by Scott Hunter
Jangle, jangle…
Brodie’s stomach yawed, sweat erupted on his brow.
OK. Now what?
He couldn’t go down.
So, let’s go up…
He placed a foot carefully on the next step, prayed that it wouldn’t make a sound.
And the next.
He reached the top, drenched in sweat.
Come on, Duncan, where are you? Think …
It came back to him. He’d been a dormitory captain here, once, in another life. He was standing on the landing, the toilet was on his left and dormitory seven on the right. Matron’s lounge dead ahead.
And there was a fire escape directly from the lounge, he was sure there was. He remembered being fascinated by the green railings, the skeletal iron steps leading down the side of the building to safety; he had once asked one of the matron’s young assistants if he could open the fire door, have a go on the fire escape. She’d said no, of course. A Swedish girl, Brodie recalled, Miss Olssen…
He held his arms in front of him like a blind man, felt for the door handle he knew must be there. It was. He turned it, gently pushed, froze as it creaked before opening fully. He held his breath until he was sure he was still alone on this level, that Chan hadn’t crept up the stairs behind him.
Now, the window. He crossed the room, feeling his way until his hands met glass.
Bolted shut. Security lock.
Brodie clenched his fists.
Don’t panic.
He was safe for now. As long as he could keep out of sight, hide, even until the morning if necessary, all would be well. He’d be able to make a dash for it, somehow. Find a telephone, call for help.
Chan might give up. She was injured, maybe bleeding. Perhaps she’d pass out … or maybe she’d simply go away…
His sensory faculties fluttered, a fly’s twitch in a spider’s web, a heartbeat before the gentle footfall and hiss of Chan’s breath on his neck told him he’d been outmanoeuvred.
An arm encircled his neck, something cold pressed into his ribcage. ‘Oh, Duncan. I’m so disappointed in you.’
Jangle, jangle…
‘Were you looking for these, by the way?’
Charlie plodded up the drive, wondering how far she’d have to walk before she arrived at the school buildings.
The drive forked left, and she went with it. She was soon rewarded by the sight of a silhouette against the misty backdrop, the shape of a dark, foreboding building. Ahead, the drive split into two further gates separated by a decorative wall and a short stretch of grass. The way in, the way out.
Charlie took the gate closest to the main building. As she entered, she registered a number of prefabricated huts dotted around the grounds.
The drive delivered her to the impressive school frontage. Charlie’s heart gave a small skip as she saw the silver shape of a Lexus parked right outside.
Gotcha, Mr Brodie…
But what could she do to detain the entrepreneur, should he decide to take off?
Close the gates, for a start. She backtracked and swung the rusted ironwork across the gap, walked to the exit and repeated the process. The latter required freeing from a tangle of nettles and brambles that had wound their way around the gate’s hinges and lower cross-section. With a mighty effort, she tugged it free and swung the gate across. It wasn’t much, but it might hold Brodie up for just long enough.
Charlie brushed moss and flakes of rust from her trousers and headed towards the Lexus. What were Brodie and Chan doing here at this time of night? Why not visit in the morning when natural light would reveal how much work would be required to restore the old building?
The Lexus’ exhaust was cold to the touch; they’d been here a while. She walked to the end of the building where an archway led into a neglected landscaped garden. The dim outlines of untended borders were still discernible, as was the centrepiece, a sculpted pond fed by some kind of ornamental fountain, long since dried up.
All was still.
Charlie retraced her steps until, once again, she found herself by the front door. She stood back and looked up. Eagle Court had been a classic stately home in its pre-school days, and it certainly looked the part. It was imposing, almost gothic in design, with its arched windows and crenellated tower high above. What must it have been like to live here as a schoolboy? Especially under the regime Fiona Brodie had outlined. Charlie repressed a shudder. Memories of her own schooldays were warm, happy, home-based. What kind of parents sent their children to a place like this?
