As I rode back towards the middle of Lancaster and home, I could feel the video case pressing against my ribcage. Did it hold the key to Terry's murderer? God only knew, and she definitely was keeping that kind of information to herself. What an unholy mess.
***
It was too late by the time I got back to the flat to do more than glance at Terry's book that night, but the following morning I spent a couple of hours going through it.
He seemed to have a good system, keeping careful track of dates the porn videos had been borrowed and returned, by whom, and when the monies were collected. I say seemed because it told me just about nothing.
I managed to work out that the videos themselves weren't named, just numbered. They were expensive enough for one night's hire to make my eyebrows lift. And some people seemed to get anything up to half a dozen of them out at a time. It was hardly surprising that those paying on a weekly or monthly basis suddenly found themselves with a hefty bill.
As for the people, they were a mystery. Terry hadn't named anyone in full, relying on sets of initials. AC, AZ, BT, CA, DJ, EG, FA, GB. I stopped when I found PC, just in case it was connected to the lap-top, but the initials cropped up so rarely there was no way that PC – whoever he was – could have owed Terry enough to give him a computer.
As well as initials, there was a three-digit number preceding each one. A lot of people had the same number prefix. Eventually I cottoned on to the fact that the numbers probably related to an address. An office building, a private house – or a nightclub. I couldn't really find enough to identify there, either.
The only thing that was easy to understand was the day of the week when Terry called at each undisclosed location. He'd brought the computer round to see me on a Sunday morning, but that could mean anything. Did he usually call round at the club then, or had he just dropped in unexpectedly to do his debt collecting?
I tried again later that evening, when I got back from teaching my Tuesday evening class at the university leisure centre all about head-locks, but it made no more sense than it had done earlier.
With a sigh I shut the book and threw it down on the coffee table, rubbing at my aching eyes. Last week I was just an average person, living my life and paying my bills on time – mostly.
Now I was mixed up in porn videos, illegal drugs, rape and murder. I had a feeling things were going to get worse – and probably much worse – before they got better.
Sixteen
I taught my usual class at Shelseley Lodge the next day. A couple of nights' sleep made my grisly discovery seem more distant. It was as though I was disturbed by having seen a violent film, rather than witnessing it in real life.
When Marc rang, asking how I was, it was difficult to recall that he was referring to my own attack, rather than simply my reaction to Terry's murder. I must have sounded vague and unfocused. He asked me three times if I was sure I was OK, and seemed dissatisfied with my woolly answers.
Despite another work-out and a couple of saunas at Attila's, I was still as stiff as an elderly Labrador with dodgy hips, so I abandoned my normal syllabus again and taught the class kicks and punches instead.
That didn't require much active participation on my side. I arranged the crashmats standing up, four-deep against the wall, and unrolled the targets over them. There was general giggling amongst my students as I set up. When I was done I grinned at them.
My targets were two long rolls of vinyl with life-size thugs printed on them. I'd chosen vinyl because they had to stand up to quite a bit of hammer. They were representations of big ugly fellers with bulging muscles and scowling faces. I found a long time ago that unless I gave my students something a bit more realistic to aim at, they were never going to be able to defend themselves against anything other than attacks by rabid gym mats.
“Meet Curly and Mo,” I said. “I want you to divide into two groups and form an orderly queue to give these two a bit of stick. Basically, do what you like to them. Punch them, kick them, knee them in the knackers. Pretend they're your boss, your spouse, or whoever's been giving you grief lately.”
There was laughter at that. I showed them the basic line to aim for with a punch, from the temples down to the groin, taking in the nose, jaw, throat, and solar plexus on the way.
“OK,” I said. “Anybody – where would be your first choice target?”
It was Joy who answered first. “The goolies,” she said promptly. Several others concurred, with varying degrees of embarrassment.
“Go for his eyes,” said another. She was one of my older students, a middle-aged lady called Pauline, who'd only recently joined the class, but was taking to it with real enthusiasm.
When there were no further guesses I turned to the targets. “Actually, you're all right,” I said. “Any one of those areas can be very effective, as long as you practise it so it's second nature; so you don't have to think about it. If you have to nerve yourself up to hit someone, it'll show in your face, your body language, and they'll be ready for you. Given a choice, I'd go for the nose.”
I demonstrated with several different techniques. An open-handed chop with the edge of my hand, a swinging elbow, and a hammer fist, as well as a straightforward punch. I knew where the nose area of my targets was without having to sight on it first. I kept my eyes on my students instead, gauging their reaction.
“The nose will be unprotected by heavy clothing or glasses and a blow there will stop most attackers in their stride,” I told them. “It's difficult for someone to keep fighting while their eyes are streaming.”
My own favourite was a sweeping chop upwards just underneath the nose, right on the sensitive septum between the nostrils. Get the angle right and even the biggest, toughest of blokes will hit the dirt.
Of course, angle the blow too straight onto the top lip, and you run the risk of paralysing the respiratory system by damaging the cranial nerves. Angle it too high and you can splinter the nasal bones where they meet at the bridge of the nose, with the inherent danger of then driving the fractured ends onwards, into the brain.
To do that you had to deliver an accurate and powerful punch. I glanced briefly round the group in front of me and considered that none of them were potential heavyweight boxers in the making. Their strength was limited to the point where telling them about the dangers would inhibit them too much. None of them were street-fighters by nature. In an attack situation, I wanted them to hit out as hard as they could, not worry about exactly where they placed the blow.
I showed them a few other locations, for good measure. “Most areas of the face are pretty vulnerable to attack, like the hollow in the cheeks, the skin just under the eye, and then there's always the throat,” I went on. “The throat is always a good one to go for, as is the side of the jaw. On the down-side, you are just as vulnerable to attack in that area, so be careful. That's why boxers keep their chins tucked in.”
“I always thought it was because they had glass jaws,” Joy commented.
I shook my head. “If you keep your jaw shut it's more difficult to do it damage. You're much more vulnerable when you've got your mouth open.”
“My ex-husband would agree with you there,” muttered Pauline. There was laughter again.
I showed them how to form a fist without danger of dislocating their thumbs the first time they hit anything solid, and explained how you had to imagine punching straight through the object you were hitting, rather than pulling back when you made contact.