‘I just want to talk to you, Louise.’
But her quarry said nothing, pulling the hood back over her head as if to hide her identity from her pursuer. Closer, closer, Charlie’s eyes were locked on the approaching blade.
Bang! Charlie thudded into the metal wall of a container. She turned round and too late realized she had walked into a cul-de-sac. There was just time to turn and raise her arms in capitulation as Louise grabbed her by the collar, thrusting her back. With the knife poised at Charlie’s throat, Louise began to search her for valuables. A look of fury turned to disgust when she came across the police badge and radio. She tossed them on the floor and spat on them.
‘Who sent you?’ Louise barked.
‘We’re conducting an enquiry -’
‘WHO sent you?’
‘Helen Grace… DI Grace.’
A moment’s pause then Louise broke into a gappy-tooth grin.
‘Well, give her a message from me?’
‘Sure.’
At which, Louise slashed the knife across Charlie’s chest, narrowly missing her throat. Blood seeped from the long wound just above her breasts. Charlie stood transfixed in shock, before being brought back to earth by the nasty sound of Louise’s chuckling.
‘Not enough for you?’
Suddenly a huge burst of static erupted from Charlie’s discarded police radio. Louise shot a glance sideways, fearful of interruption, and Charlie flicked her left arm sharply up, batting the knife from Louise’s hand. Charlie launched herself forward, but as she did so Louise’s flailing left fist caught her in the throat. It felt for a moment as if her larynx had been crushed. She choked, couldn’t breathe and had to steady herself on the wall. When she looked up, Louise was already out the door and legging it to freedom. Charlie started to pursue her, then immediately pulled up short and vomited. She couldn’t go another step.
Charlie radioed for backup, then walked slowly to the entrance. The shock was kicking in and she needed fresh air. She breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with sea air, and momentarily felt better. Then she raised her eyes and was surprised to see uniformed officers already hurrying towards her. Beyond them she now glimpsed a police incident scene in the vicinity of warehouse number 1. It hadn’t been used for years, or so they’d thought. Something had been going on there and as uniform tended to Charlie they filled her in. Truant schoolkids had found a middle-aged man earlier that morning – not dead but getting there – lying comatose in an effluent-smeared freight container.
They had found Sandy Morten.