The crowd around Foster and the tout had gone back to watching the big screen, too, happy to disengage from the momentary unpleasantness.
‘Big day for Noah Saunders,’ the commentary continued. ‘He’s been given the umpire’s chair for the final at short notice, due to Rachel Clapham being taken ill. He comes from a tennis family. His brother was a talented player, but sadly he took his own life a year ago today.’
Keller bounced the ball on the service line, and the crowd hushed. The commentator continued in quiet tones.
‘Yes, it must have been a roller coaster of a year for Noah Saunders, and it’s good to see him in the chair today.’
Keller fired into the net and the crowd on the lawn groaned.
‘Helluva bruise on his neck, mind you,’ said the Australian. ‘Looks like he’s been in the wars.’
Someone in the TV gallery must have been listening because the picture cut to a view of the umpire, and a livid purple bruise on the side of his neck. And in that moment Foster’s instinct was triggered. He was about to turn back to Centre Court when he felt the presence of someone behind him, and turned to see a broad-shouldered security guard at his back. Another guard arrived behind the ticket tout.
‘Is everything okay, gentlemen?’
The tout swore under his breath.
‘Fine,’ Foster said. ‘I need to get back inside Centre.’
The guards didn’t move.
‘Can I ask what the altercation was about, sir?’
He was professional, and his courteous attitude seemed genuine enough. But Foster didn’t have time for it.
‘This guy’s touting. I saw him, and he ran.’
The guard looked from Foster to the other man, then nodded to his two colleagues, who escorted the tout away from Murray Mound towards the exits. Over the guard’s shoulder the big screen was still showing the Centre Court action. Keller looked fine. Composed. The live feed cut to a shot of the scoreboard. Thirty all, first game. Not that the score mattered to Foster any more.
‘Sir, I need to take some details from you.’
Foster snapped back to his situation on Murray Mound.
‘What details?’ he said, already beginning to move towards Centre Court.
‘Whenever there’s an incident,’ the guard said, walking alongside Foster, ‘we have to fill in a log. You have to sign it.’
Foster broke into a jog.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I don’t have time.’
The guard got physical, really quickly. He put a restraining hand on the arm of Foster’s jacket and reached to grab his shoulder with the other.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but it’s our policy that anyone—’
He never finished the sentence. Foster twisted out of the guy’s grip and kicked his legs from under him. The guard was a mass of muscle, and he fell hard. Foster put a knee between his shoulder blades and then patted him on the back as he faced the ground.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said to him. ‘But I’ve absolutely got to go. You’ll understand later, trust me.’
Foster pushed up and away, and by the time the guard got to his feet and reached for the radio on his lapel, Foster was out of sight. Another guard tried to stop him at the entrance to the court, but Foster pushed past.
An excited hush descended over the crowd and Foster’s feet scuffed audibly as he made his way quickly towards his seat. He looked at the umpire, perched on top of the green chair, high above the action. Foster could see the livid purple bruise on the left side of his neck. A bruise that could have been caused by being punched hard in the throat.
On the court, Kirsten Keller smashed a forehand just inside the white line for a clean winner and the stadium erupted. But Foster didn’t see it. His eyes were locked, unblinking, on the umpire. Was he the same guy he’d bowled into outside Court 12? He was the right age. The right build. And an umpire would have access to the locker rooms. An umpire would follow the tour around the world.
Game point. Keller cannoned a serve dead-centre. Her opponent smashed it back at her, but the ball drifted wide of the line and the crowd cheered.
‘Game, Miss Keller,’ Noah Saunders said, his voice echoing around the stadium.
The commentator had said that Saunders’ brother had killed himself one year ago today. Foster pulled out his phone and searched online for more details and found an article straight away: Heartbreak Tennis Ace Found Dead.
The website reported that Jake Saunders, brother of respected umpire Noah Saunders and Kirsten Keller’s ex-boyfriend, had been found dead in a Santa Barbara motel. A good player, the report said, but not great enough to join Keller on the world tour, and the couple had gone their separate ways. Jake had not coped well, and not long after the break-up he had hanged himself, with Keller’s tennis matches playing on the TV screen in front of him.
