The Messiah Secret

of Angela’s old long-case clock that he knew stood in the hallway.

He took a deep breath, pushed the door open very slightly, just wide enough for him to see through the gap, and looked inside.

Immediately Angela started to run she heard pounding footsteps behind her. She risked a quick glance back, which confirmed what she already knew – her pursuer was much quicker than she was, and was gaining on her with every step. He’d be on her in a matter of seconds.

She’d never reach the main road, she knew. She took a deep breath and screamed; a loud, panicky yell that echoed off the walls of the buildings. But as the sound died away, the only noise she could hear was the thudding of the man’s feet behind her. He was getting closer with every second.

To her right was an apartment block, the lighted entrance lobby offering a safe haven. If the door was open, and if she could reach it before the man caught her.

She changed direction abruptly, cutting across the road towards the lobby, but she was still twenty yards short when a hand seized her shoulder.

Angela screamed again and jinked to her right, shaking off the man’s hand and trying to dodge away from him. But almost immediately he grabbed her again. She spun round, reached for his face and scratched her nails down his cheek, digging as deep as she could.

Then she ran again.

The hall of Angela’s flat was empty, and it looked as if nothing had been disturbed. Bronson swung the door wider and slipped into the flat. On one side was the kitchen, the light switched on but the small room clearly empty. To his right, the open door led into the lounge, and it was obvious even from where Bronson stood that the room had been comprehensively searched. Every drawer on the sideboard had been pulled open, the contents scattered all over the floor. But, again, the room looked empty and there was no noise from anywhere in the apartment.

Making as little sound as he could, Bronson stepped over to the lounge door and glanced inside the room. Nobody was there. Moving more confidently now, he strode further down the hall, checking each room. But within a couple of minutes he’d confirmed his initial suspicions – the burglars had already left.

Angela felt a blow to her side that slammed her hard to the right. The next instant, she was gasping for breath, pinned by the man’s left hand against the rough brick wall of a building. She stared in terrified silence at her attacker.

He was short and stocky, with a bandage covering one side of his head. The clerical collar didn’t fool her for an instant. Perverts, she assumed, would adopt whatever guise they thought would put their victims off-guard, and most people deferred to priests, even if they never went to church.

But what happened next utterly amazed her.

‘You’ve got something I want, Angela,’ the man said calmly, his voice measured and level. Blood trickled steadily down his neck from the ragged scratches on his cheek. ‘Give me that case.’

‘How do you know my name?’ she stammered.

‘Just give me that,’ he snapped, grabbing for the leather-bound box of papers Angela had removed from Carfax Hall.

But Angela didn’t let go. Instead, she pulled back, trying to wrench the box from his hand, and herself out of the man’s grasp.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife and pressed the button. The ‘snick’ of the five-inch blade snapping open was ominously loud in the quiet street. He drew back his arm and then swung the knife forward in a vicious under-arm blow aimed directly at Angela’s stomach.

Bronson pulled out his mobile phone, cancelled the triple nine that was displayed on the screen and dialled Angela’s phone. There was no answer.

In that instant he guessed that something was wrong. Stuffing the mobile in his pocket, he ran out of the flat, ignoring the lift and pounding down the stairs towards the ground floor.

The moment she saw the knife swinging towards her, Angela reacted instinctively. Grasping the leather- bound box with both hands, she slammed it downwards to meet the blade.

She felt a sudden blow as the switchblade slammed into the wood and staggered with the force of the impact. She looked down. The blade had penetrated both sides, and a couple of inches of it were sticking out.

The man tugged on the knife, trying to pull it free, but the blade was stuck fast.

Angela wrestled the box from side to side, but couldn’t loosen the man’s grip on it. So she did the next best thing. She kicked upwards, as hard and as accurately as she could, and felt her foot connect firmly with her attacker’s groin.

He grunted in shock and his eyes clouded with pain, and for a moment it seemed as if he might let go of the knife. But then he tightened his grip on the weapon and pulled back his left arm to punch Angela in the face.

She did the only thing she could. The instant he released his grip on her shoulder, she let go of the leather- bound box and dodged away from him, ducking under his outstretched arm. And then she ran away – ran for her life – up the street towards safety.

* * *

Running as fast as he could, Bronson reached the corner of the street where he had parked his car and turned into it. She had to be down there somewhere.

He’d barely made ten yards down the street when he saw her, dishevelled, panting and running hard in the opposite direction.

‘Angela!’ he yelled, and ran across to her.

She slumped to a stop and collapsed into his arms, gasping for air and trembling with exertion.

‘What happened?’ Bronson demanded. As he held her, he scanned the street behind her. It was deserted.

For several seconds Angela couldn’t speak. Finally, she gasped out a single sentence.

‘He knew my name, Chris.’ She flung out an arm and pointed down the street behind her. ‘The priest,’ she said, ‘down there.’

But apart from a couple of girls who’d just appeared from a side street about a hundred yards away, there was nobody in sight.

‘Thank God for that,’ she whispered.

‘What happened?’ Bronson asked again, holding Angela hard against his chest.

In short, breathless sentences, Angela explained what had happened to her since they’d separated outside her apartment building.

‘And you thought he was a priest?’ Bronson asked.

Angela shook her head. ‘I meant he looked like one. He was wearing a black suit and a clerical collar.’

‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’

Angela nodded decisively. ‘Absolutely. I’ll never forget those cold, dead eyes. And I left him a souvenir.’ She held up her hand and Bronson saw the blood under her fingernails.

‘Good for you,’ he said, hugging her.

She pushed herself back, her hands on Bronson’s shoulders. ‘He called me “Angela”, but I’ve never seen him before in my life. He wanted the box of papers and I’m afraid he got it. But it saved my life. If I hadn’t jammed it down when he swung the knife at me, I’d be dead by now.’ She turned and looked towards the end of the street.

‘What happened to the flat?’

‘You’ve been burgled,’ Bronson stated flatly. ‘You’d better check and see what’s been taken.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Angela said, her old spirit returning. ‘Why the hell is it always my place that gets robbed?’

As Angela looked around her flat, Bronson found a couple of long screws in the small toolbox she kept under the sink and replaced the lock assembly on the main door of the apartment.

‘You’ll need to get that door fixed properly,’ he warned her, ‘but that should hold it for a day or two. And there is some good news.’

‘Like what?’

‘Whoever did this was a professional, not some hyped-up junkie looking for something to sell so he could buy his next fix.’

‘How can you tell?’