“Hi Superintendent,” I mumbled, my throat raw. “It's nice to see you, too.”
MacMillan jerked his head to someone out of my range of vision. The handcuffs were released and my arms, suddenly unsupported, flopped back to my sides. It seemed to take a long time before they'd obey the usual commands to lever my torso into an upright position.
One of the policemen who'd jumped me at least had the grace to offer me a hand up. It took my brain a moment or two to recognise him as Tommy, looking pale with excitement. I wondered briefly if he'd ever been on a drugs raid before.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, young lady?” MacMillan demanded quietly. When I looked at him fully, I could see the anger pinching his nostrils, flattening his mouth into a narrow, almost lipless line. He treated me to withering scrutiny.
“Finding you some proof,” I tossed back at him, trying not to sway on my feet.
“Did it not occur to you that we might have been in the middle of a highly sensitive investigation of our own,” he grated out carefully, as though speaking to someone of limited intelligence. “That your interference could have put it in jeopardy, if not ruined it altogether.”
I'd had enough. I hadn't expected a commendation for stopping Len destroying the evidence of his own drug dealing, but I hadn't expected a damned lecture either.
“Up yours, MacMillan!” I snarled. “While you were meandering along in your own sweet way, people were threatening to kill me. Excuse me if I didn't sit around twiddling my thumbs while I waited for it to happen.” I waved a hand towards the gents' washroom. “You look in cubicle seven in there and you'll find a locked panel – Len should have the keys on him – behind which you'll find enough drugs to start a bloody dispensary, if you're interested!”
MacMillan paused, considered, then signalled two of his men to go and check. We all watched them go, and missed the fact that Len had also been listening to the conversation.
Now he seized the chance presented by the drop in numbers to swing his handcuffed hands, club-like, into the gut of the policeman next to him. The man didn't so much fall as plummet. He ended up on the ground, curled foetal and gasping.
Len nimbly hurdled his prostrate form and headed straight for my throat, hands clawed and reaching.
I elbowed the Superintendent out of the way and jumped forwards to take the offensive stand. This time I was going to make sure Len went down hard and fast. And that he stayed there!
Then MacMillan shouted, “Gas him!” and my brilliant plan went all to shit.
In a practised instant Tommy brought his hand up easily from his belt, aiming a small aerosol. It was the smell of the propellant that was over-powering and horribly familiar. Reflex made me stop breathing, spinning my head away, squeezing my eyes tight shut. Len's fingers just brushed my throat as I tumbled past him. As for me, I missed my intended target completely, but at least I managed to avoid the spray.
Len wasn't so lucky. He got the full brunt, flat in the face. He made it worse for himself by having his eyes and mouth wide open, drawing in breath to yell a defiant battle cry as he went. The effect as the fine mist hit him was electrifying.
His eyes and nose began to stream instantly, like he'd been drenched with water. His face bloomed into redness. In half a second he was on his knees, hands over his face, contorted and screaming.
I ended up on my hands and knees almost alongside him, but he was too wrapped up in his own torment to care. He'd lost all interest in whatever nasty end he'd been planning for me, utterly compelled by the burning agony of his skin, the acid scorching of the delicate membranes.
The British police use CS gas in a six percent solution, stronger than the stuff they'd practised on us in the army. And that was more than enough to fell an ox, to turn grown men into cowering wrecks. I'd just caught a by-blow and I knew I'd got away lightly.
Tommy helped me to my feet for a second time, and told me not to rub my eyes. I fought hard against the swell of nausea that rolled through my body. I reckoned I was probably in enough trouble without adding “vomiting on a police officer” to the list of charges.
The other men returned with a clear plastic bag filled with goodies from Len's store cupboard. MacMillan looked at them for a long moment, then turned back to me with something akin to respect in his muddy green eyes.
He put his hand on my arm, gave it the faintest squeeze. It was probably as near as I was going to get to thanks or apology. He let his hand drop and turned away from me. “Right, bring the van round and let's get laughing boy here taken down to the nick before he really loses his temper and—”
“Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on in my club?”
Marc's voice cut through the assembly like a samurai sword through silk. He advanced smoothly and took in the scene. The numbers of police, MacMillan's unspoken authority, Len's incapacity, the damning bag of drugs.
Maybe I only saw the fractured moment of hesitation because I was looking for it, searching for it. Hoping against hope that I wouldn't see it.
Marc turned to me. Handsome, successful, sleek and charming Marc, who'd rescued and bedded me. And I'd rolled over like the stupid gullible little fool that I was.
“Charlie! Christ, are you OK darling?”
I moved towards him. He held his arms out to me. There was relief in his eyes. I could see his mind beginning to whirl, searching for an escape, an excuse. In his mind, Len was already convicted, jettisoned, betrayed. He was clinging to the chance to move forwards, move on.
My eyes were locked on a point to the side of Marc's beautiful lean jawline. As my fist landed I must admit it made a very satisfactory smack. I connected plenty hard enough to make my already bruised hand sing.
Marc's head snapped round to the side and he staggered backwards, pupils dilating, glassy. Only shock kept him on his feet. One of the coppers had to grab his arms, steady him, or he would have ended up on the floor.
MacMillan rounded on me, pinned me with an astounded glare. “What the—?”
“If you've got a van on the way, you may as well take him, too,” I said, my voice clear and cold as Christmas. I nodded to Marc, then to Len and the drugs. “He told me once that nobody with any sense tried to bring anything in to his club, and he was right. They didn't need to, because he knew, better than anyone, that they could buy whatever drugs they wanted once they were here. He's the real one behind all this, not Len. Isn't that right, Marc?”
Twenty-three
“I think,” MacMillan said grimly, “that you'd better start at the beginning and this time, tell me everything.”
We'd moved from the club proper to the manager's office where I'd set my abortive trap for Angelo. Len had been carted away, still yelling, but Marc had been handcuffed and brought with us. After recovering from the shock of being clouted so unexpectedly, his face was utterly unreadable.
Now MacMillan took the chair behind Marc's desk, subtly supplanting his authority. He leaned his elbows on the desk top and linked his fingers together with great precision.
“Well, Charlie, I think it's safe to say that you have our undivided attention.” He'd dropped the Miss Fox again, I noted wryly.
I swallowed, easing myself into one of the leather chairs opposite. They'd given me a cold cloth to hold over my swelling eye, but I had the mother of all headaches lurking just behind it. Everything hurt. I flexed my right hand warily. The knuckles had stiffened until I couldn't clench them without feeling as though my skin was going to split.