“So, where’re you from, Charlie?” he asked.
“Just south of Manchester,” I said cautiously, knowing that telling him my parents lived in the stockbroker belt of Cheshire probably wouldn’t win me any respect.
“I’m from up north myself,” he said. “Arse-end of nowhere. Couldn’t wait to get out, to be honest.”
I glanced at him in surprise, at the conversational tone as much as the information. I hadn’t given any thought to his background. People like him were born with three stripes on their arm and a badged beret moulded to their head.
Before I knew it, though, we were chatting. There was no other word for it. And I realised I’d stopped flinching every time he came near me, and the tension had gone out of my shoulders.
He finished loading the final magazine, slapped it a couple of times against his palm to seat the rounds, and laid it on the firing point next to the others.
“OK, let’s see what you can do now,” he said, stepping back and reaching for his ear defenders.
I lifted mine into position, took a deep breath and slotted the first mag into the pistol grip of the 9mm Hi-Power. Then I pinched back the slide to chamber the first round, shifted into a stance, and began to shoot.
It was only later, when I’d got back to the female quarters, showered and scrubbed the mix of cordite and gun oil off my hands, that I discovered we’d been seen together. It didn’t take long before the rumours started.
And after rumours came jealousy, and betrayal.
***
After the Superintendent had gone I hadn't the will to go back to my clearing up. Instead I dug out Terry's code book and leafed through it again, half-heartedly. The sets of initials swam past my eyes.
I tried to remember people's surnames from the club. Gary's was Bignold, but there were several different GBs listed. Dave's was Clemmens. Hmm, not so many DCs.
“Oh this is hopeless!” I muttered, throwing the book down on the sofa. It landed open and something caught my eye. I stopped dead.
Angelo. Angelo Zachary. AZ. I grabbed the book again. Those initials were only listed with one number prefix, 168. I'd found the New Adelphi.
All I had to do now was find out which of the people listed in Terry's book had owed him big sums of money. That should lead me to his killer. A man who'd started getting his kicks out of raping and murdering women.
And now, it seemed, he was hoping to get a real thrill out of planning to kill me . . .
I jumped up. I had so many disconnected theories forming and I needed someone to bounce some ideas off. To see if I was way off base. Most of all, I needed to get away from the possibility that the phone was going to ring at any moment and scare me to death again.
I thought all too briefly of calling the number on the card the Superintendent had given me, but I had no desire to get back into the ring for another round. He didn't trust me, and I suppose I couldn't really blame him for that.
I went over to the phone and snatched up the receiver, dialling Jacob and Clare's number. To my surprise Clare answered. I'd expected her to be at work, and I'd planned to run a few things past Jacob's cool, logical mind.
“No, I've got a day off,” she said. “Why, what's up, Charlie?”
“I can't really explain over the phone,” I hedged. “Look, are you in all morning? Can I come round?”
“Of course,” Clare said promptly. “I'll put the coffee on now. You sound very mysterious. I can't wait!”
I climbed into my gear, aware that I was still feeling stiff and inflexible as I struggled into my leather jeans. It was raining when I got outside. Miserable great grey blobs that made me blink when they splashed into my hair. By the looks of the darkened sky, this was as good as it was going to get all day. I was glad I'd put my waterproofs on.
The Suzuki, bless it, fired up first kick and it didn't take more than ten minutes before I was bumping down the drive to Jacob and Clare's place.
This time, with one eye on the downpour, the dogs made do with greeting me by way of excited barks from the shelter of the porch. Sensible animals. Clare came out, though, with Jacob's giant waxed cotton stockman's coat draped over her head.
“Come in and dry off by the Aga,” she instructed, grinning at me with button-bright eyes. “Jacob's all agog to know what you're being so secretive about!”
It didn't take long, once I'd got into my story, for the smile to leave Clare's face. We sat round the kitchen table to talk, warming our hands on mugs of hot cappuccino, sprinkled with real chocolate.
Having made sure there was no food on offer, Bonneville had retreated to her blanket pressed up against the front of the Aga. The room was soon permeated by the vague smell of hot dog. Beezer had made straight for Jacob's lap. She was now sprawled on her back there, delighting in his preoccupied scratching of her tummy.
I brought them up to speed on recent events, including the break-in at my flat, Terry's murder, and now Joy's death. They both listened in horrified fascination, and it took a while to satisfy them that I really was OK. I suppose it helped convince me at the same time.
“It sounds like this Angelo bloke is a complete psycho,” Jacob commented. “From what you've said he has a remarkable capacity for violence.”
I nodded. “And he's got a rotten temper to go with it. So, maybe if Terry had found out that Angelo was dealing drugs, and then been suddenly presented with something that he thought might give him leverage against Angelo, Terry might well have decided to indulge in a little extortion.”
“If that's the case, he certainly picked the wrong man to blackmail,” Jacob put in grimly.
“So Angelo goes round to see him. Maybe he was intending to pay him off. Maybe he was intending to do him over. Who knows?” I went on. “But that wasn't how it happened. Terry didn't have the computer to give back to Angelo, because he'd already given it to me. So Angelo pulls a knife and guts the poor bastard.”
Clare pulled a squeamish face and got up to refill our coffee mugs. Jacob just nodded at my logic.
“It would be a real 1984-type Room 101 scenario,” he mused. “‘Don't do it to me; do it to Charlie! She's the one you want!’ That sort of thing.”
George Orwell's classic had made enough of an impression on me as a schoolkid for me to know what he was on about. “Exactly,” I said. “So, in the meantime, Len – and then Marc – find out about the drugs Angelo's been dealing in. Marc would never go to the police in a thousand years. But he'd take action of his own.”
“But you said it wasn't Angelo who beat you up, so who were those two men?” Clare queried as she sat down again.
“I've no idea,” I shrugged, frustrated, running a hand through my hair, “though there's no reason why Angelo would need to turn out in person. He must know plenty of hired muscle in his line of work. The trouble is, when I got that phone call last night I was convinced that whoever killed Joy – and Susie – was connected to whoever had come looking for that damned lap-top.”
Clare's mouth opened, and stayed that way for a while. “You mean you think Angelo killed them all? But why?”
“The voice changer,” Jacob said slowly, as it came to him. “They must have taken it when they ransacked your flat.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And if the same man murdered both the women – which was certainly the impression I got from MacMillan – then it can’t be Angelo. He’s got an alibi for the night of Susie’s death.”
“What did the police say about Terry?” Clare asked, but Jacob answered her before I could.
“Come on, love, Charlie’s not supposed to even know he’s dead. She couldn’t very well start giving the old Superintendent the third degree without admitting she was the one who discovered the body, now could she?”