The Last Straw (39 page)

As they sat watching the car park empty Gary tried to start up a conversation. “You know, I’ve been looking at that sign.” He pointed towards the Middlesbury Karate Kids Klub sign, with its strangely painted lettering.

“Imagine if the sign originally said Karate Kids.” Karen nodded, unsure where he was going. “Then imagine that somebody, possibly from the council, decides that it needs to be a bit more explicit and so helpfully adds Klub at the end — spelled with a ‘K’ to keep the spelling ‘cool’ and consistent.”

He paused for a few seconds to let her process the thought. “Then you might just see why somebody hastily added Middlesbury at the beginning.”

Karen laughed out loud. “I can see why the Karate Kids Klub might not look good on council literature.” She continued giggling. “Imagine what they’d find if they googled KKK.”

Hastings smiled as the two of them leant back in companionable silence; he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She really was very pretty, he thought. And she had a lovely laugh. He noticed that she was staring hard at the door as the last few students exited. The last student to leave was a gangly teenage boy with a brown belt, who decided to take a swing at his instructor as he left. Gibson barely seemed to move, but before the punch could connect the boy was effortlessly upended with a leg-sweep. He landed flat on his back with a loud crack. Karen started in fear, before hearing the mingled laughter of the two martial artists.

“I nearly had you,
Sensei
,” shouted the teen gleefully.

The older man snorted. “Nearly isn’t good enough, James. Good break-fall though. You slapped the floor just right.”

Karen sat back. “I thought he’d really hurt himself, with that big bang.”

“No, they’re trained to do it. You slap the floor really hard to dissipate the force of the fall and stop it from rattling your bones too much,” replied Hastings absently. He noticed that Karen’s eyes had flicked back to the burly instructor, whose white cotton
gi
had come partly open, revealing a rather well-developed torso.

Hastings cleared his throat and opened the car door. “Let’s see what
Sensei
Gibson has to say about Mr Spencer.” He noticed that Karen positively sprang out of the car.

After formally introducing themselves, the two officers quickly got down to business.

“Mr Gibson,” started Hastings, “we’re making some routine enquiries about a member of this club, a Mr Tom Spencer?”

“Oh, yeah, I know Tom. What do you want to know?” The karate teacher was busy filling a large canvas holdall with padded mitts and shin-pads. His cotton
gi
had opened even more and Hastings noticed that Karen seemed to be studiously ignoring anything below the man’s hairline.

“How long have you known him for?” asked Karen, her tone crisp and businesslike.

Gibson paused to stroke his chin, “I guess it must be about four years now. He came to us as a new postgraduate student. He already had a first-dan black-belt in karate from his previous university and was also close to gaining his black belt in jiu-jitsu.”

“How well would you say that you knew him, Mr Gibson?”

Gibson waggled his hand in a so-so gesture. “I spoke to him a bit, but I can’t say that I knew him terribly well. As you may know, although I run the university club, I’m no longer a student at the university. I did a degree in sport science followed by teacher training at UME. I took over running the club in my second year. When I finished uni I got a job in a local secondary school and so kept running the club. I merged it with a local non-university club that was struggling for numbers, which is why I’m now involved with the local school kids.

“The club has a big social event once a term, which I go to, but other than that I don’t tend to go out too much with the students.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m a little long in the tooth for pound-a-pint night down the Students’ Union. And I doubt either my wife or my head teacher would be too thrilled if I went out boozing to the early hours on a week night.”

Hastings found himself feeling strangely pleased that the man had mentioned his wife; he noticed that Hardwick’s smile was slightly less bright.

“What sort of a person would you say that Mr Spencer was, Mr Gibson?”

The teacher frowned slightly.

“He was a very good martial artist, that was for sure, and a pretty good instructor as well. The club has four black belts at the moment and I encourage all of them to teach parts of the lesson. Tom would also take extra, advanced sessions on a Saturday morning where he’d teach us new stuff. Shotokan-style karate is a great martial art, but its repertoire of techniques can be a little limited — it’s mostly punches, kicks and blocks. Tom used to teach us some different skills that he learnt from his jiu-jitsu, such as arm-locks, grappling techniques, basic throws, weapons work, that sort of thing. I learned a lot from him.”

