Free The Hanging Club (DC Max Wolfe) by Tony Parsons Page B

the way they always do before the violence starts. ‘I think you know my mate, pig. I think you helped to send him down.’
    I took a long step back, giving myself enough room, and I aimed a big right hand at his heart. That always slows them down and shuts them up. A hard punch in the heart. Nobody is expecting a big punch in the heart.
    And I missed.
    He swivelled to address his friends just as I threw the punch and I caught him high on his shoulder, a skimming shot that spun him around and kicked it all off.
    Suddenly there were punches in my face, wild punches that scuffed against my ear, my forehead and high on my cheekbone. Nothing punches. Then one caught me flush on the jaw and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees. A foot slammed into my ribs. And another, the other side this time. I could not get up.
    And then, through their legs as they continued to kick me, I saw Jackson.
    The runt who had screamed in my face went down first. Jackson aimed one low, hard kick at his knee, the side of his foot connecting with bone and ligament, ripping them apart, sending him down with a scream that turned them all around.
    Jackson wasted nothing.
    These were not the same as the kicks that were pounding into me. These were expert, economical movements, shocking in their violence, his foot raising and turning and aimed at knees. And connecting. Another one hit the deck, his face twisted with agony. Two of them went for Jackson at once. He stepped forward, lifted his hands and inserted both his thumbs into their eye sockets. As they whirled away, howling, their hands clutching their faces, he kicked their knees. It wasn’t the kind of fighting you learn in a boxing gym. There was nothing fair about it. There was no respect for his opponent. He destroyed them. I wondered if they would ever walk again.
    One man was left standing. Jackson moved swiftly towards him and swung his body, his right elbow connecting with the man’s mouth, showering front teeth across the pavement. He kicked both of the man’s knees before he hit the pavement.
    Then he was helping me to my feet and we were running.
    We did not speak when we were running. And we did not speak as we cleaned ourselves up and I dressed the wound that he had on his elbow, his flesh torn away by the front teeth of the last man.
    And then we looked at each other.
    ‘What kind of chef were you?’ I said.

11
     
    A Media Liaison Officer was meant to be briefing DCI Pat Whitestone before the press conference at West End Central. But it was the Chief Super, DCS Swire, who was doing most of the briefing.
    ‘The message we need to send, Pat, is that nobody takes the law into their own hands. Because that doesn’t improve the law. It destroys it. Just keep hammering that point home.’
    ‘Phone call, ma’am,’ TDC Billy Greene said.
    Behind her glasses, DCI Whitestone’s eyes flashed with anger.
    ‘I said no calls, Billy.’
    ‘You’ll want to take this, ma’am.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m afraid it’s your son.’
    Whitestone took the call and I went to the window where Edie Wren was staring down at the street. The circus was arriving. Camera crews, satellite vans, and dozens of reporters.
    ‘And they’re not even serial killers yet,’ Edie said.
    ‘Give them time,’ I said. ‘They’ve done two. They only need one more to make the grade.’
    ‘Are you all right, Pat?’ the Chief Super said behind us.
    Whitestone was white-faced with shock.
    ‘It’s Just. My son. My Just. I thought he was staying with a friend last night. But he’s at the hospital. They tell me he’s been there all night. There’s been . . . an incident. Someone – a gang – put a bottle across his eyes.’ She fought to control herself. She took her glasses off and polished them. ‘Ma’am,’ she said to the Chief Super. ‘They say – they think – the doctors think there’s a chance he could lose his sight.’
    To me Whitestone’s son was a shadow that I had glimpsed on a