The same way Maria Rosario had died.
The umpire looked edgy, shifting in his smart blue blazer and fidgeting with his hands. Foster knew that Saunders had crafted this moment. No doubt he had poisoned the match umpire to get in the chair. He had terrorised Keller and killed Maria Rosario. All of it had been building up to today, the anniversary of his younger brother’s suicide. Foster slipped his phone back into his pocket and braced himself for what was coming.
CHAPTER 26
FOSTER HAD NO jurisdiction to climb over the barriers and onto the court. By the time he was halfway there, he’d be wrestled to the ground by fifteen well-meaning security guys, and while he was on the ground Noah Saunders would have time to act.
Oblivious to it all, Kirsten Keller was completely still at the far end of the court. Her razor-stare was fixed on her opponent. It was break point and she sensed blood. Her opponent served. They were seventy-eight feet apart. Keller had a little less than half a second to react. Duly the ball came, and she flung herself at it and returned it deep into her opponent’s half of the court. It was unreturnable, and the crowd erupted.
‘Game, Miss Keller.’
Noah Saunders leaned forward and began to rise from his chair. Some of the applause turned to concerned shouts, as sections of the crowd spotted the glint of a blade emerging from his jacket. Now it was Foster’s turn to react at lightning speed. No official gets out of the chair during a match, so Foster was already moving before he saw the knife. With no concrete plan, he ran straight at the umpire’s chair and flung himself at it. He leapt high, shouldering it well above its centre of gravity. The whole thing toppled sideways under his weight.
Foster landed hard, partly on the wooden frame of the chair. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself up off the ground and towards Saunders, who had fallen a few yards in front of him. Foster grabbed at his legs, but Saunders turned and slashed the sharp blade at him. Foster’s arm sprang back involuntarily when he felt a white-hot slash across his flesh. Saunders threw himself at Keller, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her roughly to him. He put the knife to her throat.
The crowd screamed now, falling over each other to pour through the exits. Foster could see them draining out like sand in an hourglass. As he watched, Saunders slipped a noose of twine from his blazer pocket. He pulled it over Kirsten’s head and twisted it in his fist, holding her close like a human shield, biting into her hair so that she couldn’t pull her head away.
When she felt his teeth in her hair, Keller reacted, leaning forward slightly and then smashing her head backwards with everything she’d got. Even above the noise of the horrified crowd, there was a crunch. Noah Saunders spat angrily and dug the knife under her jawbone. When he looked out from behind her, his lip was split and there was a yawning gap where a couple of his teeth should have been. Blood began to pour down his chin and onto his shirt.
Foster weighed up his options. In the stands, creeping forward in Saunders’ blind spot, a uniformed policeman had drawn a bright-yellow Taser and was holding it steadily with both hands as he vaulted in slow motion over the chairs in front of him.
Noah Saunders laughed.
‘I can promise you it’s not going to be alright, Kirsten. Especially for you.’
Foster was suddenly aware that his palm was wet and he looked down to see it slashed from the base of his thumb right across his palm, deep enough to expose sinew and bone. In the corner of his eye he could see the policeman getting closer. All the guy needed was a clear shot. Foster tried to engineer one.
‘Do you think this is what your brother would want?’ Foster asked, hoping the mention of his brother would cause Saunders to react.
Keller looked stricken, as she suddenly realised what all this was about.
‘What do you want from me?’ she said to Saunders, her head tilted backwards from the pressure of the knife under her jaw. ‘I only knew Jake for a few months. I’m sorry you lost him, but it wasn’t my fault.’
‘He loved you.’
‘I never asked him to.’
Foster watched Keller and Saunders, thinking fast. Saunders had killed Rosario, and now he was out in the open, with Keller in his grasp. He wasn’t going to stop. Not unless someone stopped him.
