Third Strike: A Charlie Fox Mystery

by Zoe Sharp

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said. “We thought we’d give this a whirl the old-fashioned way before we go for a full-scale assault from the roof.”

  “‘The old-fashioned way’?” Madeleine queried.

  “Hm,” I said. “I know it sounds radical, but we were going to try knocking on the front door … .”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Take the next lane coming up on the right,” I said. “The house is about a mile and a half further down, on the right.”

  The instructions were probably unnecessary. Sean had been to my parents’ place on at least three occasions over the years, which meant he could have found it again blindfolded. He had that annoyingly uncanny sense of direction.

  Now, I clutched for the center armrest as the Shogun swayed violently. “And can you please try and remember they still drive on the left over here? These roads are too narrow to go bowling down the middle at this speed.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Sean said mildly, not slackening his pace. “I’m just making best use of the visibility—hedging my bets.”

  “Hedge will be the operative word if you meet one of the locals towing a trailer with half a ton of horse in it,” I snapped.

  “Calm down, Charlie,” Sean said, sounding irritatingly placid. “We need to decide how we’re going to handle this. We don’t know what—if anything—we’re walking into.”

  “Simple,” I said, aware of a tightness in my chest that made it difficult to breathe. “We knock on the front door and, if there’s anyone I don’t recognize in the house with my mother, we kick the shit out of them and go home. Next?”

  He pursed his lips as he stuck the unwieldy 4×4 into a narrow, blind left-hander, his movements deceptively slow when things seemed to be happening around him so fast.

  “In essence, I like it,” he said lightly. “What it lacks in style it makes up for in dumb simplicity.” His voice hardened. “What makes you think you’ll get further than the threshold before they cut her throat?”

  His choice of words was deliberate, I knew. It jolted me out of my focused little bubble of anger, made my hand stray automatically towards my own throat, to the fading scar that lay hidden beneath the high neck of my sweater.

  I thought suddenly of Madeleine. “Feminine wiles,” I said. I sat up straight in my seat and gave him my most brilliant vacuous smile. “Oh, Mummy, I’m awfully sorry to barge in on you like this, but I just had to bring my new boyfriend home to meet you.” I clapped my hands together a couple of times, a proper spoiled little princess, then clasped them together under my chin and put my head on one side like a particularly stupid spaniel. “Isn’t he just super?”

  The utter disbelief on Sean’s face would have been more comical if he’d kept his eyes on the road. As it was, he only managed to jerk the nearside wheels out of the gutter at the last moment.

  “Oh my good God,” he spluttered, hardly able to steer for laughing. “You do that terrifyingly well.”

  “Super,” I said, and let the bimbo act drop. “You’re going to have to do it, too. You can be something in the City that doesn’t require a brain. You’ll just have to pretend you don’t have a chin, either.”

  “Investment banker?” Sean suggested, lips twitching. “No, I know—I’ll be a political spin doctor.”

  “No,” I said. “It needs to be something where they’re not going to suspect you’re capable of sticking a knife in their backs. Civil servant?”

  He shook his head. “These days, all the bad guys know that’s doublespeak for MI5,” he said. “Are we really going to let things go far enough for me to need a cover story?”

  “Probably not, but you were the one who taught me the value of good prep. You’ll need a different name, though. Sean makes you sound too tough.”

  “Blame my mother,” he said carelessly. “She was very big on James Bond when I was born.”

  I twisted in my seat. “You were named after Sean Connery?” I said in wonder. “Really?”

  He frowned, as though he’d just realized that was one piece of family history he probably shouldn’t have shared. Then he nodded and gave a wry smile.

  “My sister’s called Ursula and my younger brother’s Roger. You work it out,” he said. Ursula Andress and Roger Moore. Who would have thought it? “We even had a dog called No—it was a bugger trying to teach it anything.”

  I laughed out loud and registered that we were nearly at the ivy-clad gateposts that marked the entrance to my parents’ driveway and he’d humored the nerves out of me, made the last mile or so that much more bearable.

