The Old Enemy by Henry Porter (read with me .TXT) 📕

‘Never! You own most of the building,’ said Derek, walking the dog lead round Jericho.

‘What breed?’ asked Samson, taking in the animal’s huge bat ears and under-bite.

‘Non-specific dog,’ said Jericho.

‘Take no notice of him,’ said Derek. ‘She’s a Boston terrier with a twist of pug.’ They turned and walked with him towards the door of their building.

‘You should start calling the building manager yourselves,’ he said. ‘I’m away a lot.’

‘In the Balkans?’ said Jericho absently.

Samson stopped at the door and wheeled round. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The strains of Illyria greeted us as we passed your door. Serbo-Croatian of some description, but I couldn’t swear to the region. Your friend, perhaps?’

‘A man’s voice?’

‘Yes, one voice, speaking on the phone, possibly, not mellifluous, by any means.’

‘Definitely not mellifluous,’ said Derek.

Samson glanced up at the first floor. The rooms facing the street were dark and the blinds on to the balcony were up. ‘Have you got a phone with you? Good. Call the police. Tell them there’s a break-in at this address. Now go over to the other side of the street and wait for them.’ The couple looked astonished, but did as they were told.

He unlocked the door and noticed, in the light of the street, fresh gouge marks on the bolts of both locks. They had been forced by a pry bar or a large screwdriver, a crude job that required only brute strength. He hooked the door so that it wouldn’t swing shut and send a sound reverberating through the three-storey townhouse. The automatic lighting didn’t come on, but that was to his advantage. He listened for a few seconds. No sound came from the basement, or the ground-floor flat. He moved along the hallway, climbed halfway up the first flight of stairs and listened again. He dialled Jo’s number. The phone sounded in the flat, but for just two rings before the call was rejected. That was all the confirmation he needed. Jo was in the flat yet hadn’t switched the lights on. He sent her a text – ‘See you in 30 minutes’ – and heard it ping about half a minute later. If the Serb was with her and reading her texts, he’d maybe relax. He crept to his door. Someone was moving inside, heavier than Jo. He put his face to the door. A slight draught bore Jo’s scent and something else – the smell of takeaway food.

He could wait until the police arrived, although there was no guarantee they’d get there in time, or he could try to flush the man out. He went to the top floor and used his phone torch to find the fire extinguisher on the landing, lifted it from the stand and returned to the first floor. The noise of someone moving had stopped, but he heard the low rumble of a man speaking. He reached up to the smoke detector and pressed the test button. Alarms sounded through the building for thirty seconds then shut off. He did it again and moved quickly to put his key in the lock and turn it, knowing that the alarm would drown out the click. The door was slightly open. The alarm died. He waited, back pressed against the wall, straining for any new sounds in the flat. No sign of the police. He had to go in. He raised the fire extinguisher with one hand wrapped around the trigger and pushed the door open with his foot. Nothing moved. He peered into the dark of the flat. He saw little, but sensed the man was there and thought he heard him breathing heavily on the far side of the sitting room. He moved a few paces forward, through the opening into the flat’s main space. The first police siren entered the street and stopped outside the building; a second followed close behind. Lights pulsed on the ceiling. He became aware of a dark shape on the floor – Jo. At the same moment he saw the blur of a figure moving towards him.

No training; no moves this time – just cold fury. He’d had a vague plan to let the extinguisher off to blind the man but instead he swung it with his right hand and connected with the bulk coming at him. There was a dull ring. He couldn’t be certain, but the extinguisher seemed to hit the man’s shoulder and glance upwards to the side of his face. He staggered. Samson swung the extinguisher again, and it skidded across the man’s back and landed at the base of his cranium. The man lashed out leftwards with a weapon and Samson felt a spark of pain in his leg. This wasn’t going to stop him. He turned to his right, seized the edge of the kitchen island, jumped up and toppled the knife block so the knives spilled towards him. He grasped one and hit the light switches on the wall nearby.

What he saw was not the Matador, but a thinner man, reeling as though drunk. There was a knife in his right hand, but it was held loosely and was about to slip from his grasp. The man clutched the side of his head with his left hand. He was in great pain, though there was no sign of any wound, no blood whatsoever. The knife dropped on to the rug. He screamed but not in any language that Samson recognised. Then came pure gibberish. He staggered two paces, froze, his hand still holding his head and rolled over on to the rug.

Police were calling from the stairs. Samson yelled out, flung the knife on to the kitchen surface and went to Jo on the floor. She was bound and gagged and had been stabbed in her upper arm, he guessed some time before, because blood had dried on her jacket. ‘Get an ambulance,’ he shouted as two male officers rushed in. ‘She’s a police officer. She’s lost