‘You’re an embarrassment to your brother.’ Foster went in hard. ‘If he loved Kirsten, this is the last thing he’d want.’
The goading worked. Saunders stepped out from behind Keller so that he could point at Foster with his blade.
The cop with the Taser took his chance, shouting, ‘Armed Police’, and fired as the umpire spun towards him. But he missed, instead hooking Keller with the high-voltage wire. She stiffened and shook, every muscle in her body pulling taut and convulsing. She toppled backwards, only Saunders’ firm grip on the noose keeping her on her feet. Her eyes bulged and her head twisted awkwardly under the strain.
Saunders pulled her back close to him, shielding himself once more.
‘You fucking missed,’ he spat at the cop. ‘Now back off or I’ll slit her throat.’
The cop did as he was told.
Saunders reached round and ripped the metal wire from Keller’s skin. She screamed, and after a couple of seconds blood began to soak through her white playing top.
‘That goes for the rest of you as well,’ Saunders shouted across the stadium, as he spotted the red dot of a laser skirting across his forearm, and followed the beam up to a police marksman on the roof.
Then he turned to Foster.
‘My brother died because of this bitch,’ Saunders said. ‘And today I’m putting that right. The service box you’re standing in is your world, you understand? Move out of that box and bad things will happen.’
Foster kept his hands by his sides, and felt the blood running fast down his fingers. There was no pain from the cut in his hand or the ripped muscles in his arm. Adrenalin worked better than codeine. He forced himself to breathe slowly as he watched Saunders walk backwards off the court, his sharp knife pressed hard into Kirsten’s throat. The time for anger would be later. Right now he was calm and professional, and he waited with cold-blooded patience for the first sign of an opportunity.
CHAPTER 27
FROM WHERE CHRIS Foster was standing, he could see the whole stadium growing up around him. He could see the last of the seats emptying, as spectators scrambled to safety. He could see Wimbledon staff slowly melting from their exit posts and being replaced by tactical firearms police.
Noah Saunders was tucked in close to Keller, and nobody could take a shot. The TV cameras swivelled as he dragged her across the grass towards the huge scoreboard, which showed Keller’s name in bright-yellow letters. When Saunders stepped off the grass onto the concrete steps of the Centre Court stands, the cameraman nearest him freaked out, stepping back from his equipment and raising his hands in the air. Saunders quickly turned towards him.
‘Keep filming!’ he said.
The cameraman stepped out from behind the camera, his arms raised in surrender.
‘Keep fucking filming!’ Saunders growled.
‘It’s my job to film sport,’ the cameraman said. ‘I don’t want any part of whatever this is.’
His voice was thin and nervous, but he stood his ground. Saunders snapped. He leaned forward and grabbed the camera and smashed it hard into the cameraman’s face. The cameraman dropped to his knees, holding his face in his hands. The whole thing took two seconds.
But two seconds was all Chris Foster needed.
He saw his chance and exploded across the court towards Saunders. By the time the umpire realised what was happening, Foster had covered half of the ground between them and was still accelerating. Keller could see him coming, and as Saunders grabbed for her again, she used all the strength she had left to smash into her tormentor for the second time that afternoon, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to topple backwards.
Police marksmen, who had been slowly edging along the gantries high above, began calling sharp instructions to each other as the situation below them suddenly changed. Saunders ignored them, his mind fixed on finishing the job. He scrambled from underneath Keller and punched her hard in the ribs, pulling her up by her hair and dragging her up the flight of concrete stairs. It was hopeless; Foster was almost on him. As Saunders reached the top of the stairs he could almost feel Foster’s breath, so he took the only option he had left. He pushed the tip of the knife into Kirsten Keller’s throat. It cut deep enough to draw blood, a gentle river pooling on the blade and then dripping slowly down onto her whites.
Foster froze, as he knew he had to, and Saunders pulled Keller through into the players’ box. But Foster was aware of the net tightening around all of them, with the police teams repositioning and drawing slowly closer.