Charlie walked to the opposite side of the building. A narrow gap led to another prefabricated outbuilding parallel to the main house, which looked as though it may have functioned as a study hall or meeting room. She peered through a filthy window but could see only a few items of scattered furniture. Two long trestle tables, upended in a corner, a tall dais propped up against the far wall.
She continued along the side of the building. A concrete structure dead ahead caught her attention and she went to investigate, peered gingerly into the open entrance. A toilet block, the rows of undersized cubicles tailor made for under-twelves. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. This was nothing more than a prison camp for children.
She turned around to walk back to the car. Brodie would have to return to it eventually, and it would be reckless to search the main building on her own. Better keep out of sight, wait for Moran. He should be here by now. Unless the weather was causing major issues for the chopper. In which case … in which case, she would deal with whatever needed dealing with.
She found her way back to the Lexus, leaned against its sleek wing. Worth more than my annual salary, she thought. One day, maybe…
The silence was shattered by a loud crash, as if a door had been violently thrown open against an exterior wall. A howl of anguish split the air, tailing off in what sounded to Charlie’s shocked ears like a wild animal’s snarl of rage. Then the sound of footsteps, running hard…
Towards her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Brodie didn’t move a muscle – Chan was pressing the blade against his jugular, so it would have been unwise. Beyond the window, the geometry of his failed escape route – rusted, angular twists covered by peeling green paint – curled seductively to earth. Despair washed through him from head to toe. His limbs felt watery, pliable, as though his bones had been replaced by some alternative, sub- standard composite. His right thigh was throbbing dully.
The voice whispered softly in his ear, like a lover’s entreaty. ‘Shall we go back to the showers, Duncan?’
He allowed himself to be led towards the stairwell. But he wasn’t going to let her truss him up again. He’d rather risk all, than that. It was just a question of how and when.
‘Why kill me, Connie?’ His right foot felt for the the first step. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
The knife pressed harder into his flesh. ‘I don’t like to be crossed, Duncan. I don’t like to be used. And I’m upset about Isaiah. He didn’t deserve an end like that.’
‘What happened?’ They were half-way down the staircase now.
‘An automobile accident. His car was hit by a lorry.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Crazy, incongruous conversation.
‘Why, thank you. Turn left, please.’
There was a door leading to the outside world just before the changing room block. Was it bolted? It had often been left unlocked during the school day to accommodate pupils’ various comings and goings. Only a select few, the prefects, had been allowed to enter by the front portal. This door was a convenient side entrance to the refectory, changing rooms, dormitories. It had been referred to by masters and pupils alike as the ‘common door’.
But was it locked? And if so, would it resist a determined shoulder?
It wasn’t just a chance; it was his only chance. Beyond the common door lay the showers, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.
Just a few more steps.
‘You have alte
rnatives, Connie. You can stop all this. There are people who can help you.’
The knife dug savagely into his neck. ‘Help? There is no one to help me. There never was. I learned that very early in life, Duncan, so don’t talk to me about help.’
They were almost level with the common door. It was now or never.
He jerked his elbow back into Chan’s body, ducked his head forward to escape the knife, fell against the common door with all his weight. It stayed put, secure in its frame.
Try the handle you idiot …
His hand fumbled for the knob, turned it, pushed.
The common door flew open, and he threw himself through. He felt the knife graze his back, a sudden, shocking burning sensation. Then he was running towards the car.
Oh God, she still has the keys…
He was running, but his legs were struggling to cooperate. Here was the blind corner where one of the boys had almost been run over by a master’s car as he chased a friend to the rugby field. The wooden sign was still there, faded now:
NO RUNNING!
Hysteria welled in his throat. Where could he go?
Wait. There was someone by the car. Who…?
Brodie didn’t care. Another human being had entered his nightmare. They would help. Of course they would. He flung himself forward, Chan’s banshee-like screams ringing in his ears, lost his footing, fell spreadeagled at the feet of the new arrival.
