Killer Instinct: Charlie Fox book one

by Zoe Sharp

  In a practised instant Tommy brought his hand up easily from his belt, aiming a small aerosol. It was the smell of the propellant that was over-powering and horribly familiar. Reflex made me stop breathing, spinning my head away, squeezing my eyes tight shut. Len's fingers just brushed my throat as I tumbled past him. As for me, I missed my intended target completely, but at least I managed to avoid the spray.

  Len wasn't so lucky. He got the full brunt, flat in the face. He made it worse for himself by having his eyes and mouth wide open, drawing in breath to yell a defiant battle cry as he went. The effect as the fine mist hit him was electrifying.

  His eyes and nose began to stream instantly, like he'd been drenched with water. His face bloomed into redness. In half a second he was on his knees, hands over his face, contorted and screaming.

  I ended up on my hands and knees almost alongside him, but he was too wrapped up in his own torment to care. He'd lost all interest in whatever nasty end he'd been planning for me, utterly compelled by the burning agony of his skin, the acid scorching of the delicate membranes.

  The British police use CS gas in a six percent solution, stronger than the stuff they'd practised on us in the army. And that was more than enough to fell an ox, to turn grown men into cowering wrecks. I'd just caught a by-blow and I knew I'd got away lightly.

  Tommy helped me to my feet for a second time, and told me not to rub my eyes. I fought hard against the swell of nausea that rolled through my body. I reckoned I was probably in enough trouble without adding “vomiting on a police officer” to the list of charges.

  The other men returned with a clear plastic bag filled with goodies from Len's store cupboard. MacMillan looked at them for a long moment, then turned back to me with something akin to respect in his muddy green eyes.

  He put his hand on my arm, gave it the faintest squeeze. It was probably as near as I was going to get to thanks or apology. He let his hand drop and turned away from me. “Right, bring the van round and let's get laughing boy here taken down to the nick before he really loses his temper and—”

  “Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on in my club?”

  Marc's voice cut through the assembly like a samurai sword through silk. He advanced smoothly and took in the scene. The numbers of police, MacMillan's unspoken authority, Len's incapacity, the damning bag of drugs.

  Maybe I only saw the fractured moment of hesitation because I was looking for it, searching for it. Hoping against hope that I wouldn't see it.

  Marc turned to me. Handsome, successful, sleek and charming Marc, who'd rescued and bedded me. And I'd rolled over like the stupid gullible little fool that I was.

  “Charlie! Christ, are you OK darling?”

  I moved towards him. He held his arms out to me. There was relief in his eyes. I could see his mind beginning to whirl, searching for an escape, an excuse. In his mind, Len was already convicted, jettisoned, betrayed. He was clinging to the chance to move forwards, move on.

  My eyes were locked on a point to the side of Marc's beautiful lean jawline. As my fist landed I must admit it made a very satisfactory smack. I connected plenty hard enough to make my already bruised hand sing.

  Marc's head snapped round to the side and he staggered backwards, pupils dilating, glassy. Only shock kept him on his feet. One of the coppers had to grab his arms, steady him, or he would have ended up on the floor.

  MacMillan rounded on me, pinned me with an astounded glare. “What the—?”

  “If you've got a van on the way, you may as well take him, too,” I said, my voice clear and cold as Christmas. I nodded to Marc, then to Len and the drugs. “He told me once that nobody with any sense tried to bring anything in to his club, and he was right. They didn't need to, because he knew, better than anyone, that they could buy whatever drugs they wanted once they were here. He's the real one behind all this, not Len. Isn't that right, Marc?”

  Twenty-three

  “I think,” MacMillan said grimly, “that you'd better start at the beginning and this time, tell me everything.”

  We'd moved from the club proper to the manager's office where I'd set my abortive trap for Angelo. Len had been carted away, still yelling, but Marc had been handcuffed and brought with us. After recovering from the shock of being clouted so unexpectedly, his face was utterly unreadable.

  Now MacMillan took the chair behind Marc's desk, subtly supplanting his authority. He leaned his elbows on the desk top and linked his fingers together with great precision.

  “Well, Charlie, I think it's safe to say that you have our undivided attention.” He'd dropped the Miss Fox again, I noted wryly.

  I swallowed, easing myself into one of the leather chairs opposite. They'd given me a cold cloth to hold over my swelling eye, but I had the mother of all headaches lurking just behind it. Everything hurt. I flexed my right hand warily. The knuckles had stiffened until I couldn't clench them without feeling as though my skin was going to split.

  I glanced at the two men opposite. Both had their eyes fixed on me, expectant.

  “It started with a man who wanted so desperately to escape his roots that he lost his sense of morality somewhere on the journey,” I began, staring Marc straight in the face.

  He made a growl of protest, shifted his weight as if to stand, but MacMillan stilled him with a small movement of his hand. “Sit down, Mr Quinn,” he warned softly. Marc subsided, looking disturbed with himself that he should have obeyed the Superintendent's quiet command.

