Killer Instinct (45 page)

I chose the northern English city of Lancaster for the setting because it was not only an area I knew well, but because I was intrigued by the dual-edged personality of the place. By day it’s an attractive university town, filled with history and the kind of elegant Georgian architecture that has seen it called the Bath of the North.

But by night the number of pubs and clubs give the city an altogether darker feel. At one point it had one of the highest violent-crime rates per head of population in the country. And although one or two people asked if the events described in the book could really happen in a place like Lancaster, my answer is . . . they did, more or less.

In one of those weird twists of fate, shortly after KILLER INSTINCT was published, one of the local nightclubs was shut down after a drug-dealing scandal, in which the owner and half the door staff were allegedly involved. (And if you’re cheating, and reading this afterword before you’ve read the book itself, you better just forget that bit!)

So, how does it feel to finally have the beginning of Charlie’s story out there again? Bloody marvellous, if you must know . . .

First of all, I have to thank those people who patiently let me pick their brains; especially PC Michael Wilkinson for his inside information on police procedure; James for filling me in on what really happens behind club doors; Ian ‘this won’t hurt’ Cottam and Lee Watkin for teaching me the basics of self-defence; Colin and Jane Greenhalgh for their extensive bar experience; and remedial therapist Wendy Seabrook. Any mistakes are strictly by my own introduction.

A few people trawled through the initial drafts and pointed out the major plot-holes. My grateful thanks for this dedication go to Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Tim Winfield, and all the members of the Lune Valley Writers’ Group, particularly Clive Hopwood, whose criticisms were the most painful, but the most accurate. You were all brilliant.

The biggest thank yous of all belong to my husband, Andy, who has suffered with me all the way; to Derek and Jill for encouraging me to write in the first place; to the staff at Piatkus Books who first gave me a chance; to my gracious copyeditor Sarah Abel; to David Thompson at Busted Flush Press, who took Charlie under his wing, and to Jane Hudson at NuDesign who came up with the terrific new e-covers. And also to all the authors and online writing community who encouraged me to get these early books out there into the e-niverse.

Lastly my grateful thanks to the inimitable Lee Child, for being such a big supporter of my work and all-round nice guy.

“I am a violent man, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said, without bravado or inflection. “I can – and will – do whatever is necessary to control this estate. Remember that.”

A self-defence expert with a motorbike and an attitude, Charlie Fox doesn't need to go looking for trouble. It generally finds her. House-sitting for a friend seems like an easy favour at first but the house in question is in the Lavender Gardens estate. Teenage gangs are running riot and Charlie's desperate neighbours have been forced to employ an expensive – and ruthless – security firm to apply rough justice where the legal kind has failed. The situation gets even uglier when a young Asian boy is fatally wounded in what appears to be a racially motivated shooting.

Caught in the middle of an urban battlefield, Charlie's more than able to take care of herself but then she comes face to face with a spectre from her army past. As the tensions rise, lives will depend on Charlie working out just who she can really trust . . .

‘Sharp's first novel,
Killer Instinct
was a good read, but within the first few pages of
Riot Act
she surpasses herself. She succeeds in bringing the characters alive and Charlie Fox makes a powerful and attractive heroine. Equally, her other characters work well and she succeeds in creating snappy dialogue and mixing it well with action.

'At times,
Riot Act
feels slightly reminiscent of Minette Walters' 'Acid Row'. . . (Sharp) takes her Lancashire setting, throws in a great deal of action and creates a fast-paced novel that is guaranteed to build on the reputation created by her debut novel and make her known as an up-and-coming talent in the crime world.' Luke Croll,
Murder & Mayhem Book Club

Chapter Five

As I turned in to Kirby Street a big man carrying what looked like a baseball bat stepped out of the shadows into the road in front of me.

My first thought as I grabbed for the front brake was that Roger had somehow already got wind of my intention to go the distance, and had sent the boys round. Timing and logic didn't come into it. This was straight gut-reaction fear.

The Suzuki's tyres slithered on the wet greasy tarmac as I locked the wheels up tight, stepping the back end out. Somehow, I managed to bring the bike to an untidy halt within about six feet of him, slanted across the road. I put my feet down, shaky, heart bouncing against my ribs.

The man had made no move to get out of my path. Arrogance made him confident that I would stop in time. That I wouldn't dare run him down. I wondered if he tried the same tactic with buses and trucks.

For a couple of beats, nothing happened. Then he swaggered forwards to meet me, and I saw that the baseball bat was actually one of those oversize torches. The type so favoured by jumped-up security guards without the authority to carry a weapon for real.

He came right up to the fairing, crowding me, tall enough for me to have to crick my neck up to make eye-contact with him through my visor. His was a face that had seen some action, the bridge of the nose lumped with scar tissue. There was the line of an old knife wound cutting through his moustache stubble from nostril to upper lip.

He was a sizeable bloke, wearing the black bomber jacket and dark cargo trousers of the professional bruiser. I've come across enough of them in my time to recognise the type without needing a diagram. I was reminded strongly of the local vigilante leader, Langford.

It was only when he spoke that my preconceptions took a knock. “OK, sonny, where do you think you're going?” he demanded, surprising me with the genuine cut-glass accent that came out of his thuggish mouth.

