel. Don’t be long or I’ll be coming in to get you.’
‘Promises, promises.’
‘That’s all I’m capable of at the moment.’
‘That’s what they all say at first.’
‘You’re asking to be disciplined, young lady.’
‘They say that, too.’
She turns away from me and heads towards the shower. From behind, the thong can only be described as ‘bottom-revealing’. She has a lovely, well-toned back. I wonder if she works out.
I pick up my clothes from the floor, get Sara’s discarded items from the bedroom and stick them in the washing machine. She’ll need something to wear, so I find her a worn-out blue sweatshirt that’s a little too big for me, so it should cover her almost down to the knee. Just in case I’ve forgotten, I run a quick mantra through my head: I never sleep with clients, I never sleep with clients.
I’m going to have to have a serious think about all of this once I’ve checked that Sara’s OK. I get an A4 pad of cartridge paper and a black uni-ball pen and stick them on the kitchen table. I need a blast of bean-to-cup, so fill up the Siemens with Café Français and stick it on. I can hear the shower running and stop myself visualising Sara in there, naked, working shampoo into her hair and rubbing shower gel over that sleek body.
Damn.
Just as the Siemens is completing its task, Sara appears in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in a dark red towel, her hair wet and slicked back. I point to the blue sweatshirt on the back of one of the chairs.
‘Are you OK? You can wear this sweatshirt while your clothes are cooking.’
‘Aw. I thought you’d have a big man’s cotton shirt for me to wear so I looked like one of those sexy Sixties girls with tousled hair and a nonchalant pout.’
‘A shirt would be too revealing. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Hm.’
She picks up the sweatshirt and returns to the bathroom. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her yet. She can’t go back to work this afternoon, that’s for sure. One of us is going to have to contact one of her MTAs and make up some story.
We also have to find out what happened to Rachelle Beauchesne, who may or may not have contacted the police, if she’s not dead or in hospital after Blue Suit’s assault. These are nasty guys, whoever they are. But I’m getting too far ahead of myself.
When she returns from the bathroom, her hair is starting to dry. It wasn’t the effect I’d intended (I swear to you), but my old sweatshirt makes her look unbearably sexy and I can smell the Molton Brown Rhubarb and Rose Shower Gel on her. She sits across from me. I look at the small, blonde hairs on her legs. I hand her a coffee. I attempt to be serious and concerned as opposed to desirous and sleazy. It’s not easy. It’s never easy.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Woozy.’
‘After that guy hit you, do you think you were unconscious?’
She takes a sip of coffee, places her cup on the table and clasps her fingers together. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t quite remember everything. I remember the jeep or whatever it was stopping really suddenly and me being thrown forward onto the floor.’
‘Before that; do you remember being thrown into the jeep after they hit you?’
‘No.’
‘OK. As you were sick a few times, I just want to do a few little checks on you.’
‘I’m sorry about that. Being sick, I mean. And that woman’s car…’
‘Don’t worry about her. She was delighted to meet you. She probably won’t ever clean the car.’ I drag my chair across the kitchen floor so I’m sitting opposite her. Her skin is warm and glowing from the shower.
‘What’s your name?’
‘You’ve been working for me for two days and you don’t know that? You’re fired.’
‘Seriously. Tell me.’
‘Sara Holt.’
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Where are we, Sara?’
‘I assume we’re in your flat. It’s amazing. Did you decorate it yourself?’
‘No I didn’t. This is going to sound silly, but would you mind reciting the months of the year in reverse order?’
She looks puzzled, but she does it anyway. All OK.
‘Can you remember what was happening before you were hit?’
‘Hit? Rachelle. I was meeting Rachelle for lunch. She was waving at me from up Baker Street.’
‘How do you feel? Do you feel ill? Do you have a headache? Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?’
‘No. Just…’ She places a hand against the side o
f her face. ‘My face hurts all over here. Did you say I was hit? Was I punched?’
‘Yes. I think you may have been knocked out cold, at least momentarily.’
‘Hang on. I remember now; a big guy with blond hair.’
I get a torch from my man drawer, switch it on and shine it in her eyes. Her pupils constrict. All fine. I hold my finger up in front of me. ‘As quickly as you can, touch my finger then touch your own nose.’
She smiles as if this is some eccentric game I’ve created, suddenly looking really young. She manages this small coordination task without any problems. All clear, I think.
‘Let me know if you feel bad for any reason. I think you’re OK under the circumstances. I was afraid you were concussed. I don’t think you are but I had to check. But when all this is over you should go for a hospital check-up. Just to be on the safe side. Maybe get a dental appointment if you get any problems. Unusual aches and pains, bleeding from the mouth; that sort of thing.’
I touch the side of her face as gently as I can. There’s swelling around her cheekbone and I think she’s going to have a black eye. She flinches when my hand passes her jaw. Must have been one hell of a punch. I fetch a couple of paracetamol and a glass of water.
‘Turn your mobile off. You need a break. If no one can get hold of you for a while, it’s tough. I’m going out for a moment. I’m going to get some food. Have another coffee if you like. Under no circumstances answer the door to anyone.’
I’m very careful as I walk down Exeter Street and head towards The Strand, but there’s no sign of anyone watching me, nor should there be.
I’m a bit concerned about Rachelle. Whatever happened to her, the police will certainly be involved by now, particularly if she was seriously hurt. If the police talk to her, she’s going to tell them everything that happened and now they’ll have to get involved with Sara’s case, as this is no longer vague harassment but a kidnapping in broad daylight, albeit one that failed. I wanted Sara to turn her mobile off as I don’t want anyone calling her and telling her about Rachelle. Not yet. She’s had enough stress for one day.
Death is the New Black Page 19
