Killer Instinct

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 men 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?”

The Superintendent wasn't to be drawn. “I'm sure you understand that I can't say anything that might prejudice ongoing investigations,” he said, falling back on that old fob-off line.

I sighed, resentful. A couple of uniforms arrived to conduct Marc to the waiting van, but as they took him away I stepped in front of him. There was one last question I had to ask.

“Why, Marc? Why did you do all this?”

He paused. “Why?” he repeated, his voice vibrating with the same anger that suddenly lit his eyes. “Like you've just so accurately reminded me – I was born in a slum, Charlie. Everything I have, everything I am, I created myself. I worked for it, fought for it, every step of the way.”

His carefully modulated accent was dissolving, the flat vocal tones of his long-suppressed Manchester beginnings seeping up through the cracks. “Who are you to judge me when you were brought up in comfort, luxury even,” he jeered. “You’ve never had to live day by day with hunger, fear, desperation.”

“That’s true,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done, Marc. Making other people desperate, and hungry and afraid doesn’t make it right. Plenty of people have escaped from poverty without resorting to dealing in drugs to do it.”

“Oh yeah?” he flung at me. “Name one!”

“That’s enough,” MacMillan put in with that same measured quietness. He nodded sharply to the coppers and they resumed their escort duty. He put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re OK? Would you like me to get one someone to give you a lift home?”

I thought of the Suzuki waiting in the car park and shook my head. The ride would do me good. I planned to take the long way back to Lancaster. I was weary to my bones, but I knew I needed to get the cobwebs out of my head before I stood a chance of sleep.

Besides, I realised as I watched the strange trio passing through the doorway, with Marc irrevocably lost to me the prospect of going to bed no longer held quite the same appeal.

***

Surprisingly perhaps, I slept deep and untroubled that night. At around quarter to eight I woke with no nightmare sweats, just a vague sense of deep unease.

I climbed stiffly out of bed and pulled on my towelling robe, shuffling into the lounge. I registered without undue amazement that there was a small blonde policewoman dozing on my ripped sofa. I left her to sleep and headed for the shower.

I showered carefully, inspecting the new bruises that were mingling sociably with the fading old ones. My eye was puffy and tender and my back ached like I'd been doing twelve hours of manual labour. My hand had been so sore last night on the ride home that I could barely operate the front brake lever. I'd had to rely on the foot-operated rear brake to do all the work.

I dressed in jogging pants and an old T-shirt, then moved through to the kitchen, filling the filter machine. I think it was the smell of fresh coffee brewing that finally brought my companion round.

She sat up, doe-eyed with sleep, and looked round groggily. The change in attitude set off the sort of racking cough only committed smokers have first thing in the morning. When they haven't had the first cigarette of the day to bump-start their lungs. If she thought she was going to light up in here, though, she had another think coming.

MacMillan had introduced her last night only as WPC Wilks who, he declared somewhat cryptically, was going to look after me. She'd climbed into a panda car and patiently followed my meandering course along the seafront to Hest Bank before doubling back to Lancaster.

Once we'd arrived she hadn't tried to make our relationship any less formal, standing over me while I chained the bike down at the rear of the building. She took up station in the lounge when I went to bed, and now she was fully awake, she was sturdily back on duty again.

I had a sneaking suspicion Wilks was there to keep an eye on me as much as to protect me. She must have been two inches shorter, and weighed down with her kevlar vest and bulky uniform. I tried not to let stereotyped prejudice colour my view of her. After all, clipped to her equipment belt she had the same aerosol spray of CS gas they'd used last night to such effect on Len. I dare say Angelo wouldn't prove any more immune.

It was clear, though, that the Superintendent didn't think Angelo would be stupid enough to come back for me. They were obviously expecting him to be halfway to the other end of the country by now, lying low.

I remembered the phone call, and the note, and I didn't share their confidence.

Wilks unbent enough to accept a cup of coffee, taking it Turkish – black with three sugars. She asked me if I minded her smoking, but took my solid refusal without offence.

I found her presence disconcerting, without really knowing why. I forced myself to go through some stretching exercises to try and loosen up my aching muscles. Wilks watched me with a polite expression on her face, as though I was performing some bizarre ritual.

“Did you know half your back's gone purple?” she remarked now.

I turned my head, surprised to see her staring slightly wide-eyed, and realised that my T-shirt had ridden up to expose some of the results of last night's activity.

“Yes,” I said curtly, pulling the cotton material down again.

She looked about to say more, but there was a robust knocking on the door. Wilks crossed to it, studying the visitor through the Judas glass for a few moments.

“It's an oldish-looking feller,” she said after a few moments, adding businesslike, “Would you come and see if you know who it is before I open the door?” I took her estimate of age with a pinch of salt. She didn't look like she'd yet escaped her teens, so anyone over thirty could well qualify for that description.

