The front door swung open. Boots moved from uneven gravel to smooth tiles. There was no hesitation; the newcomers stepped inside and fanned out like they owned the place. There was no caution, no fear. As far as Abbie and Christine's safety was concerned, that was a bad sign.
The door fell closed.
Christine made a decision.
“This guy, Davesh, owns this place. He's a sleaze, a creep, but does a lot for the local community, for charity, so no one wants to believe he could be dodgy."
"But you did?"
"Right. The cars in the lot; Davesh ships them in from Europe. Sells them cheap but makes plenty of money. I suspect the majority are either stolen or cut-and-shuts. You know, two cars welded together after a crash.”
"I know."
“Then you know they’re dangerous. As often as not, the cars fall apart, often while travelling at speed. They’re not vehicles, they’re death traps. I came looking for evidence, and I came late because I thought I'd be alone. I didn't expect to find Davesh waiting here alive, let alone dead. You can believe that or not, but it's the truth.”
Downstairs, laughter. At least one man, at least one woman. It was impossible to tell how many in total. But Abbie had only seen one car. Difficult to tell from the distance, but it had looked like a five-seater, and only then if you were generous enough to include the cramped middle seat in the count.
Abbie had questions for Christine. Plenty of them. They'd have to wait.
“Time to move,” she said.
Downstairs, someone threw open a door. Abbie didn’t know which, but there were only two options if you excluded the entrance, and Abbie doubted the ground floor office intrigued the newcomers. Taking Christine's arm, Abbie dragged her towards the hall. They left the knife.
“There’s only one way out,” said Christine. “We’ve no chance.”
“There’s always a chance,” said Abbie. Which wasn’t true but at least sounded good.
They entered the hall. Abbie pushed Christine through then pulled the door to. Not closed. Ajar, as when Abbie had arrived. She stepped to the first door on her left. Another office. Locked.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“Oh God,” said Christine.
“Shh,” said Abbie.
The feet kept coming. Step one, two, three, four.
Christine pulled closer to Abbie. Her fists were clenched. Maybe she was thinking about a dust-up, preparing to throw some punches. Abbie doubted they'd get close enough to the newcomers to throw anything other than insults. The brazen, cocky attitude of those downstairs indicated a fearlessness crooks usually only displayed when armed. Sometimes with knives. In Abbie's experience, guns were more likely.
The corridor was narrow. If the newcomers came into the upstairs hall and started shooting, Abbie and Christine would be torn to shreds before they could so much as ask the crooks their favourite colours, let alone their ideal passtimes.
Abbie worked on the door.
The feet kept coming. Steps five, six, seven, eight.
Done. Abbie rose. Turned the handle, opened the door.
Steps nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
Abbie pushed Christine into the office she’d unlocked.
The door from the stairs began to open.
Abbie followed Christine. Turned the handle right, pulled closed the door, turned the handle left. Stepped back.
The newcomers entered the hall in single file. Abbie counted four sets of feet. They paused where Abbie had paused, by the water cooler. Abbie tried not to hope they were about to gather around and discuss the latest episode of Celebrities Go Scuba Diving or whatever was the newest reality craze. Abbie didn't watch a lot of telly.
Didn't matter. Wasn't going to happen.
Had they seen the office door close? Knowing she stood almost no chance if so, Abbie clenched her fists. If she had to go out, she'd go out fighting.
Stay safe. Come back to me.
Oh, get lost, Bobby.
Then someone spoke. A man. A low, gruff voice. A smoker's voice.
"One at the end."
That was positive. Abbie checked over her shoulder, expecting to see Christine cowering in a corner. She was pleasantly surprised. There was a desk at one end of the room, and Christine stood on Abbie's side of it, back straight, eyes focused. She looked ready to charge if any unfriendlies burst in.
Also positive.
The newcomers proceeded along the hall. The speaker had already referenced the office at the end. These lot were probably connected to Davesh via his criminal activities, assuming Christine had told the truth. If they knew him, there was no reason to enter any office but his.
Regardless, Abbie wouldn't relax. She moved towards the wall that separated her hiding place from the corridor beyond. If anyone tried to enter, she'd take them out before they knew what had happened. Then it'd be her vs three. Possibly her and Christine vs three. If Abbie struck fast and barrelled into the hall, there was a chance they'd make it out alive.
If someone tried to enter this room.
No one did.
The leader of the pack reached the door and carried on. Abbie heard him pause outside Davesh's office.
"It's open."
She heard the door swing in as two more sets of feet passed Abbie.
Then the pack leader stepped into Davesh's office. There was a pause, then a violent, twisted curse. Then another.
The final set of feet sped up, following the two that proceeded him into Davesh’s office.
For a third time, the pack leader swore.
Then another voice. Also male. Softer; clearly afraid.
"What happened? Is he dead?"
Which answered the latest question dancing around Abbie's mind. Had this group returned to the dealership to deal with the corpse of the man they had earlier murdered.
Apparently not.
"Course he's dead, moron,” said the smoker, the leader. "Don't get much deader than this."
Footsteps, behind Abbie. Turning, she saw Christine come up beside her. Their eyes met.
Here was a woman who hadn’t trusted Abbie as far as she could throw her a couple of minutes ago. But they had experienced the arrival of the newcomers together; had reacted together. Hidden together. It was a situation that created imaginary bonds