Charlie saw immediately that the man was injured. His trousers were bloodstained, as was his shirt collar. But the man, presumably Duncan Brodie, wasn’t her priority, not right now. Her priority was the woman with the knife – no, two knives, one in each hand. They were all Charlie had eyes for, those two silver blades, moving this way and that as the woman assessed the new situation, decided on her best angle of attack.
Charlie heard herself tell the man that it was OK. Everything would be all right. Time seemed to slow and her mind filled with images of the break in at her apartment, not long after she’d arrived in her new post at Thames Valley – the assassin lying in wait, the cosh she’d only narrowly escaped from, the trail of blood as the would-be killer was impaled on the glass shards of her front door.
The last time.
And now, here she was again, facing a murderer.
Chan feinted right, went left. Charlie read it correctly, sucked her tummy in as the blade whickered through the air, glided harmlessly past. A miss.
‘Stop. I’m a police officer.’ Charlie held up both hands, the time-honoured signal of non-provocation.
Chan’s eyes flickered with – what? Excitement? Anticipation? Yes… definitely, she was getting a buzz out of this. She was moving gracefully from side to side, probing Charlie’s defences, waiting, watching. There was something of the martial arts in the woman’s movements, small as she was. Somewhere on the periphery of Charlie’s subconscious she heard Duncan Brodie moan in pain. It was a fleeting distraction, but Charlie saw Chan’s eyes dart to her original prey, just for a micro-second. It was enough. Charlie went in with her fists, dodged the left-hand knife, felt a sudden sting as the second grazed her shoulder, felt her fist strike Chan’s cheek with a slapping crunch.
Chan’s chin jerked up and Charlie followed her assault with an attempted uppercut, but Chan was too fast – she jerked her head back, slid out of reach and Charlie’s fist swept harmlessly through clean air. She ducked, anticipating the descending blades, allowed her initial impetus to carry her out of harm’s way.
Chan was still off-balance and Charlie charged at the woman’s midriff, using all her weight. They fell together, Charlie grabbing the sinewy arms tightly at both elbow joints to prevent Chan gaining an angle of attack. Something fell to the tarmac with a clink. A knife? No, a set of car keys. Was Brodie in a position to act on instructions? Chan was wriggling in Charlie’s vicelike grip, cursing, spitting.
‘Get the keys!’ Charlie yelled at Brodie. ‘Get in the car!’
She heard Brodie scrabbling about on the ground but Chan had grabbed her left ear in her teeth, was biting down hard. Charlie gasped. She used her only available weapon, her skull, flicked her head to the left, felt Chan’s cheekbone crack at the impact. She let go of Charlie’s ear with a howl. Charlie released Chan’s elbows, rolled away, got to her haunches.
The Lexus’ lights beeped on. Brodie was pulling at the door handle. Chan shrieked, lunged at him. Charlie tackled her but Chan’s arm came down and Charlie felt the knife enter her shoulder like a hot needle. She fell to her knees. Her arm wouldn’t obey her, it was getting number by the second. She felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
Brodie had made it into the car, closed the door behind him. Chan was attacking the passenger side window like a berserker, using both knives and hammering into the glass with repeated blows. Charlie’s vision blurred. Somewhere in the distance she heard a repetitive thrumming, maybe her own heartbeat, maybe the blood pounding in her temple…
She had to stop Chan, protect Brodie. She crawled forward, reached out with her good arm, heard the Lexus’ engine purr efficiently into life and then die abruptly as Chan crashed through the passenger window. Charlie lifted her arm, the wrong one. The pain made her gag, her head spin.
The lights went out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘That’s the spot,’ Moran yelled into his microphone as the helicopter hovered five hundred feet above the grass. Eagle Court’s old playing fields made an ideal landing strip for the Eurocopter. They’d already spotted a car parked outside the main building, and the heat source device Moran’s opposite number in the front was operating revealed the presence of three bodies – two static, one moving erratically in their direction. Moran hoped it was Charlie.