  “When you've no money, no qualifications and are given no quarter by anyone, drugs must seem a very attractive proposition,” I went on neutrally. “Where better place to sell the more up-market stuff – Ecstasy, cocaine, speed – than in a nightclub? After all, the boys on the door will make damned sure nobody brings their own in, so they're a captive market, a ready audience. And it was all going swimmingly until Angelo Zachary stepped out of line.”

  Marc's head came up. He was too proud to beg me to stop, but there was the fear in his eyes now, and maybe even a trace of hurt surprise, too. I closed my heart to the fact I held his future, his freedom in my hands, and pressed on.

  “Angelo, you see,” I told MacMillan, “has some nastily sadistic tendencies. When he's not playing SS man here, he likes to watch videos designed for a very specialised taste – that's when he's not beating up his girlfriend, of course.”

  I glanced at the Superintendent, not entirely sure what I'd see, but both he and Marc were sitting impassive. MacMillan gestured silently for me to go on.

  “Unfortunately, they don't come cheap, and Angelo hired out rather a lot of these videos, from a guy called Terry Rothwell.” The policeman tried not to show he had just snapped to attention, but I caught the betraying twitch of his hands.

  “He had so many, built up such a tab, that when Terry eventually insisted he settle up, Angelo couldn't do it. So, he faked a robbery here at the club. He nicked a few expensive items of office equipment, like a lap-top computer, making sure others took the blame, and paid his debt that way.”

  That was one thing Marc hadn't figured out. Not until I'd opened up to him that night in the flat. He'd agreed to set the trap for Angelo not because he wanted to see if he'd killed Terry. Oh no, he already knew all about that. He wanted to know if Angelo had committed the far more serious crime of lying to him.

  “The only trouble was,” I continued, “that I think the lap-top had been used to record information about the drugs being dealt here, and although Angelo wiped the data files, he thought he'd get cute and not tell Terry about the password. If he hadn't done that, Terry would probably never have looked any further into it. As it was, he just made it more suspicious. And Angelo wasn't to know that Terry would have a friend who had another friend who was good enough with computers to retrieve the files.”

  “You.” MacMillan murmured the single word as a statement, not a question.

  I nodded briefly, wanting to keep Sam out of this. “I didn't know where he
'd got the damned thing, but when I told him what data we'd managed to restore, Terry obviously decided to have a go at a little light blackmail.”

  It was MacMillan who nodded now, understanding. “And when he tried that, Angelo killed him,” he said, almost to himself. He moved quickly to his feet. “I'll make sure we've got Zachary.” He frowned as he noted my more obvious injuries. “Will you be all right on your own here with him for a moment?”

  “I expect so,” I said. Even in this state I was fairly sure I could handle a handcuffed man on my own. It seemed so wrong to see Marc restrained in that way, as though all his self-confidence and polish was slipping away.

  MacMillan nodded, as though he hadn't really doubted that I could, and hurried from the room.

  As the door closed behind him I glanced at Marc, taking up the thread again for his benefit, and feeling I could speak more freely now. “The problem was, when Angelo went round to see him, Terry didn't have the lap-top to give back to him, not with any persuasion. It could be that Angelo had meant to kill him anyway – he's certainly the type – or maybe he just lost his rag. Whichever way it happened, afterwards Angelo panicked, and he came back to tell his mate, Len what he'd done.”

  I remembered Dave's report of the conversation he'd overheard. Len telling Angelo that he'd gone too far this time, that he didn't think he'd be able to cover up for him. At the time I'd thought Angelo was dealing drugs off his own bat. Now I knew different.

  “Of course, the first thing Len did was turn to you.” I flickered my gaze towards his face, but was not rewarded with a response. “Len thinks you walk on water,” I said. “He would follow you to hell and back and not turn a hair.” I paused, then couldn't resist adding icily, “It's a good job, because after this, he's probably going to have to.”

  Marc's face twisted then. He must have known what was coming, but had still hoped against hope that I would veer off course at the last minute. I watched the realisation form for a few moments before I dug the knife in.

  “He knew you would take care of the problem, and that problem was me. I suppose I should have known,” I murmured. “The first time I met you, you gave me fair enough warning. If you work for me, you don't break the rules, you said. Not for anyone.” I shrugged. “I didn't realise you meant your rules. I unwittingly stepped on your toes, so you sent the boys round. Nothing personal, that's just the way the game goes. Simple, really.”

  He spread his hands to the limit of the handcuffs' chain, then let them drop back into his lap. “I couldn't just let it go, Charlie, you must realise that.” I was surprised to hear a note of pleading in his voice. “I never dreamed you'd get so involved, would take it so far. I told them to go easy on you. They didn't listen.”

  I gave a short, harsh laugh. “And I'm supposed to be thankful for that? Oh you told them to go easy on me all right, but not so easy. You didn't bother to tell them that Charlie wasn't a bloke's name, did you? What's the matter, Marc, afraid your boys wouldn't have the stomach for beating up a woman? Well, at least they didn't quite manage to stick a knife in my guts, like poor old Terry got from Angelo, now did they?”

