Killer Instinct (37 page)

At the top of the stairs he turned back, and his voice when he spoke held the plaintive note of the eight-year-old boy he’d once been. “They took away my home, Charlie,” he said. “I just wanted it back.”

After he’d gone, I sat for a long time on one of the flat slate window ledges, hugging my knees to my chin, and staring out through the darkened glass without seeing anything beyond my own reflection.

So, Tris wasn’t the cruel murderer I’d been so quick to believe he was. The relief was tangible, like a taste in the back of my throat. I was just disappointed in myself that I hadn’t wondered more, doubted more. It didn’t matter that the evidence against him had seemed so overwhelming.

I’d spent some time sitting there, in silent contemplation, before it registered with a creeping chill that this hadn’t solved any of my problems. Far from it.

If anything, it had made them worse.

***

The next morning I woke up instantly panicky, heart screaming into the red line like a two-stroke motor with its throttle jammed wide open. When I opened my eyes I found I was already tensed upright in bed, shivering from the chill of the cold air on my sweating skin.

For a moment I froze, uncertain whether I'd really heard the noise that roused me, or if it was part of some instantly forgotten dream. I scrambled out of bed on legs that weren't quite steady, pulling on a towelling robe, and padded through to the lounge.

There was an untidy sprawl of mail across the doormat. I thought I heard footsteps retreating down the stairs, and when I crossed quickly to the window I saw the postman emerge from the doorway below. The sudden surge of relief left me feeling limp.

I went to pick up the mail, but my hand stilled. For a moment I couldn't escape the memory of those tumbled letters in Terry's hallway. The way they'd spilled down over his corpse. They might even have been delivered by the same postman.

I took a deep breath and gathered the mail quickly, almost trying not to look at the mat for fear that I'd see an inert trainer-clad foot at the end of rumpled jeans. I didn't, of course, but what I did see turned out to be much more frightening.

A plain white envelope.

It had obviously been hand delivered, pushed furtively under the door rather than dropped through the letterbox, because one corner had slipped under the doormat itself. I'd already got it in my hand before it dawned on me what it might contain.

I carried the letter over to the coffee table very carefully, at arm's length, as if it might explode at any moment. Placing it down gently, I went and fetched a pair of the thin latex gloves I normally use for cleaning the bike.

I checked with my fingertips for lumps, bumps or wires, then opened the letter with great delicacy, as you would if you were handling some long-buried ancient parchment. If this was a begging letter from some local charity, or a note from my landlord, I was going to feel the biggest fool going.

Inside was a single sheet of A4 paper, good quality laid stuff, folded with origami precision. I eased it flat, trying not to touch more than the edges. In the centre were two brief lines of bold type.

YOU WANT TO PLAY?

GAME ON

I put the letter down onto the table slowly, my mind numb. I didn't realise I'd got my hands to my face until the rubbery smell of the gloves started making me feel sick. Maybe I would have felt that way in any case.

So, the killer possibly suspected that the police were keeping an eye on my phone. Maybe he'd been watching this place the day that Superintendent MacMillan called round. Maybe he just knew the score because he'd done this sort of thing before. So, he'd decided to pay me a visit.

The sudden thought that the man who'd viciously raped and murdered Susie Hollins and Joy had been right up to my front door while I slept was too much. I lurched for the loo, and spent some time there, not exactly engaged in thoughtful meditation.

When I straightened up and studied my reflection in the mirror over the sink, a haunted face met my gaze. My skin looked white and stretched tight over my bones, emphasising the last vestiges of the bruising round my cheekbone. My eyes seemed sunk back into their darkened sockets, like a heroin-chic model. There was no getting away from it. I looked like shit.

I peeled off the gloves, washed my hands, then scrubbed my teeth thoroughly. For someone who's not normally sick, I'd spent far too much time throwing up lately. I didn't want to end up needing expensive dental work because the acid from my stomach had rotted out my teeth like an anorexic.

As I staggered back through to the lounge I wondered long and hard about calling Superintendent MacMillan. I thought about it, dug out the card he'd given me with his phone number on it, turned it over in my hands.

Trouble was, I'd been pretty badly mauled during our last encounter. I'd no desire to be accused of fabricating the note myself in order to reinforce what MacMillan saw as a dubious claim that I was under threat.

I had a growing conviction that the man they were after was Angelo. It had to be. Who else was there? Unfortunately, I didn't see that the Superintendent was any more likely to take my word for it now than he had been the first time I'd mentioned Angelo's name.

Besides, the police had already dismissed him as a suspect on the strength of an alibi I now knew to be bogus. The trouble was, Gary's admission had not been extracted without a certain amount of coercion that would probably make it totally inadmissible in any court in the land. And MacMillan was certainly not likely to take my word for it.

Then I remembered. Tris had told me that the police had enough forensic evidence to eliminate him from the suspect list as soon as they'd run the right tests. If I could get Angelo taken into custody, for whatever reason, they'd have their chance. I was sure MacMillan's finely-honed instincts would do the rest.

The only thing I could think of straight off was the possibility that Angelo was involved with supplying drugs at the New Adelphi. Trouble was, if I just made an anonymous tip-off about chemical activity at the club, it was likely to get raided, and that meant all the staff would probably be arrested.
All
of them. Including me.

I knew Marc had sworn to deal with Angelo in his own way over that matter, but the stakes had risen since then. Way risen. And besides, if Angelo was also guilty of rape and murder, I wanted more than the beating Marc was likely to arrange for him. I wanted justice.

And I wanted it quickly.

