Killer Instinct (8 page)

I cast him a speaking look. One that said there's a line here, Sam, don't cross it.

He flushed. “Sorry, I know it's none of my business, but you'd be a fool to get into that game, Charlie. A few of the lads from the Uni are into it, and it's shit money for the amount of abuse you have to take. The cops never believe your story over a punter.”

I bridled a little at being called a fool. As far as I'm concerned Sam doesn't have the right to make judgements on what I do with my life. Things like that have a tendency to make me stubborn. And that's when the trouble starts. Sam must have known he was pushing his luck because he changed the subject and, soon after that, he left.

After he'd gone I dug out my old school dictionary and looked up Bacchus. It was only an abbreviated pocket version and it didn't list either Bacchus or Adelphi. Not much help there, then.

With a sigh I put the dictionary down and moved into the kitchen. I put together a rough and ready tea from the freezer. I really must remember to go shopping. I ate listening to the hi-fi and planned an unexciting evening involving a paperback novel and an early night.

***

It wasn't until the following day, when I was gathering clothes together for a darks' wash, and checking through the pockets, that I found Marc Quinn's business card. It was still in the back pocket of the jeans I'd been wearing to the New Adelphi Club.

On impulse, I tried both the numbers. The land line turned out to be the most expensive hotel in the area. Marc wasn't in, so I left my name and number, but no message, with the frighteningly efficient receptionist. I tried his mobile next, but that was switched off. I left a brief message on the answering service, then promptly forgot all about it.

I spent an uneventful day, the calm before the storm. I did the washing, made an initial stab at the ironing. I had a trip round the covered market in the middle of town and stocked up on real vegetables rather than tinned or frozen substitutes. I even finally got round to buying some fresh bread.

In the early evening I went and taught my class at the university leisure centre how to escape from a front stranglehold. I was back in the flat by eight. I must only have been home around half an hour when the phone rang.

I hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver. I suppose I'm just naturally cautious, but a year or so ago I picked up a fascinating gadget that alters the tone of your voice, making it deeper, more like a man's. It was specially made for women who live alone, for fending off obscene calls. I flicked it on and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Good evening, may I speak to Charlie?” A man's voice, the accent neutral. Initially I failed to place where I'd heard it before, but the interesting way he curled my name round didn't incline me to hang up.

“Hang on, I'll get her,” I said. “Who is it?”

“My name is Marc Quinn. She does know me.”

I pressed the secrecy button on the phone and switched off the device. It gave me a moment to think. I hadn't been prepared for him to call so soon.

“Hi, Marc,” I said, speaking undisguised. “I just called you earlier to arrange that appointment you mentioned. I didn't think you'd to get back to me so quickly.”

“Ah, well, when there's something I want, I don't like to wait,” he murmured seductively.

I pulled a face. “In that case, remind me not to have sex with you,” I said waspishly.

He laughed out loud at that. “Touché,” he said with a wry note in his voice. “Not very good at accepting flattery, are you, Charlie?”

“When that's all it is, no, I'm not,” I agreed flatly.

“Hmm, you need the practice, then. So, how soon are you going to come and see me?”

I reached over to the desk and retrieved my diary. It was more of a play for time. I already pretty much knew when my classes were during the week. He suggested a time for the following afternoon at the club. It seemed ironic that the excuse I'd made to Sam was solidifying into reality, even if it was a day late.

I have to admit, I liked listening to Marc's voice. Concealed in the background was the faintest trace of a regional accent. He had obviously worked hard to eradicate it, but on the phone it seemed more noticeable than it had face to face. I tried and failed to place it.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said as we wound up our conversation, and the line disconnected.

I looked at the dead receiver before I put it down. “I hope you know what you're doing, Fox,” I said, but I wasn't giving myself any answers. I guess I was just obstinate that way.

The New Adelphi Club looked different in daylight. Seedier, somehow. Less inviting. It was certainly quieter than it had been that Saturday, though, which had to be a bonus.

I parked up the bike at the front of the car park. I noticed with approval that security cameras had been installed overlooking the parking area, although I couldn't remember whether they'd been there before. I made sure the Suzuki was covered by one of them.

Even so, I stuck my roller-chain round the rear wheel and swinging arm, just to make sure. The insurance premiums I pay on the bike, considering it's coming up for seven years old, are stratospheric. I don't want them going into low earth orbit because of a theft claim.

The main entrance was locked up tight when I arrived. There didn't seem to be a doorbell, and hammering on the door itself produced no signs of life. After a few minutes I gave up and wandered round towards the rear of the building.

The back entrance was where the old kitchens had once been and nothing much had changed. Where the front of the Adelphi had been grand and sweeping, the back was a hotchpotch of styles. Hasty additions built for function rather than form. It was interesting to see that Marc hadn't bothered spending his valuable money on tidying things up back there.

The old kitchen door was propped open with a broken breeze block, and a Transit van was pulled up close to it. As I approached Gary came out, carrying a crate of bottles, which he dumped into the back of the van. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and looked much more at home in them than he had in his penguin suit of the weekend.

“Nice to see somebody working,” I said by way of a greeting.

He spun round with a start. “Christ, Charlie, you frightened me to death!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it was your idea, actually,” I told him. “I'm here to see Marc about a security job. You suggested it.”