I took her place at the Judas glass. It only took a second to identify my caller. It was just the shock of recognition that delayed my response-time. The man knocked again, louder this time, with a hint of impatience.

“Well?” Wilks demanded. “Do we let him in or not?”

“I suppose we should do,” I said slowly, reluctantly. “Seeing as he's my father.”

I stepped back and left Wilks to admit him, looking all official. My father reacted well to having his daughter's door opened by an officer of the law. But then, we had been through something like this before.

“Charlotte,” he greeted me impassively. Eyes the same colour as my own studied the contusions on my face with professional detachment. I saw them shift downwards, as though calculating what other injuries lay beneath my clothing. I could almost hear his mind ticking over probable cause, course of treatment.

He looked the same as ever. Thinning grey hair cropped close to his scalp, skin tanned from three foreign holidays a year. He was wearing a good if rather funereal suit, topped by an impeccable raincoat, and carrying a leather dispatch case.

He could easily have been mistaken for a retired army officer. Major at least, but more like lieutenant-colonel. Matey enough with the lower ranks to earn loyalty rather than just expect it, I considered. And remote enough to order them to their deaths without a qualm.

Wilks broke in to our mutual visual assessment, cheerfully offering my father coffee, calling him sir.

He thanked her gravely, then returned his gaze to me. I waved to the sofa and, after a moment's hesitation at the prospect of placing himself on something with such a motheaten appearance, he removed his raincoat and sat.

“I take it,” he said, choosing his words with care as he checked the crease in his trousers, “that there have been further developments since we last spoke.”

“You could say that,” I returned with equal caution.

Wilks reappeared with the coffee and then hovered, looking uncomfortable. “I don't suppose you would be compromising your orders if you went to make a check on the stairs and left us to chat for a while, would you?” I asked her.

She smiled, looking suddenly human, and made for the door. I could see her brightening at the prospect of the day's first delayed fix of nicotine.

My father waited until she was gone before he slid the dispatch case onto his knees and unbuckled its leather straps. He pulled out three slim files and stood the case back on the floor.

“I didn't think it was wise to discuss these while your little friend was around,” he commented. “Particularly as officially I'm not supposed to be in possession of them, let alone be showing them to you.”

He handed me the files. For a moment I stared at the stamp on the front that identified them as the property of a pathology lab in Preston. “Are these what I think they are?”

He inclined his head in agreement, suddenly – painfully – reminding me of Marc. “Results of the post mortem examinations on the three people you mentioned,” he supplied. “It took me a little while to locate them. Suspicious deaths aren't dealt with at Lancaster. Those are the full reports,” he added. “Would you like me to go through them and give you the layman's précis?”

I resisted the urge to bite at him and acknowledged that he wasn't being condescending. Left to my own devices I probably wouldn't be able to make out a single useful piece of information.

I gave in, not very gracefully, and he opened the first file. “If we take the male victim first,” he said, his voice coolly unemotional, as though we were discussing the weather. “This is a fairly straightforward case of disembowelment. Apart from numerous superficial defence wounds, there was a single large incision to the abdomen. Death was caused by massive trauma to just about all the major organs, blood loss, and shock.”

“Even I could spot that one,” I pointed out.

He stilled. “You saw the body?”

I realised I'd just made a mistake, but covering it up now was going to be difficult. “Yes,” I said shortly. “What about the others?”

He continued to stare at me for a moment longer, then consulted his other files. “The two girls were killed by the same man, without question,” he said. “DNA evidence confirms it, not to mention the modus operandi. It seems he raped them both at knife-point, probably inflicted some of the injuries seen on the head and neck at the same time. Then he cut their throats. The first girl – Susie – was subjected to a longer, more sustained attack. Her facial injuries are more severe. The second victim was dealt with much more hurriedly, and she managed to scratch her attacker. Skin and hair samples were recovered from under her fingernails.”

I sat for a few moments digesting what he'd just said. I vividly remembered the marks on Angelo's face I'd seen the night we'd tried to trap him at the club.

Before, I'd assumed he'd either received that at the same time, or maybe Victoria had managed to land one on him during their bust-up. Instead, it must have been Joy who'd done him the damage . . .

“So Angelo did them all,” I murmured, almost to myself.

My father glanced at me. “You think these three crimes were all the work of one man?” he asked. There was something in his voice that grabbed my attention.

Pulse jumping, I turned to him. “Aren't they?”

He didn't answer outright, picking up the reports again. “The knife wound to the man runs left to right, as you'd expect from an assailant who was right-handed,” he explained, “but the two women were beaten on the right-hand side of their heads, and the initial wounds to the throat are also on the right side, indicating strongly that the rapist is a left-hander.”

He regarded me solemnly, and I didn't doubt for a moment that he was right. “But if that's the case . . .” I began, my voice tailing off.

He nodded, following my line of thought. “That's right. There are two very different men at work here, Charlotte. I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.”