I didn't bother to correct his mistake. Even in these enlightened times nobody expects a girl to be riding a motorbike. “Home,” I said shortly, my voice muffled by my scarf. “What's it to do with you?”

“You'd be wise not to take that tone with me, my lad,” he warned with a grim smile. He thrust his chin forwards, showing me his teeth and the whites of his eyes all the way round the irises. The skin of his face was stretched over wide cheekbones that protruded through it, revealing the shape of his skull.

Close up, he was older than I'd first thought. Even under the streetlighting, I could see that the hair cropped short to his scalp was silver, not blond. The lines were etched deep into his face like penknife graffiti in an old school desk.

“Come on,” he said, roughly now. “Let's have that helmet off and have a look at you.”

“
What?
You've got to be kidding?” I managed, appalled. “Who the hell d'you think you are?”

At that moment another figure appeared from a ginnel between two houses and joined the first. He was younger, shorter, not so broad in the shoulder, but the haircut and the uniform was the same. This was starting to get creepy.

“You got trouble, boss?” he asked, not taking his eyes off me. His voice wasn't nearly so far upmarket, but he was trying hard to match it, and his tone was hopeful, spoiling for a fight.

I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of sticky situations, but I didn't have to be to work out that now was a good time to back down.

With a sigh I yanked my gloves off and undid the chinstrap holding my battered old Arai helmet in place, pulling that off over my head.

For a moment, surprise held them still, then the big bloke laughed.

“Well, well,” he said softly. “I'd no idea that I was in the presence of a lady.”

“You're not,” I said, my voice icy. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who you are and what the hell is going on?”

“My apologies,” he said, mocking. “My name is Ian Garton-Jones. Myself – and Mr West here – and my colleagues, have been contracted in a clean-up capacity on this estate.”

I suddenly remembered my last conversation with my neighbour over the garden fence. She'd mentioned a Mr Garton-Jones, but I feigned ignorance. “Clean-up?” I queried, frowning.

“That's correct.” He showed his teeth again. The Rhodesian Ridgeback, Friday would have made the gesture look more friendly. “We're here to gather up all the rubbish, the crap, the dregs, and the trash, and keep it off the streets,” he said with deliberate emphasis. The inference was clear.

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I asked flippantly.

He shrugged. It was of no importance to him. “Whatever it takes.”

“And that involves doing a ‘stand and deliver’ routine on every passing motorist coming into the estate, does it?”

“Oh that's just a temporary measure, Miss―?” He left the question hanging.

“Fox,” I supplied, unable to find a reason other than pure pigheadedness not to tell him who I was. Even so, it was tempting. “My name is Charlie Fox.”

“There, you see, it's not so bad, is it, Miss Fox?” Garton-Jones said. His tone was supposed to be soothing. It only succeeded in winding my irritation up a notch higher. West stood slightly back and to his left, keeping quiet, but missing nothing. “Once we've identified everyone with a right to be here, you won't be troubled again.”

When I gave my name, West pulled out a hardbacked notebook from his inside pocket and flicked on his own torch as he studied the pages. “I don't seem to have you listed as a resident here, Miss Fox,” he said politely, his voice deceptively mild. “Would you mind telling me the purpose of your visit tonight?”

“I'm house-sitting for a friend,” I bit out. I knew I was going to have to tell them more than that, but they were going to have to work for it.

“House-sitting?” Garton-Jones repeated, his interest quickening. “For whom? Which house?” He rapped out the questions. Despite his upper-class accent, the civility was little more than a cigarette-paper thin veneer covering the savagery underneath. I knew that if I was clever I'd stop being obstructive now, and tell them what they wanted to know.

So, I gave them Pauline's name and address, told them how long she was going to be away. West jotted it all down in his notebook, which he shut with a snap when he was finished.

“OK, Miss Fox,” Garton-Jones said. “You can go now. We'll be having a word with Mrs Jamieson when she returns, though. Just to let her know that there's no need to trouble any of her friends in the future. Streetwise Securities are in control of this area now. Next time she's away, we'll be looking after her property.”

I bridled silently at his smug tone. Pauline would probably have something to say about that, but it wasn't up to me to put words into her mouth. “I'm sure she'll be thrilled,” I told him sweetly.

Garton-Jones either didn't hear the sarcasm or chose to rise above my low wit. “It's all part of the service,” he said neutrally, standing back and waving me on with a slight bow.

I tugged my helmet back on, trying not to mutter under my breath. But, as I toed the bike into gear, I was blinded by the sudden flare of main-beam headlights from the other end of the street.

“What the―?” Garton-Jones spun round, jerking a hand up to protect his eyes.

I heard the roar of a big V8 engine, being caned straight down the middle of the road. The sound seemed to leap towards me, increasing in size with such speed and ferocity that for a moment I was paralysed.

At the last minute, I grabbed a handful of throttle and banged the clutch out. The bike jumped forwards like a racehorse leaving the starting gate and shot across the road.

I just about managed to slot into a gap between two parked cars, and jolted clumsily up the low kerb onto the pavement, stalling the motor.

I twisted round to see Garton-Jones and West dive out of the way with an undignified haste that was grimly pleasing. It was difficult to make out much more than the basic shape of the vehicle that came barrelling through the space we'd so recently vacated. One of these new four-by-fours, with a set of industrial bull-bars on the front. Other than that, I couldn't even have given you the colour.