Gary was pale and sweaty. I think his idea of physical exercise is lifting the arm holding the remote control for the TV. “Marc's coming here this afternoon?” he demanded now. I nodded. “Oh hell, we're way behind today. I was supposed to have all this lot swapped over this morning. Give us a hand, will you?”

Which is how I came to be lugging bottle crates between the numerous bars and the back of the van. I quickly came to understand Gary's breathless and perspiring state. I stripped off my leather jacket and dumped my helmet on a chair, but I couldn't do much about my leather jeans. By the time I'd made half a dozen trips myself I was in pretty much the same state as he was.

“How often do you have to do this?” I gasped as I reached the van with yet another crate of empties.

“Too often,” he grinned back, wheezing.

I picked up one of the bottles from the latest batch. It was vodka, I think, with nearly an inch of liquid remaining in the bottom. “Hey, you got a glass on you? There's still some left in this one.”

“Very funny,” he said, retrieving the bottle and ramming it back into the crate. “The bar optics don't always pick up the last dregs, and it's not worth the hassle of taking them down and pouring them by hand. Not with the amount of spirits we go through here in a week.”

He hopped out and slammed the van doors shut behind him. As we walked back through into the club he caught my arm. “Listen, Charlie, do me a favour and don't mention this to Marc, will you?” he said suddenly. “Like I say, I was supposed to have all this done this morning, and the boss can get really funny if you don't do things by the book.”

“No problem,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”

I collected my jacket and lid, and he led me back through to the main lower dance floor. Without the heavy musical overlay, milling bodies, and the clever lighting effects, the decor just looked tacky, overblown. The smell of last night's cigarettes hung on the air like a leaking gas main.

I perched on a bar stool and watched Gary work. His movements were quick, economic, as he worked his way along the line, fixing new bottles upside down onto the optics to replace the ones he'd taken away. I like watching anyone with such manual dexterity. Plasterers and pastry chefs fascinate me.

There was the sound of locks being worked and a heavy door opening on the split-level above us. It threw a shaft of natural light into the club that had been missing before. I looked up and watched three shadows growing larger as they advanced.

“Look, I better finish off upstairs,” Gary said hastily. “I'll see you later, Charlie.” And he scurried off.

The shadows finally took solid form on the gallery above the dance floor where Clare and I had had our first view of the revamped club. It was Marc, flanked by the two doormen who'd been working that night; the bearded one, and my old mate, Len.

“Charlie? You're early,” Marc said when he caught sight of me.

I glanced at my watch. “No, actually I believe
you're
late,” I said calmly.

I saw Marc's head come up at that, surprise tinged with a trace of anger. Well, tough. The job would be useful, but I didn't
need
it. No way did I want to be scuttering around like Gary, afraid of treading on the boss man's toes.

Even from that distance, I saw Len's big hands instinctively curl round the top rail of the balustrade. You didn't have to be a psychologist to work out he'd rather have them round my neck. What's your problem, sonny? I made a mental note to be careful around him.

The trio moved down the stairs to my level and Marc came across to shake hands. “Regardless of the timing, I'm glad you're here,” he said. “I believe you've already met Len and Angelo.”

We nodded to each other. Angelo didn't look like he belonged to his name, but I wasn't about to point that out. Today they were both in their civvies, black bomber jackets and trousers, and vaguely police-issue rubber-soled boots.

Angelo was shorter in stature, but just as broad as Len. At first glance, he looked mildly less psychotic than his partner, but that wasn't saying much. They took up station a respectful distance from their boss.

Marc offered me a drink as he waved me to one of the tables. I asked for coffee. “Of course. There's a filter machine in the office. In fact, I'll have one, too,” Marc said. “Len, would you mind?” I glanced up and was surprised to see that the big man moved instantly to fulfil the request. No sullen hesitations at being asked to play waitress. Marc obviously commanded respect as well as obedience.

“So, Charlie, how do you come to know so much about security?” Marc asked now, sitting back in his chair to study me, head tilted to one side. He was wearing a dark suit that he hadn't bought on his local high street, over a hand-stitched shirt that even someone with my limited sartorial knowledge could tell was Italian, and damned expensive.

“I picked it up, here and there,” I said cautiously. I wasn't about to tell him about the rather specialised training I'd been through. It felt as though it was all a long time ago, in another life.

Before you can attack a building, they'd taught me, you have to know how to secure it. Points of entry, minimum number of personnel, and their most effective positioning. The New Adelphi had too many twists and turns, too many dark corners. It would not have been my first choice of somewhere to try and make a stand. It was too perfect for an ambush.

“Here and
where
would that be?” Marc pressed now.

“Army, mainly,” I said and watched his eyebrow lift.

Behind him Angelo made a succinct and uncomplimentary remark about the Women's Royal Army Corps. I turned my head to meet his eyes without flinching, but then, I'd heard them all before, and worse. Much worse. Angelo stared back at me as he put a match to the end of a cigarette, challenging.

Marc backed him down with a single look, then turned back to me. “How long were you in?”

I knew to the day, but I shrugged. “Long enough,” I said.

“Why did you leave?”

“I was asked to go,” I said, forestalling any further questions on that tack by adding, “It's personal, and I'm not prepared to talk about it.”

He heard the finality that flattened my voice, and those pale eyes searched my face for clues. I didn't give him any.

“So after you were
asked to go
,” he went on, putting emphasis on the last three words, “what have you done since?”

“I've done a bit of keep fit and aerobics training, a bit of personal training at the local gym, but mostly I teach self-defence to women.”