He held her quite gently, at arms’ length, looking at her. His hair was its natural blonde again; he must have rinsed the brown colouring away in the shower. And his eyes were the all too familiar icy blue. Presumably he’d removed the tinted contact lenses he must have been wearing.
‘You don’t need to run from me, Lilian,’ he murmured. ‘Honestly, you don’t, my sweet.’
He was naked and still wet from the shower. She glanced up and down his body. He remained in extremely good shape. Every inch of him masculine and hard. Except his dick, of course. That was as flaccid as it always had been. Except when he did what he had to do, with her anyway, in order to gain a decent erection.
He moved towards her. She stepped backwards, knocking against the little table by the door, rocking it, and slopping water from the big vase of flowers that stood on it.
She was desperate. She reached a hand behind her, groping. She closed her fingers around the neck of the vase, lifted, and swung with all her strength.
It struck him on the side of the head. Peonies, tall-stemmed lilies and ornamental fern flew all over the place. Water and pieces of smashed ceramic cascaded over her, the floor, and him. The vase disintegrated into many pieces. He staggered backwards. Blood gushed from a gash just above his ear.
Kurt kept staggering until he hit the wall. She could see the light in his eyes flickering and thought for one brief wonderful moment that she might have succeeded in knocking him unconscious. But Kurt St John was a fit and immensely strong man.
His knees had buckled, but within seconds he found his feet again. She remained quite still, frozen almost, in shock.
‘What did you do that for?’ he asked quite mildly.
She had no answer. He moved towards her. First he slapped her across one cheek with his right hand. Not too hard. Then with his left fist he punched her in the belly. Again not enough to do any real damage, just enough to wind her. She doubled up, wrapping her arms around her midriff, desperate to protect herself.
He moved closer. And she knew well enough what was about to happen. It was all so familiar. His nakedness brought back every awful memory in sickening clarity. He had a fine erection now. He always did after he had hit her, or twisted her arm, or kicked her, or maybe pulled out a clump of her hair. Once he had hurt her, he turned into the rampant sexual animal which otherwise he could only dream of being.
He lurched at her. His smile more of a leer now. His eyes bright with lust. He pushed one hand hard between her legs, his thumb digging up into her, and began to rip at her clothes, tearing her shirt from one shoulder. His mouth sought a breast, and he bit her. Hard. She screamed and began to push and claw at him. He backed away enough for her to see the blood on his lips. Her blood. She watched his tongue seeking the salty liquid. His eyes closed for a split second, as if in a moment of ecstasy.
She screamed again, and somehow managed to escape his grasp. She ran into the sitting room. Without crutches, without the walking stick, yet feeling no pain in her plaster-cast ankle. Her fear was greater than any physical pain could ever be.
The remains of their meal and the champagne were on the table before her. And the cutlery they had used. She turned towards him. She fumbled with the cutlery behind her back, grasped a knife, clutched it with both hands and pointed it at him as threateningly as she could.
‘Don’t, Kurt. Just don’t come any closer,’ she said.
He paused, raising one eyebrow at the knife. She glanced down, realizing only then that she had managed to clutch just a small silver butter knife. It appeared to be such an ineffectual weapon. Kurt’s leering smile grew even broader. His erection was so strong now that the tip of his penis pointed almost directly at the ceiling. He stroked it, lazily, with one hand, his gaze steady, intent oozing from every pore of him.
‘Don’t, Kurt, I will use this,’ she warned.
‘No, you won’t.’ he said. ‘And what if you do?’
He was smiling again. The butter knife seemed to amuse him.
Then he came for her. Throwing his bulk at her. His penis jabbing into her sore belly. One hand around her throat, squeezing. Obliquely she wondered if this would be the time when he would finally kill her.
She was never sure whether she really stabbed him or if he just impaled himself on the knife. And, in any case, she supposed later that she had not expected such an apology for a weapon to cause much damage.
But, somehow, the little silver butter knife pierced Kurt’s flesh just below his heart and entered his body right up to its ornately decorated hilt.
Lilian let go of the knife at once and stepped back. No longer supported by her, Kurt dropped to the ground like a stone. He lay spreadeagled at her feet, his head to one side, legs and arms at impossible angles. She had little doubt that he was dead.
She backed away from his body, heart pumping, brain frozen. Then she experienced some kind of adrenalin burst. Or perhaps it was just blind panic. She took off. Running awkwardly, still without her stick, putting as much of her weight on her injured plaster-cast leg as the good one, holding her torn shirt around her with one arm, through the door, along the corridor, down the lift, past reception, out into the street below, and then on and on through the streets of Bristol with no idea at all of where she might be going.
The burst of adrenalin which had engulfed her in the hotel room did not last long. But she only stopped running when her left leg gave way. And only then did the pain from it hit her. She sank to the pavement, sobbing, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had done. Passers-by glanced at her curiously, but nobody approached her. They probably thought she was a crazy woman. Her head was swimming. She put a hand to her face. She was burning-up. She struggled to gain some kind of control of herself, to gather her shattered senses.
Even if she could continue to run, she had nowhere to run to. That was the bitter truth.
She didn’t even know where she was in this city of her childhood which had once been so familiar to her. It made no difference. There was only one thing left to do. She dragged herself to her feet, the throbbing in her left ankle now greater than it had ever been.
Across the road was a telephone box. She limped agonizingly over to it and dialled 999.
Fifteen
Vogel was still struggling to get his blinking under control. He was stunned. Of course, he had assumed that a call from Helen Harris meant there was at least some history of domestic violence in the Quinn household. He supposed he had been rather hoping that he might be provided with information which would build the evolving case against Gill Quinn, and possibly help bring his investigation to a swift and irrevocable conclusion. The last thing he had expected was what appeared to be a cast-iron alibi. And from such a reputable source.
‘Are you absolutely sure of that, Miss Harris?’ interjected Saslow.
Vogel rather wished she hadn’t asked that question. Not of this woman. He turned to look at Helen Harris again. The line of her lips had tightened.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe I entirely understand the question,’ Helen replied. ‘Are you suggesting I might have made a mistake? That Gill Quinn wasn’t here yesterday? That maybe I have the wrong day? Or even, perhaps, the wrong woman?’
‘Uh, no, of course not, I mean...’
‘Well then, what is the alternative? Do you think I have lied to you, detective sergeant? Do you think I am giving Gill a false alibi?’
‘I don’t... I mean... I’m not suggesting anything like that... we just need to confirm...’
Saslow was stumbling over her words. She sounded more than a little flustered. Which was unlike her. But it served her right, thought Vogel. She had spoken without thought. And Helen Harris had proceeded to make mincemeat of her.