‘You know the problem with all of this?’ he told Saunders. ‘My guess is that your brother loved her. Loved the bones of her. Loved her enough to kill himself. This is not what he would want.’
Saunders looked for a moment as if he had seen reason, and he slowly straightened up, lowered the knife and eased Keller away from him. Foster sprinted into the players’ box to grab her, but at the last second Saunders shoved her hard in the back and she toppled sideways over the edge of the balcony with the noose around her neck.
Foster dived to grab her and stop her neck from snapping as the rope went taut. He managed to clasp her bicep with his left hand, but her weight wrenched his injured arm. The strain pulled at the scar tissue, bending and twisting the titanium plates screwed to the remains of his bones. Keller’s legs scrabbled in vain as she dangled in front of the scoreboard. Foster reached over with his right arm to pull her to safety, but Saunders lunged at him with the knife. Foster only just managed to turn back in time to deflect the blade and push Saunders away.
He knew he couldn’t hold onto Keller and hold off Saunders. White light sparked across his vision and the air fled from his lungs in a gasp of agony. Saunders was keeping low enough behind the barrier to avoid the marksmen’s laser dots, which were dancing around the players’ box, and resolutely held onto the rope in his hand. Foster’s arm was failing, and he could feel Kirsten slipping further into the noose.
He looked into Saunders’ vicious eyes. The same eyes Keller had seen flash with hatred from within the crowd of fans after the semi-final. The same eyes that had watched Maria Rosario die. As Saunders launched at him again, Foster used his free arm to swing the heaviest punch he could muster at the guy’s eye socket. The punch connected and threw Saunders backwards, just far enough that the marksmen were able to finally fix their red dots on his body. Three of them hit. Two bore deep holes in his chest. The third caved in his head and instantly matted his hair with grey and red.
Foster was still holding onto Keller’s arm, his shoulder slowly being pulled out of its socket. There was a good chance it was already out, but he was beyond differentiating one pain from another. Then he heard Abbot’s voice down below.
‘Let her go, Chris. I’ve got her.’
He opened his fist and felt
Keller’s arm slide through his hand as she fell. He guessed the drop was a couple of yards, and he trusted Abbot to catch her. He heard her scream and then heard Abbot reassuring her, and was aware of his own harsh breathing for the first time since he’d chased after Noah Saunders. He rolled back over the barrier, falling in a heap onto the concrete floor.
He lay on his back for a long moment and looked up at the steel rafters and let out an exhausted primal scream. It was a cacophony of agony, relief and delirious pleasure that it was over, and that they were all still alive.
CHAPTER 28
THE POLICE INTERVIEWED them all night, Foster helping them to piece together what had happened with the murder of Maria Rosario.
They slept through most of the morning, Keller stretched out in the king-sized bed, and Foster and Abbot taking a sofa each in the outer room. When her need to eat began to outweigh her need to sleep, Keller emerged in the doorway in her underwear and a tight white T-shirt. She strolled over to them and melted into Foster’s arms, despite his protestations and Tom Abbot’s wide grin.
‘I’m going to make myself scarce,’ Abbot said, pulling his jacket from the back of a chair and straightening the lapels over his chest.
‘You’re going nowhere,’ Keller told him, and she turned back to Foster and looked up into his calm eyes. Hers were clear and bright, the weight of the past few weeks suddenly lifted. ‘We’re alive,’ she said. ‘And that’s something to celebrate. I’m twenty-three years old and I haven’t had a drink for as long as I can remember. And I’m hungry for the first time in a month.’
‘Call it intuition,’ Foster said, ‘but would you like us to take you to lunch?’
She smiled more widely than Foster had ever seen and headed off to get changed. He booked a table on the thirty-second floor and they drank cocktails before lunch. Even with Abbot in tow, Foster found it hard to resist the urge to take hold of Kirsten Keller’s hand as they stood next to each other in the lift.
Break Point: BookShots Page 8