The pilot chose his spot and the aircraft settled gently on the turf. The rotors slowed, the racket gradually decreased and Moran was able to remove his headset. They were later arriving than he’d wanted to be, but he was thankful that the fog had lifted enough to make the intervention possible.
Moran stepped clear of the aircraft, bending low instinctively even though the rotors were still. The most recent plot of the moving body had veered east, towards the dilapidated shape of an old cricket pavilion.
‘Want me to check the status at the main building, Chief Inspector?’ The accompanying police observer, Ed Maynard, a genial sergeant from Abingdon, joined Moran on the overgrown games pitch.
‘If you would,’ Moran confirmed. ‘I’ll take a look over at the pavilion. Give me a shout if you need to.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Maynard moved off at a jog. The pilot was busy talking to control, confirming their position, fiddling with the instrument panel, doing what pilots do after landing. Moran left him to it, pausing only to reach into the fuselage to retrieve a heavy duty torch from beneath the rear seat.
The darkness of minimal light pollution along with the slowly dispersing fog made the going slow, Moran’s torchlight only serving to reduce his field of vision as it reflected against the surrounding mist. Whoever was on the move must have heard the descending helicopter – it would have taken a serious measure of hearing loss to miss it. Now that the runner had changed direction, elected to avoid a confrontation with the helicopter, Moran was sure it wasn’t Charlie. This left only a couple of possibilities, either of which were potentially dangerous.
‘Police. Show yourself,’ he called into the void. His voice came back to him flattened by the suffocating effect of the fog.
The pavilion was almost totally derelict, the frontage rotted and windows cracked or absent. Gaps left by two missing boards ran the length of the edifice beneath the roof, giving the impression that the structure was smiling sadly, wistfully recalling afternoons of white flannels and sausage rolls. A teetering scoreboard stood to one side with sad, numberless holes for eyes, like a loyal straight man guarding his ailing comic.
Moran was about to move on when he heard a series of clunks from inside the structure, as though an item of furniture had
been moved or some other heavy object displaced. He stepped gingerly onto the first of the two steps leading up to the pavilion’s shallow deck. Ahead, two interlocked, once partly glazed doors led into the main body of the building. Now they were empty rectangles of darkness. Moran went forward, played the beam of his torch in and around the interior. Not much to see.
Wait.
In the far corner, from behind what might once have been a trestle table, now upended, his torchlight picked out a trouser leg, ridden up to reveal white flesh and a shoeless bare foot.
‘I’m coming in. Police.’ Moran announced, for his own benefit more than anything else. He moved across the floorboards cautiously, fearful that one might give way under his weight, but also alert to the possibility of sudden aggression.
There was no movement from whoever was slumped in the corner. If mischief was intended, they’d have made a move by now. He relaxed a fraction, advanced slowly, shone the torch into the gap behind the table.
A woman was sitting curled up, her back to the wall. She looked Asian, exotic. Her long, glossy black hair was caked with blood. As Moran’s light reached her face he saw the angry, purple bruise just parallel to her right eye. A trickle of blood ran from its corner to her chin, but the woman made no effort to wipe it away. Her eyes were vacant, almost pleading.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Moran said gently. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance, get you some medical assistance. Do you understand?’
The woman nodded, but the next instant her eyes widened in panic and she lunged forward, grabbed his trouser leg. Moran’s instinct was to pull back, treat the gesture as potentially offensive, but then he saw that she was crying, her tears creating watery tracks on her bloodstained cheek. ‘Please,’ she looked at him beseechingly. ‘Please don’t tell my uncle I’m here. Please don’t let him hurt me.’
‘A little blood loss, no major arterial damage, should be fine in a week or so, if a little sore in the meantime,’ Moran announced. ‘That’s the doc’s verdict. And you are one lucky officer, DI Pepper.’