The two young police officers shared a look.

“What sort of weapons work do you mean, Mr Gibson?” asked Hastings, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, nothing too exciting!” the instructor said hastily. “We didn’t use live blades and we’d never let the kids have a go.” He’d clearly misinterpreted the officer’s interest. “Tom had a collection of plastic training knives that he used to teach us with. He had proper blades of course, but he wasn’t comfortable using those outside his jiu-jitsu lessons. You know, health and safety and insurance and that.”

Hastings nodded understandingly. “Don’t worry, we’re not here about what practice toys you keep in your kit bag. On a different note, I can’t help but notice that this entire conversation has been in the past tense, Mr Gibson. Is Mr Spencer no longer a member of the club?”

Gibson hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t seen him for about six months.”

“Why is that?” asked Hastings.

The teacher sighed. “He left after a couple of unpleasant incidents.”

Hastings raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Gibson had clearly decided that there was no point holding back any information and leaned back against the trolley of crash mats.

“He was becoming a bit too aggressive. I had to warn him about his control, or rather lack of it, several times and a few students complained that he was going in too hard during sparring sessions. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he nearly put another black belt in hospital after losing his temper in a routine match.”

Hardwick spoke up. “I’m not sure what you mean by control. Do you mean like his temper?”

“Sort of. I had concerns about his temper, but when I said control I meant pulling his punches. Our style of karate is semi-contact — you aren’t supposed to hurt your opponent. Here, let me show you. Put your hand up.” He took Karen’s hand, placing it vertically so that the fingers pointed upwards, her thumb just in front of her nose. “Don’t move,” he instructed.

Suddenly, with no warning his right foot whipped upwards in a roundhouse kick. His leg moved so fast all that Karen saw was a blur of white cotton. Yet the touch of his foot on the palm of her hand was as soft as a caress. Barely had the echo of his cry reached her ears than his foot was back on the floor, but it wasn’t over yet; his foot snapped out again, this time his hips rotated in the opposite direction and it was the sole of his foot that tapped the back of her hand.

Karen’s breath caught in her throat.

“That’s what we mean by semi-contact and control. Clearly, if I had wanted to I could have hit your hand — or your head — hard enough to do some real damage. But instead I pulled the kick. In semi-contact, a point is awarded for the technique, not the damage you inflict on your opponent.”

“Thank you for the demonstration,” Karen managed. “So you wouldn’t normally hit each other when training?” she asked.

“I’m not saying that we don’t make contact with each other. After a good session, you usually have a few small bruises and tender spots, just like you would after a good aggressive game of football or rugby, but it’s nothing a hot shower wouldn’t normally put right. And of course accidents happen. But Tom was regularly leaving his sparring partners with bruised ribs and even the odd black eye.

“It was starting to piss people off. You see, it’s not just the fact that a punch in the ribs hurts, it’s the lack of respect. Martial arts are about etiquette and respect as much as fighting. It’s why we bow to each other before we start and when we finish. There are strict rules about how to enter a
dojo
and how to conduct yourself when you are in there.

“I teach kids PE all day and I find it really offensive when they spit on the floor because they’ve seen some dirty Premiership footballer do it. They think it’s normal or even necessary. Yet when I teach karate we’ll exercise for two hours flat out, the sweat will be pouring off us, but no one will ever even think about spitting on the floor. And if they did, I’d make them clean it up with a mop and bucket.”

Hastings nodded in understanding.

“Tell us about the incident with the black belt.”

“The kid he was fighting is a bit of a loud-mouth, to be fair to Tom. Going back to the etiquette thing, we are very polite in karate when we are fighting. In boxing and wrestling, opponents will often goad each other. That is frowned upon in martial arts. Well, anyhow, Hitesh is a bit of a cockney smart-arse, to be honest, and he just doesn’t know when to keep his gob shut. I don’t know exactly what happened, since I was sparring myself at the other end of the room, but Hitesh said something or other and before I knew it Tom was on him.