  “So, pick a suitable upper-class-twit name or I’ll pick one for you,” I said, ruthless nevertheless.

  “How about—” that beatific smile—“Auric?”

  “As in Goldfinger? Get real. Okay, you’ve had your chance, mate … .”

  “Mummy darling!” I squeaked as soon as the front door opened to my knock. “I’m awfully sorry to arrive unannounced and all that, but I had to let you meet Dominic. Isn’t he just divine?”

  Sean had time to glare at me before he shouldered his way through the narrow opening, looking for all the world as if I was the one thrusting him eagerly inside. My mother, without a chance of mounting a viable defense, backed up into the tiled hallway, nothing but bewilderment on her smooth features.

  She looked normal. Normal for my mother, that is. Hair set and face perfect, she was wearing a high-neck cream silk blouse with a fine-knit wool cardigan over it, probably cashmere, and, yes, pearls at her throat and ears. She’d finished off the ensemble with a tweed skirt and sensible shoes. Every inch the countrified English lady.

  And not the slightest sign that she was being held here under duress.

  For an expanded moment, we stood there, the three of us. It felt to me that I saw everything in that austere space in the blink of an eye. The gleaming black-and-white diagonal set of the tiles underfoot, the old church pew that doubled as a repository for car keys and unopened mail, with a line of scrubbed Wellington boots beneath, the polished dark wood staircase stretching to the upper floor.

  And the two unidentified jackets on the pegs below the antique mirror.

  I glanced up at it, saw the crack of the slightly open door to the drawing room reflected there, and instinctively held out my arms wide.

  “Mummy, it’s so lovely to see you,” I said, my voice still loud and as guileless as I could make it. “Now, I know it’s naughty of us to just pop up from London like this, but Nicky’s just so impulsive.” I threw Sean an adoring glance and he, to his credit, managed to smile indulgently at me rather than vomit.

  For another second my mother stared at me with a kind of horrified expression, but that could have been wholly accounted for by my lunatic behavior. I waited a beat longer. If I was totally off base, all I’d done was make an ass of myself. But, if not …

  Then, numbly, she shuffled forwards and allowed herself to be engulfed in a big daughterly hug, when the most physical contact she’d initiated in years was a chaste hello/good-bye kiss to her powdered cheek. She vibrated with tension in my arms. I put my mouth very close to the pearl stud in her ear and murmured, “Where are they?”

  If that was possible, she stiffened, as though I’d suggested something indecent, and pulled back. Then her eyes swiveled, very deliberately—towards the staircase and back. Towards the drawing room and back.

  “Darling,” she said, her voice croaky. She cleared her throat. “Um, how wonderful to see you. What a nice surprise! I’m afraid I—I can’t really offer you lunch or—”

  “Oh, gosh, we couldn’t possibly put you to all that trouble at such short notice,” I interrupted gaily. “Besides, I promised darling Nicky I’d show him a real country pub.” I gave a tinkling little laugh. “He’s fully expecting a bunch of yokels with straw in their mouths and string round their trouser legs. I’ve told him he’s more likely to rub shoulders with the same stockbrokers here that he does up in Town.”

  My mother stepped ou
t of my embrace and turned to Sean, who’d been waiting politely for us to finish our show of familial affection.

  “Mrs. Foxcroft, it’s such a pleasure,” he said, in that kind of drawling, slightly bored upper-class voice you can’t escape from in the trendy parts of Soho. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He grasped my mother’s arms and made a production of air-kissing her on both cheeks. I thought she was going to faint. “And now that I’ve met you, all I can say is that you must have had your daughter when you were awfully young.”

  My mother flushed and preened automatically, a knee-jerk response to the heavily ladled charm. Then she threw me an utterly confused look and stumbled back a pace.

  “We just thought we’d stop off for a nice cup of tea, then we’ll be on our way,” I said deliberately, moving forward to take her arm. “And perhaps one of your scrummy cakes? I’ve been telling Nicky what a total angel you are in the kitchen.” I glanced at Sean with a huge smile and added wickedly, “Mummy’s buns are absolutely to die for.”

