Now, he squared up to Blakemore, who was holding the pad up across his chest and stomach with his arms tensed through the straps on the back. He was leaning hard into it, feet braced wide apart. Everybody stopped and watched as the big man moved forwards to take his first swing.
Hofmann smiled very slightly, and hit Blakemore with an explosive uppercut that compressed the thick foam pad almost to its fullest extent. It was a testament to the instructor’s upper body strength that he didn’t so much as shift his feet under the onslaught. Even though he rocked back from the force of the blow and let out a grunt of effort.
Hofmann looked vaguely disappointed, a frown creasing his brow as if he couldn’t compute why the other man was still standing. When someone the size of Hofmann hits you, you generally fall over and stay down.
By comparison, Shirley – who was next – barely made a dent in the pad. Blakemore grinned at her.
I turned my attention to the row I was in. Ahead of me, McKenna flailed wildly at the pad O’Neill was holding, to greater noise than effect. When he’d exhausted himself it was Jan’s turn.
She stepped forwards and I noticed O’Neill’s attention was elsewhere, that he was more interested in what was happening to Blakemore. I don’t know if Jan saw this, but she hit the pad low and right, at a point that corresponded almost exactly to the area I’d seen O’Neill favouring when Blakemore had been playing with him. She was only slightly built, but somewhere along the line she’d learned how to punch, keeping her wrist locked straight, putting most of her body weight behind it.
O’Neill wasn’t prepared for the force of the hit. It rocked him. He had to take a step back to counteract it, to regain his balance. I saw the surprise and anger in his face.
As she walked to the back of the line Blakemore called across, “Hey – Jan, isn’t it?”
She paused, turned.
A smile spread across his face as his eyes flicked to his fellow instructor. “Nice punch,” he said.
Jan nodded briefly and as she turned away she was smiling, too. She knew, I realised, that O’Neill was injured and yet she’d deliberately set out to hurt him. What does that say about you? I wondered. What makes you tick that way?
I was still mulling that one over when it was my shot. O’Neill eyed me warily, but I made sure I produced a suitably lacklustre blow.
He treated Jan’s second turn with caution, too. This time she throttled back so that he nearly over-compensated for her unexpectedly feeble fist. That didn’t serve to endear her any more than the harder blow he’d clearly been expecting.
It was only as we finished up the class, when O’Neill handed his pad back to Blakemore, that he touched a hand to his side. He pulled a face as he moved his fingers gently, like he was testing a tender area of skin.
“You all right?” Blakemore asked him, although there was no concern in his voice.
O’Neill let his hand drop away. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just fine. Leave it.”
With a brooding stare, Blakemore watched him walk out of the gym and vanish in the direction of the instructors’ quarters.
As the rest of us milled out into the main hallway Major Gilby put in an appearance. He informed us, to varying shades of dismay, that we’d each have to present a short talk to the rest of the class that afternoon.
“And what would that be about?” Declan asked.
“I would suggest that it has some relevance to the course you’re on,” Gilby clipped, with a fraction of a smile. “Some modern or historical event that illustrates close protection in one form or another. I want to see your take on the job. There have been plenty of assassinations or attempted assassinations to choose from. Look at all the political hits that have taken place over the past fifty years – Sadat, the Kennedys, Earl Mountbatten.”
He dropped the last name in with a flickered glance at Declan, as though the Irishman had been personally responsible for the terrorist bomb attack that had killed the Queen’s distant cousin. Did he needle O’Neill like that, too? “I’m sure I can rely on you all to come up with something different.”
Declan was too laid back to rise to the Major’s little dig. “And just where are we supposed to find out all the gory details at this kind of notice?” he said instead.
Gilby smiled at him, more fully this time. “There’s plenty of information in the library,” he said. “You’ll have an hour after lunch to do your research.”
Then, with his usual curt nod, he turned and disappeared again.
***
We had ten minutes to kill before lunch. Some of the students headed straight for the library, but I needed some fresh air. I grabbed my jacket and slipped out through the main doorway, trying not to shiver at the cloak of cold that instantly wrapped itself around me.
It was just before noon and in theory the sun was at its height. In reality it was practising low-level flying techniques, barely skimming over the tops of the trees to the south of me.
I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and hunched down into the collar, trying to make a windproof seal. It didn’t work particularly well.
There was a selection of cars on the forecourt, most of which apparently belonged to the instructors. There was one motorbike among them, a black Honda CBR900RR, a FireBlade, and I felt myself irresistibly drawn over to have a closer look.
The bike was a nearly new model, with less than four thousand kilometres on the clock. I didn’t know who owned it, but whoever it was they certainly rode it with more guts than I would have done.
The back tyre was worn right to the edges on both sides and the hero pegs on the ends of the footrests were roughed up. You don’t get them like that unless you’ve been scratching them on the road surface round every available corner.
With a regretful thought to my RGV sitting abandoned in my father’s garage, I straightened up and strolled across the gravel towards the corner of the house. I had no particular aim or destination in mind, and I took the opportunity to get a feel for my surroundings in daylight for the first time.
Now I could see it properly Einsbaden Manor was a magnificent old place, imposing and severe, in grey stone that hadn’t weathered enough to lose the detail of the original carvings. Two large flat-roofed wings extended outwards from a semicircular central tower, with three rows of evenly spaced windows laid out with almost military precision.
I realised as I looked round that I had no more idea now about who had shot Kirk dead and why, than I did when Sean had first told me about it. Where on earth was I going to start looking? I had to admit that I didn’t have a clue.
Round the corner the gravel scattered onto a concrete path that followed the contours of the house. The air smelt clean, faintly of wood and pine needles.
Another ribbon of concrete stretched away across the grass towards a group of buildings about two hundred metres away, on the edge of the trees. As I watched, a man emerged from a doorway in one of the buildings, carefully locking it behind him. I was too far away to recognise who it was.
As casually as I could, I carried on further round the house. Towards the rear it lost its architectural neatness, became more random. The ground behind it dropped away sharply into what I should imagine were once formal gardens, but they’d been covered over with an all-weather surface. This was scored with tyre tracks. A group of slightly battered-looking, dirty vehicles were parked, haphazard, to one side. Ah, the dreaded defensive driving arena. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to cope with that one.
Reaching out from the ground floor at the back of the house was a walled terrace, raised a couple of metres off the ground so that it overlooked this glorified car park. Several of the students were already occupying this eyrie, despite the cold. As I drew nearer, I realised why.