“Tom was probably the best fighter in the club at the time and he just went for it. Kicks, punches, even elbow strikes and he wasn’t pulling any of them. Quite how Hitesh blocked them all I’ll never know. Anyway, me and three other higher grades dived in and managed to pull Tom off Hitesh, who had gone down on the floor after an elbow to the head. I got a split lip for my trouble and Tina, one of the other black belts, took a really hard punch in the solar plexus.

“I wrestled him out of the
dojo
and sent him to the changing rooms to cool off, whilst one of the other black belts finished up the lesson. Hitesh was bloody lucky he didn’t end up with a concussion and Tina had a couple of bruises, but that was it. That was the last time I saw him. I emailed him and asked him to come and see me, but he never replied. He’s no longer welcome at this club,” said Gibson, firmly.

“Why do you think he was so aggressive?” asked Karen after a few seconds’ pause.

Gibson sighed and shook his head.

“At first I thought it was just stress. I remember him saying how he was having a hard time with his PhD supervisor. He was working a lot of hours and not getting enough sleep. I encouraged him to do more exercise to help relieve the stress and relax himself, you know, and he did. Starting about eighteen months ago, he decided to go for his second dan black belt and became fixated on the idea of winning the national student championships. He also started hitting the gym a lot more.” Gibson paused as if unsure whether to go on. “I also think he started using steroids.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Hastings.

“It’s a number of things, really. First he started to put on a lot of muscle-mass. We all shower together after training and, like I said, I did my degree in sport science. I had a fair idea how much training he was doing and I know that with the number of hours he was putting in, it would take more than a few protein shakes to bulk up like that. I noticed that he also seemed to be having a few problems with acne across his shoulders and back.” Gibson blushed slightly. “Sorry, that sounds a bit dodgy. But we trained together three or four times a week for three years. The guy was in his twenties and had a clear complexion when I first met him. It’s a bit unusual to develop acne at that age, unless there is a skin or hormonal problem.”

Karen nodded her understanding.

“Then there were the mood changes and the aggressiveness, the change in personality. Like I said, I didn’t know the guy that well, but we’d sometimes go for a quick pint after training and I sat next to him at the club’s Christmas meal a few years ago. He was a fairly pleasant bloke to be around, you know. A good sense of humour and pretty laid-back.”

Gibson looked down at his feet. “I was contemplating saying something to him. I guess I should have done.” He looked up again. “I’ve no idea why you’re interested in him, but I’m not a fool. You aren’t here because he’s run up too many library fines. Has he done something really bad?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Gibson, all I can tell you is that we are involved in an ongoing enquiry and we are looking into the backgrounds of a number of individuals.”

Gibson nodded, looking morose.

With no more questions to ask, the two officers walked back to the car, leaving Gibson to lock up the school hall.

“You seemed to know a bit about martial arts before we went in. Have you done any karate?” asked Karen.

“Not karate, no.” Gary shook his head. “But I have a black-belt in jiu-jitsu and I try to train a couple of times a week.”

Karen looked at him with renewed interest. “Really? The other martial art that Spencer does? You don’t look the type.”

Gary tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. “Well, we don’t all look like PE teachers.”

Karen smiled. “Sorry, I guess not. Mr Miyagi and Jackie Chan don’t look much like Mr Gibson either.”

Gary smiled, despite himself. “Have you ever done any martial arts?”

Karen shook her head. “No, not really. I did a few women’s self-defence courses at uni and of course I did the basic training when I joined the force, but nothing else.”

“You should give it a try some time. Why don’t you come along to my club some time and have a go? It’s a great way to keep fit and a lot of fun.”

Karen put the car into gear. “Yeah, maybe I will. I’m getting bored of aerobics down the leisure centre.”

Gary smiled to himself. Brilliant. Perhaps he could get her to go for a drink after training.

“Besides which,” she continued, sounding excited, “it’s all women at aerobics. Maybe I could meet an unmarried Mr Gibson lookalike.”