  Sean’s expression froze momentarily as he fought for control over it, then relaxed into courteous attention. “Oh I’m sure they are,” he murmured, and threw me a warning glance. Don’t push it. This is not a game.

  Trust me. I know.

  “Oh, er, well, please do come through,” my mother said, any double entendres going straight over her head. She pushed open the door to the drawing room and led us inside.

  I don’t know quite what I’d been expecting, but the sight that greeted me wasn’t it. The only occupant of that starchily formal room was a tall blond woman, who sat on the sofa with her legs gracefully arranged, her long shins slanted alongside each other, knees pressed demurely together.

  She had apparently been flicking through the pages of the magazine that lay open on her lap—The Field, if the photo spread of gundogs was anything to go by. When we walked in she put the magazine aside and glanced up with nothing but polite inquiry on her strong-boned face.

  I took one look at the way she emptied her hands and knew she was a player.

  “Oh, gosh, Mummy, we didn’t realize you had visitors,” I cried, going all aflutter. “How awfully rude of us!” I bounded forwards, closing rapidly on the woman on the sofa. My intention was to overcrowd her but she unfolded her legs and got to her feet faster than I’d hoped.

  “Awfully rude of us,” I repeated, having to lift my gaze to look her in the eye as I pumped her hand with a purposefully limp grip. The short-sleeve dress she wore showed off lean, well-defined muscles, but, even close-up, her face bore no scar tissue to show she was a fighter, and no hint that she’d had surgical help to remove it.

  Now, I pulled a little moue and treated this stranger to a conspiratorial smile. “I just couldn’t wait to show off darling Nicky.”

  “Well, I can’t say I blame you for that,” the woman said, dropping my flaccid hand as soon as she was able to.

  Her accent was American—educated midwestern, if I was any judge. As she spoke, she ran her glittering eyes over Sean in a slow predatory survey. He bore it with an arrogant indifference, as though this kind of female adoration happened all the time and was just another cross he had to bear. “Wherever did she find you?”

  Sean’s expression became ever more languid. “Polo,” he said, and smiled at me as though the sun rose and fell in my eyes. “I have a small string.”

  “Really?” Blondie said, swallowing it and impressed, despite herself. “Well, you should talk to my … associate. He’s the horse nut.”

  My mother had slunk silently into her favorite armchair next to the original Adam-style fireplace during this brief exchange. Her gaze was not inside the room and her hands were trembling. She’d been knitting—something she did only when she was upset—the beginnings of an Aran sweater, by the looks of it. The heavy-gauge wool and number-two needles and all the related paraphernalia were stuffed into an old brocade bag at the side of the chair. She picked it up now, stared at the partially completed garment, then put it down again without seeing a thing.

  “Your associate?” I queried, moving to my mother’s side. I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder but she didn’t respond to my touch.

  “Yes—Don,” Blondie said, eyes narrowed slightly as she watched my mother’s nerve start to fail. “He’s just upstairs. I’ll call him down.”

  “Why don’t I make us all that cup of tea?” I suggested. “Nicky, could you—”

  “No,” the woman said. A command, delivered like one. I stopped and regarded her with wide, innocent eyes. “No tea,” she said, sharper now.

  “Coffee, then?” I said brightly.

  “No goddamn drinks, okay?” she said. Her voice went surprisingly harsh when it was raised. “Don! Get your goddamn ass down here, right now!”

  The mysterious Don must have already reached the hallway, because the door opened with barely a pause. A big man stepped into the room and I saw at once why he’d been sent to lurk upstairs while Blondie handled the social interaction.

  He was huge, with a shaved head and a slightly Oriental slant to his eyes, and wearing a gray suit. After our earlier discussion on James Bond, the only thing that went through my head was: Oddjob. All he needed was a bowler hat with a steel brim. I guessed his only connection to horses was that he could probably lift one.

  Sean had been standing with his back almost to the door when it opened. Without a flicker, he brought his right arm sweeping back, elbow bent, to smash it into Don’s windpipe. His reaction was instinctive, deadly as a striking snake. He hardly even seemed to look to find his target.