I looked again at the sheet of paper on the table. I couldn't do nothing. Couldn't let him stalk me, torture me with threats and promises. I had to act. Had to! If I wanted to stay sane.

If I wanted to stay alive.

And if I wasn't prepared to place my trust in Superintendent MacMillan and simply tell him the whole story, right from the beginning, I had to do it some other way.

I picked the phone up, dialled a number, listened to it ringing out. On the tenth ring, just as I was about to give up, it was answered by a voice thick with sleep.

“Hello?”

I ignored a pang of guilt when I realised it was only just past eight-thirty, and on a Saturday morning at that.

“Hi, it's Charlie,” I said. “Yeah, I know what time it is, sorry, but listen, I need to ask you the most enormous favour. Are you into clubbing?”

***

When I went in to work at the New Adelphi Club that evening, my nerves were racked so tight I could hardly breathe evenly.

Burning a hole in the back pocket of my jeans, wrapped in a plastic bag, was the threatening note I'd received that morning, together with MacMillan's card. I thought I might need both before the night was out.

We went through much the same ritual I'd been through the Saturday before. The security team all clipped on their walkie-talkies, straightened up their bow ties, and disappeared into their own areas of responsibility.

Len came stamping in, glowering at everybody, but particularly at me, it seemed. I wondered if I was just being paranoid, or if Angelo had told him about my failed attempt at entrapment. If he had, I wasn't sure if that meant things had just got safer, or twice as deadly.

I had plenty of time to think about it. The evening started painfully slowly, but put on speed and weight with an air of overwhelming menace, like gathering storm clouds in the tornado belt.

I went through the motions of my job, patrolling the ladies' washrooms, breaking up a cat-fight between two girls who'd just found out they'd both arranged to go home with the same bloke. I thought they should have been tearing lumps out of him, not each other, but I kept that opinion to myself.

I tried taking the quieter of the two out of the fray, but that didn't quell things. I ended up propelling the more aggressive of the pair towards the door. She was making an almighty racket, and grunting with the effort of trying to embed a four-inch spiked heel into my shin along the way. It probably made me not quite as gentle with her as I could have been.

We waltzed our way to the main entrance, and I gave her a bit of a push-start into the car park. She reeled away, dishevelled, screeching her thoughts on my parentage and sexual preferences to the world at maximum volume.

I listened with polite disinterest. When I'd had enough I turned away from her, catching Angelo and Len studying me with an intensity that jarred my already edgy nerves.

“What?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I'd intended.

Len shook his head and stalked away. Angelo flipped his cigarette end spinning into the darkness with a deliberation that was almost an insult.

“Getting a taste for this, aren't you?” he said. “Thought you would. Hasn't taken you long, though.”

I was saved having to think of a suitably cutting reply by the arrival of a new group of punters. Among them was a bearded man with baby seal brown eyes. He looked nervous and fidgety, eyes dancing everywhere, fingers never still.

Angelo took one look at him and wanted to see the contents of his pockets. In the top one of his shirt was a twist of paper containing a couple of elongated yellow capsules.

“Oh yeah, and what's this then, sonny?” Angelo sneered.

“They're for me sinuses!” the man protested, none too convincingly.

Angelo just smiled and confiscated the pills, but waved the bearded man into the club.

Just then, my walkie-talkie crackled. “Charlie, it's Len. The ladies' on the upper floor need checking. See to it.”

I thumbed the transmit button and murmured my agreement.

Angelo's leer was still in place as I made my way back inside. I gave him a stony glare, which he ignored. I was halfway along the entrance passage when I heard him on the radio to Len, with the obscure instruction for him to go to seven.

I'd heard Angelo and Len trade the same message the week before, and hadn't thought any more about it. Now it gnawed at me like a starving rat.

I made my way through the growing throng and caught up with the bearded man in the general press by the top of the stairwell on the first floor.

“So,” I asked him quietly, checking round for signs that any of the security staff were watching our exchange. “What were those pills?”

Sam gave me his most innocent smile. “They really are for my sinuses,” he said, “but with the name scratched off. It's not my fault if King Kong back there didn't believe me.”

“I'd be careful who you say that to,” I told him. “I know he's just a big ape, but if the real King Kong gets to hear about it, he might well be insulted enough by the comparison to sue for defamation of character.”

Sam just grinned. I'd warned him about the dress code, and he looked surprisingly smart in black trousers and a reasonably stylish shirt. It made a change to see him out of leathers.

I told him to keep his eyes peeled and to make out like he was a man in need of replacement chemicals, then climbed another few flights of stairs to find out what Len was after. Not a lot, as it turned out. I got the distinct impression I was just being given the runaround.

By ten-thirty my head was starting to ache with frustration. My eyes were twitchy from constantly scanning for some clandestine movement in the crowd. No one seemed to be very interested in selling anything to Sam other than over-priced drinks.

I dropped in past one of the bars, seeing Gary in his usual frantic guise. He looked up and caught sight of me, a mixture of fear and loathing on his face. The savagery of it took me aback. Christ, I didn't make him steal from his boss. I just helped catch him at it.

Dave was in his usual position, nodding so hard to the beat of the music that it moved his whole body, like the tail of a dog who's really happy to see you. He was wearing skin-tight trousers and another high-necked jumper, stained dark with sweat.

He also gave me a cooler glance than was his norm. I tried to work out what I'd done to offend him. Maybe he'd been told about my part in Gary's disgrace. I'd stepped over the line from being one of the gang to teacher's pet. It was like being in No Man's Land.