The Lost Testament

51

The man reached out and grabbed Angela’s arms from behind, just above the elbow. She tried to turn towards him, but his grip was too strong, and although she opened her mouth, whatever she said was drowned out by the noise of the train. He started propelling her towards the edge of the platform and the certain death that waited just a few feet away.

And at that moment, Bronson realized why the man had seemed familiar. He’d definitely seen this person before — or somebody wearing precisely the same outfit — when they’d been walking down Great Russell Street away from the museum. And he’d just made his intentions lethally clear.

If nothing happened, in seconds there would be a scream and a tumble, and the smell of burning flesh as Angela’s body made contact with the live rail and the lethal voltage running through it. And if that wasn’t enough, the momentum and colossal weight of the oncoming train would be the ultimate guarantee that she would not survive.

As with so many things in life, timing is everything.

Bronson’s movements were a blur. He took two quick steps forward, reached out with his left hand and seized the man’s arm. He tugged as hard as he could, turning both the man himself and Angela slightly towards him. That moved her very slightly away from the danger area at the edge of the platform. But Bronson was only just getting started.

The moment the killer turned towards him, Bronson smashed his right fist directly into the man’s cheek, knocking him backwards. It wasn’t a knockout blow, but it did its job, forcing the man to release his grip on Angela’s arms. She stumbled and then fell clumsily to the ground, knocked off balance. She was just clear of the platform edge.

The killer regained his balance almost instantly and powered his right fist into Bronson’s stomach. But he’d seen the blow coming, and managed to turn slightly sideways so that it missed his solar plexus, just catching the flesh below his ribs. It hurt, but it didn’t incapacitate him. Bronson continued to turn, spinning on his heels, then threw a left jab, aiming for the right side of the man’s ribcage.

The blow never connected, because his opponent swung his right arm down and backwards, knocking Bronson’s arm out of the way. Whoever the man was, he was used to street fighting.

And though Bronson, as a police officer, was trained in self-defence and unarmed combat, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to last against this larger and clearly very competent opponent. He needed to finish this, and quickly.

Then the man reached towards one of the pockets on his anorak, and Bronson immediately guessed that he was going for an equalizer — a gun or a knife. He couldn’t let that happen. Bronson took a step to one side, almost as if he was going to run away, then turned back and delivered a straight-leg kick to the side of the man’s right knee.

The human leg is designed to bend at the knee, to allow for walking and running, but the joint is never intended to bend sideways. There was an audible crack as something broke, and the man tumbled sideways with a scream of pain.

By that time Angela had scrambled to her feet. She turned round and stared at Bronson, and at the fallen man lying on the platform just beside him. The crowd of commuters had parted almost immediately the fight had started, and had formed a rough circle around the combatants. People getting off the train stared at Bronson with interest, but almost all of them then moved away, continuing towards their destinations as the new passengers started to board. Londoners were remarkably resilient in their outlook.

‘Quick, get on the train,’ Bronson said urgently, scouring the platform for other threats. ‘Wait for me at Charing Cross. Stay where it’s crowded.’

Something about his voice told Angela that this was not the time to ask questions.

As she climbed into the train and stared back at him through the open doorway, he reached into his pocket, hauled out his warrant card and waved it at the handful of people who were still standing around and watching.

‘This is a police matter,’ he said. ‘Go about your business.’

He grabbed the man, who was now clutching his shattered knee with both hands, and unceremoniously pulled him back, away from the edge of the platform and to the back of it, where he propped him up against the wall. Swiftly, Bronson checked the man’s pockets, pulling out a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phone and a slim wallet that just contained a single credit card in the name of ‘J. W. Williams’ and about two hundred pounds in cash. He replaced the wallet but retained the phone. In the side pocket of the man’s anorak he found a small semi-automatic pistol.

‘You bastard,’ the man hissed, tears of pain running down his face. ‘You’ve bloody crippled me.’

Bronson nodded. ‘That was the general idea,’ he said, standing up and examining the weapon he’d just found: a Heckler & Koch P7, an uncommon weapon to find anywhere outside Germany, where it was designed as a police pistol. The obvious identification feature was the grip catch on the front of the butt, which prevented the weapon from firing unless it was depressed. Bronson slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket, then turned his attention back to the man lying in front of him.

Now that the Underground train had departed, the platform was largely empty of people, though a few more passengers were beginning to arrive, part of the endless daily traffic through the London Tube system.

Bronson crouched down beside the man and stared at him.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ he began, ‘but I’m absolutely sure I know what you are, and what you intended to do. Who’s paying you to kill the woman?’

‘I’ve got no bloody idea what you’re talking about. All I know is you attacked me on the platform. Completely unprovoked.’

Bronson nodded, then casually rested his left hand on the man’s thigh and pushed sharply downwards.

The man’s scream echoed around the confined space, and a couple of people turned towards Bronson and started heading in his direction. Again he waved his warrant card at them.

‘I’m a police officer and the situation is under control,’ he called out. ‘This man is injured and I’ve already requested medical assistance.’

Nobody apparently thought to ask how Bronson could have done that in the underground concrete cavern where no mobile phone could possibly work.

‘If you get to a hospital within the next hour or so, you might walk again, but the longer you prat me about, the longer it’s going to take. You’ve got two choices. The messy way is I do what I should do as a policeman.’

‘You’re not a copper,’ the man snarled, interrupting him.

‘I am, actually,’ Bronson said, ‘but that really doesn’t matter. As I was saying, what I should do is scramble the paramedics, then arrest you for carrying a firearm, which will definitely put you in the slammer, and I’ll testify at your trial that I saw you try to push a woman in front of a train, and that’ll mean a charge of attempted murder, which should get you ten years at least. The trouble is, I’m in a hurry and that sounds to me like an awful lot of paperwork.

‘The other option is you tell me what I want to know. As soon as you’ve done that, I’ll call the medics and then I’ll walk away with your gun in my pocket. You’ll get treatment and won’t be prosecuted, and you can continue with your sad career as long as your knee holds up. So I’ll ask you again: who paid you to kill the woman? Or would you like me to lean on your leg again?’

The man shook his head, sweat springing to his forehead. He swung his right fist clumsily towards Bronson, who easily avoided the blow.

Bronson stretched his hand back down towards the man’s knee.

‘No, no, please don’t. I’ll tell you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I don’t know his name. He called me a few days ago.’

‘Oh,’ Bronson said, ‘you advertise your services, do you? In the Yellow Pages, are you, under “Killers for hire”? Something like that?’

The man shook his head.

‘People know how and where to find me. Anyway, he called. Cash job. Five grand, two up front, two on completion, with an extra grand as a bonus. He gave me all the details — work address, home address and stuff — but he didn’t tell me why he wanted her dead. They never do. I was supposed to do it in her flat, make it look like a burglary, an accidental death, if I could manage it, but yesterday he called me again, said he’d changed his mind and it had to be done immediately. That was the reason for the bonus.’

Bronson nodded, even more grateful than before that Angela had decided to spend the previous night in his house instead of at Ealing.

‘That’s all I know. Now get me a bloody doctor.’

‘A deal’s a deal,’ Bronson replied, standing up as the next Northern Line train pulled into the station. ‘I’ll make the call as soon I get out of here.’