Private London (Private 4) - Page 45
‘Hard to ask questions with a mouthful of broken teeth.’
I laughed. ‘That supposed to be a threat?’
He took a step back. A cocky smile playing on his lips. ‘What? You don’t think I could take you.’
‘You might be able to take a couple of the Wendys from the backs on your rugby squad there. But I hit people for a living, son.’
Which wasn’t true, but hey – truth is always the first casualty in a conflict, isn’t it? That was what I’d heard. The ‘son’ bit had the desired effect. Maybe I should have said ‘I push buttons for a living’. His shoulder hunched forward and he might as well have written on a postcard what he was about to do and mailed it to me yesterday.
Chapter 50
I TILTED MY head back so that Roughton’s roundhouse punch sailed past my chin, and as he struggled to keep his balance I stepped forward quickly and jabbed my first two fingers hard into his solar plexus.
He doubled up, making a sound like a broken washing machine, and fell on his side to the floor, his face turning purple.
His teammates stepped forward and I held my hand up. ‘He’s just winded. He’s going to be fine.’
‘More than you’re going to be, mate.’ One of them had found his voice. Another preppie trying to sound tough.
Sam took off his jacket. ‘Any of you care to hold this for me?’
The guy who had spoken up was Tim Graham, according to my notes – five foot eleven and half the weight of Sam, by the looks of him. Graham stared across at my partner, his expression suddenly not so confident.
I held my hands up, placatingly. ‘Hold on, now. You lot could rush us and – who knows – eventually you might take us down. But not before some of you get hurt. I mean seriously hurt.’
I looked down as Ashleigh Roughton got to his feet, breathing deeply, moisture in his eyes.
‘You’re only winded,’ I said to him. ‘I sucker-punched you.’
He nodded. I hadn’t done any such thing, of course, but I figured it might help defuse the situation if I gave him some of his face back. I wasn’t going to be doing much good finding Chloe’s attackers if I was in an intensive-care bed myself.
Another guy stepped forward, five nine but enormous. I figured him for a hooker. Rugbywise that was. He had the kind of face that even a mother would find hard to love.
‘You the Riddler?’ he asked, ignoring me and looking straight at Sam.
‘I never liked that nickname much,’ he replied.
The ugly man’s face broke into a grin. ‘My dad took me to see you fight once. Years ago. You were awesome. Met Police against the RAF. You won.’
‘I remember. Who was your dad?’
‘Chief Superintendent Patrick Connolley. He’s retired now.’
‘He was a good man.’
The guy nodded, still grinning. ‘Awesome,’ he said again.
I sensed a shift in mood. I held my hands out. ‘What say we just ask you all a few questions? Then you can channel your aggression into kicking ten shades of crap out of UCL this afternoon.’
Half an hour later we had spoken to each member
of the team and were heading out of the sports ground, back to Sam’s car.
‘Well, we didn’t learn much from that,’ he said.
I jumped in the car and pulled my seat belt across. But Sam was wrong, I figured we had learned something. Something important.
The guy I’d floored, Ashleigh Roughton, had something to hide or my name wasn’t Dan Carter. I was very far from smiling but things were starting to get shifting now. The opposition had the next move but I could feel the tide turning. So far they’d been calling all the shots. I intended to change that.
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