“Well, he harped on about this Wyman for a while, was I sure I didn’t know him and so on, then he asked after my ‘lovely’ daughter Sophia—he actually mentioned her name—how she was doing. I told him fine as far as I knew and got my things together to leave. I’d had enough by then. Just as I was about to go, he grabbed my sleeve and told me to be careful. That’s all he said. No overt threat. Just ‘Be careful, Victor.’ Now what do you think that was all about?”
“Melodrama,” said Banks, nonetheless feeling his f lesh crawl as he tried to shrug it off. “They love melodrama almost as much as they love games and codes.”
“Well, I hope so, Alan. I sincerely hope so. Because if anything happens to my daughter, I’ll—”
“If anything happens to your daughter, you’ll have to get in line, and I’ll be the first in the queue.”
“Just as long as we understand one another.”
“We do,” said Banks. “Good-bye, Victor.”
Banks sipped some wine and stroked his chin, feeling the two days’
stubble, thinking over what he’d just heard. Sometime later, Cat Power went into a stark and desolate “Wild Is the Wind” and a cloud cast a dark shadow shaped like a running deer as it drifted slowly over the daleside. Banks reached for the wine bottle.
* * *
3 1 2
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
T H E S H A D O W S were lengthening when Winsome and Doug Wilson, along with the few uniforms they had brought with them as support, approached Hague House. If the Bull was armed, then he might be dangerous. The officers were carrying a miniature battering ram, affectionately known as a “big red door key,” which they would use to break the door down if they got no answer. More uniforms were stationed at the bottom of the stairwells, where a small crowd had gathered. Andy Pash had reluctantly given an official statement, which gave them sufficient cause to bring the Bull in as a serious suspect in the Donny Moore stabbing. They had also managed to dig up his real name, which was Toros Kemal—hence the Bull, though Winsome doubted that “toros” meant bull in Turkish—and his criminal record, which was lengthy.
The lifts were out of order, as usual, so they had to climb the stairs on the outside of the building. Luckily, Kemal lived on the second f loor, so they didn’t have too far to climb. One or two lurk-ers in the shadows scarpered pretty quickly when they saw the uniforms.
Winsome found the green door easily enough. She could hear the sound of a television from inside. Andy Pash had let slip that Kemal was living with a young woman called Ginny Campbell, who was on the council list as the only tenant. She had two young children by another man, so there was a potential hostage situation and they would have to be careful.
“Step back a bit, ma’am,” said one of the uniformed officers. “We’ll take care of this part.”
“Be our guest,” said Winsome. She and Doug Wilson stepped back toward the stairwell, about twenty feet away.
The officer rapped on the door and bellowed, “Toros Kemal. Open up. Police.”
Nothing happened.
He knocked again, his colleague beside him with the battering ram at the ready, itching to use it. People were starting to appear in their doorways and at their windows.
Finally the door opened and a tall man stood framed in the doorway, stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
3 1 3
and trainers. He rubbed his head as if he had just woken up. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Mr. Kemal,” said the uniformed officer. “We’d like you to accompany us to the station for questioning in the matter of the stabbing of Donny Moore.”
“Moore. Don’t know him,” said Kemal. “Just let me get my shirt.”
“I’ll accompany you, sir,” one of the officers said. They went inside.
The other officer lowered his battering ram, clearly disappointed, relaxed and shrugged at Winsome. Sometimes things were easier than you thought they’d be. Winsome was standing by the stairwell, Wilson behind her, when Kemal came out with the uniformed officer. Kemal was wearing a red T-shirt.
“I’ve gotta tie my laces, man,” he said in the doorway, and knelt.
The officers stepped back, behind him. In less than a second, he had a knife in his hand, pulled from a sheath strapped to his lower leg.
The officers took out their extendable batons, but they were too slow. The Bull wasn’t hanging around. Winsome and Wilson were the only ones blocking his way to the stairs, and Wilson was hidden behind her. The Bull came charging straight for her as if he’d just come into the ring, building up a head of steam, letting out an almighty yell, with his arm stretched out, mouth open, pointing the blade directly at her as he ran.
Winsome felt a chill run through her, then her self-defense training took over, pure instinct. There was no time for anything else. She stood her ground, readied herself, let him come to her. She grabbed his outstretched knife arm with both hands, let herself fall on her back, and using the impetus he’d built up, she wedged her feet in his solar plexus and pushed with all her might.
Kemal was traveling fast enough that it all happened in one seamless, choreographed movement. There was a gasp from the crowd below as he f lipped heels over head in the air, then his back bounced against the f limsy balcony, and he disappeared over the edge with a scream. Winsome lay on her back on the concrete now, gasping for breath. She had long legs, she had pushed hard, and his momentum had been considerable.
In just seconds, Doug Wilson and the two uniformed officers were 3 1 4