  He tried to run an exasperated hand quickly through his hair, nearly smacked himself in the face when the other one came along with it. Even his coordination seemed to have gone.

  “That was a mistake. Angelo went too far.” He stopped, took a breath, started again. “All I wanted to do was scare you off, stop you from following this course. I should have known that you wouldn't scare so easily.” He tried a half-hearted smile, rose and made as if to move towards me. “Charlie, it doesn't need to end like this.”

  “That's plenty far enough, Marc.” There must have been something in my face. He searched it for a long moment, then advanced no further.

  “The really ironic thing is,” I went on, “that Terry didn't have anything to threaten you with anyway. All we were able to get off that damned computer were a few file names and one list of dates. There was nothing that couldn't have been explained away or swept under the carpet.” Marc closed his eyes as if asking his God to help him.

  “I don't know how Terry got to know about what was going on here. Maybe Angelo offered him something in the beginning as a trade. Terry wouldn't have accepted it. He was very anti-drugs.

  “Whatever,” I continued, “Terry had enough to drop a few of the right words onto Angelo. Did he ask for money? A charitable donation, maybe? That would have been like him. Striking a blow for freedom, he would have seen it as. A bit of private enterprise.”

  “Charlie—” Marc protested.

  “You took great pains to retrieve that computer, didn't you?” I ploughed on as though he hadn't spoken. “That was why you sent your thugs after me. They obviously had orders not only to get the lap-top back, but to persuade me not to go to the police as well.”

  I put a trace of emphasis on the word “persuade”, just as I could imagine Marc had done when he'd originally briefed his boys. I understood the reason for the delay coming to get me now. He'd had to bring them in from one of his other clubs specially. And he couldn't take them away from work on a Saturday night, now could he?

  Marc didn't deny it. A part of me still hoped that he would, that I was wrong. He sat looking defeated, shoulders slumped, and didn't even meet my eyes. I hardened my heart along with my resolve, and kept going.

  “What I really can't forgive, Marc,” I said acidly, mildly gratified by the fact that my voice didn't waver, “is that after you'd let your boys work me over, you took me back to your hotel and gave me a working over of your own. Was that all part of the careful plan? The softly softly approach just in case they hadn't been able to beat enough out of me?”

  His head came up at that, eyes haunted, face bloodless. “Charlie, I swear I never meant for that to happen either.” His voice was a whisper, truth cutting through like daylight. Not that it mattered, I suppose, whether he was lying or not.

  Not any more.

  “Are you so cold,” he demanded, “that what we had together – what we shared together – really meant nothing to you?”

  I'd shied away from pursuing that subject too closely. The wound was still too raw. Instead I met his gaze levelly. “Not when you saw it as nothing more than a means of control over me,” I said, “no it didn't.”

  The silence was still hanging between us when the door opened and MacMillan reappeared. His sharp eyes flicked between us, as though expecting to see fresh blood on one or the other.

  “Well,” he said, “you didn't hit him again, then.” I couldn't tell from his tone whether he was relieved or disappointed.

  “Did you get Angelo?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not yet, I've got my men checking, but it's chaos out there, I'm afraid.” He peered at me closely, seemed to read my mind, and sighed. “What else haven't you told me?”

  I hesitated before I spoke. “Yesterday we tried to lay a bit of a trap here for Angelo. Both Marc and I wanted to confront him about the lap-top, but not for the same reasons, it seems.”

  MacMillan perked up again. “What happened?”

  “We didn't catch him, but we did discover that his alibi for the night Susie Hollins died was false,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I think he might be your serial rapist.”

  I explained about Gary's confession. “Angelo must have thought it was a close call. This morning he left me this.” I peeled the anonymous note I'd received out of my back pocket and handed it to MacMillan. He looked at it without removing it from the clear plastic bag I'd put it in, his expression sober.

  “You need to be very, very careful on this until we're sure we've got him in custody, Charlie,” he cautioned. “He's a very dangerous man.”

  “No shit, Einstein?” I bit back, unable to stop the rising sarcastic inflection. Careful? Right now I didn't even have the energy to go carefully down a flight of stairs.

  MacMillan frowned at me and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door and one of his plainclothes m
en leant round the edge. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said respectfully, “but there's no sign of Zachary. Apparently when we showed up he belted one of the bobbies good style and did a runner. I've got a car on the way to his last-known address now.”

  “He was going out with one of the bar staff, a girl called Victoria,” I informed him. “She might know where he'd have gone. You can't miss her – she's the one Angelo's been using for target practice.”

  The man nodded without asking for further explanations, and ducked out again.

  MacMillan nodded, satisfied, and got to his feet. “I think you can leave things solely to us from now on, Charlie,” he said firmly. “I'll have you escorted home and get a WPC to stay with you until we've got our hands on this Angelo character.”

  “But can you at least tell me if that fits?” I demanded. “If there's any evidence to link Terry's death with those of the two women?”