  The big man staggered back against the wall, hands to his throat, making urgent gurgling noises. Sean crouched and spun, using the momentum to load his full bodyweight behind a punch to the man’s groin. Don’s gurgles momentarily rose in pitch and volume, then he went utterly silent and started to slither floorwards.

  Blondie, meanwhile, overrode her natural startle reflex to leap for Sean. I ducked and hit her hard with my shoulder as she flew past me, deflecting her back onto the sofa. She bounced straight up again, eyes slitted, and instantly threw a vicious kick. Whatever that dress was made of, there was plenty of stretch to it.

  She must have been used to sparring with male opponents. It was the only reason I could think of that she automatically aimed for testicles I clearly didn’t own. I twisted slightly and took the brunt of it on my hip. Left hip. Bad idea. The pain sizzled down through my leg like hot fat.

  I blocked it with adrenaline and anger, and charged her. If you’re fighting someone with a short weapon, you stay out of range. But against a long weapon, you have to get in close. I reckoned those well-muscled legs counted as a pair of long weapons. She was quick, though, grabbing both my upper arms with viselike fingers, her breath hot in my face.

  Her skill so far had told me she was trained but was not a fighter by nature. And she clearly didn’t spar with anyone who was willing to mess up those elegant features. I snapped my head forwards to butt her full in the middle of her long slim nose with my forehead, hearing the solid crunching tear of cartilage right before the scream.

  Mother!

  I reared back. My mother had shrunk into her chair, terrified into silence by the sudden eruption of violence around her. It was only when she saw the blood start to squirt that she’d let rip.

  Blondie tried to boot me in the stomach but I was close enough to downgrade the blow into a shove. Even so, I cannoned back into the arm of my mother’s chair. As I sprawled over it, the abandoned knitting loomed large in my field of vision. I grabbed for one of the needles and yanked it straight out of the web of wool that anchored it.

  When Blondie tried to launch another venomous kick—towards my head this time—I stabbed the twelve-inch needle straight through the fleshy part of her right thigh with enough force to penetrate the muscle completely and tent—but not break—the skin on the other side.

  She collapsed back onto the sofa, yelping in her distress. I glanced at Sean. He’d g
ot Don on his knees with his face jammed hard up against the wall by the doorway. He had the big man’s feet crossed at the ankles and fingers linked on top of his head. Sean’s hand almost disappeared into the folds of flesh at the back of his captive’s neck with the force he was using to keep him there.

  He nodded to me. I nodded back.

  “I’m guessing the polo was pushing it too far, huh?”

  I managed a rusty half smile. Blondie was still rolling around on the sofa, trying to evade the pain. She certainly knew a lot of very innovative swearwords for someone so well-bred but, other than invective, she was out of fight. The shock of the unexpected blow to the face had more to do with it than the severity of either injury, in my opinion.

  Her nervous system had certainly prioritized the broken nose over the hole through her leg. I’d managed to split the skin of the bridge as well as damage the underlying structure. Hardly surprising that my forehead felt like I’d a lump the size of a golf ball on it. Blondie needed her nose packed and set and probably glued back together as well, but it wasn’t life-threatening. She could damn well wait.

  Meanwhile, I wasn’t going to leave her with a weapon, albeit an embedded one. I leaned down and, before she could protest, yanked the needle back out of her flesh with deliberate carelessness. That seemed to bring the leg wound back to prominence again. I felt the ache in my own thigh and was aloof to her pain.

  I glanced over at my mother. She was quiet now, but with that dangerously calm demeanor that usually denotes a part of the brain is refusing to accept the input offered to it and has temporarily closed for repair.

  Very slowly, she got to her feet, her movements jerky and stiff.

  “Actually, I think a cup of tea might be a very good idea, Charlotte,” she said, her voice rather reedy. “Don’t you?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mother—” I began, but Sean caught my eye and gave a tiny shake of his head. Let her do it. Something normal. It’s her way of coping.