Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) (2 page)

Jeffrey took the first step
towards the bandstand.

The lead singer noticed him
immediately. 
“
Hey up, we
’
ve got a new member of the band.  You lost,
old fella?
”

Jeffrey ignored the singer and
carried on up the steps.

This only amused the singer
more. 
“
Here, looks like he
’
s coming to sing one with us.  Do we all
want to see the old fella sing?
” 
The crowd cheered. 
“
I
’
m not sure we have
anything by George Formby, though.  How about
When I
’
m Sixty-Four?
”

The crowd bellowed with
laughter.

Jeffrey made his way up the last
steps.  He took advantage of the band
’
s confusion and moved quickly.  The bewildered frontman allowed
Jeffrey to stroll right on up to the nearest mic stand, where he proceeded to
say exactly what he came there to say. 
“
You people disgust me.
”
  Jeffrey pulled open his anorak and
detonated the bomb strapped around his waist.

S
ummer was here and so
were the bugs.  Sarah hopped from the bus to the sticky pavement and swatted at
a wasp.  When the buzzing menace refused to flee, she gritted her teeth and
snarled, but the wasp only seemed further amused by her frustration.  As it
dove at her head for a third time, Sarah
’
s
temper flared and she snatched it out of the air and crushed it in her fist. 
The dickish creature managed to get off its stinger before it died, and the
piercing pain in her palm reminded Sarah of the virtue of staying calm. 
Somehow, getting angry only ever seemed to hurt her, yet it was her default
emotion.  She threw the dead carcass to the pavement and resumed her journey. 
Sorry,
Mr Wasp, but you picked the wrong woman to mess with.

As she marched through the
high street, Sarah could have ignored the gawking strangers glancing at her
scars, but instead met their stares head-on.  If they wanted to gawp, then she
had the right to stare right back at them.  Either that, or they could pay for
the freak show.

It didn
’
t take long to reach the bank.  It was in the middle of Birmingham
’
s busy Corporation Street.  Sarah joined the winding queue inside
and grunted.  Out of the six serving windows, only two were manned.  She glanced
at the gaping arse-crack of the woman queuing in front of her, and at the
snot-nosed toddler running around screaming, and sighed. 

The toddler stopped its
screaming for a second when it spotted Sarah
’
s
disfigured face.  Sarah bared her teeth and the child hurried away.  Its mother
was too busy with her iPhone to give a shit.  Sarah often wondered why people
had children when they couldn
’
t be bothered to watch them. 

If Sarah could
’
ve helped it, she
’
d do away with her monthly trips to the bank.  Other aspects of her
life could be dealt with via the Internet or over the phone, but there was no
choice when it came to the bank.  She needed to visit the city once a month to
pay in her foreign cheques for US dollars. 

“
Come on,
”
she mumbled as the queue moved down by only a single
body.  Her wasp sting was itching now. She ran her ragged nails over her
throbbing palm and tried to ease it.  She regretted crushing the wasp.  They
were alike.  People flinched at the sight of Sarah, too.

A well-kempt businessman
strolled away from the tellers, having concluded his business.  He smiled at
Sarah as he approached, but once he got close enough to see the far side of her
face, his eyes fixed on the floor and he sped up. 

Men often gave Sarah a smile
if they caught her good side
—
from that angle she was merely a shapely blonde woman
—
but as soon as they glimpsed the badly-scarred left side of her
face, their stomachs would turn and they
’
d
act as if they suddenly realised they were in a hurry.  It happened so often
that Sarah didn
’
t even care anymore

The queue inched forward. 
Sarah shuffled along irritably.  It was Monday morning, didn
’
t the bank expect to have so many customers?  What made things worse
was that there was clearly another three members of staff available, but they
were hanging around in an office area behind the serving windows.  One guy was
even swigging coffee and laughing, oblivious to the customers waiting. 

Sarah thought about the bomb
that had gone off yesterday, in the village of Knutsford.  Were all those
people hanging around just like this, thinking everything was normal?  Did they
even see it coming? 

She
’
d
visited Knutsford once.  It was a sleepy village outside Manchester, with a
cosy Italian restaurant that served the best ravioli she
’
d ever tasted.  She and her husband, Thomas, had eaten there one
night before they caught a flight out from Manchester Airport.  Thomas had
ordered spaghetti, and made her leak wine out of her nose by letting the
strands hang out of his mouth like a monster.  Knutsford was a nice village. 
Sarah had been shocked to see it littered with bodies on last night
’
s evening news. 

The BBC had claimed some
disgruntled pensioner was behind the attack, but that just raised more
questions than it answered, like: how did a retired postal worker learn how to
make a nail bomb?  And why attack a sleepy hamlet like Knutsford?

The queue shuffled up another
half-step.  Four of the six serving windows were still unoccupied.  The
dickhead in the office was still sipping coffee and laughing while his equally
lazy colleagues joined him in ignoring the bank
’
s
waiting customers. 

Sarah had suffered enough. 
She exited the queue and marched on up to the serving window. 
“
Hey, d
’
you think you might come out and do your jobs for a while?
”
she shouted through the security glass. 
“
There
are people waiting out here, in case you hadn
’
t
noticed.
”

A few chuckles from the people
standing in the queue, but mostly awkward silence. 

The young guy with the coffee
ambled towards the other side of the window like a swaggering cowboy.  He was
wearing a cheap suit with garish cufflinks that he clearly thought were
stylish.  His badge read:
‘
Assisant Branch Manager
’
.  Sarah wondered if
he was aware of the spelling mistake.  She guessed not.  When he noticed the
scars on Sarah
’
s face, he stumbled mid-step, but recovered well enough to make it
to the window and pretend he hadn
’
t noticed. 
“
Ma
’
am, you need to join the queue.
” 

“
I did join the queue, but I
’
m worried that by the
time you people get to me I will have joined the afterlife.
”

 
“
Ma
’
am, if you won
’
t join the queue and wait to be served, I
’
m
going to have to ask you to leave.
”

“
And I
’
m going to have to ask you to kiss my arse.  All these people are
waiting while you
’
re standing around like a couple of spare pricks.
”

The Assisant Branch Manager
adjusted his tie and looked down his nose at her. 
“
I
’
m now asking you to leave, ma
’
am.
”

Sarah folded her arms. 
“
So you
’
re not going to let me cash the cheque I get from the US Army for my
dead husband?  He was blown up in Afghanistan, in case you
’
re wondering.  And what about the money I get from the British
government for losing half my face fighting for this country?  Will you not
help me with that?  Look, I understand you like to drink your cappuccino in the
back and pretend you
’
re a real businessman, but I need my money to live.  I
’
m strange like that.
”

The Assisant Branch Manager shifted
uncomfortably. 
“
I
’
m
…
very sorry to hear about that, ma
’
am,
but I
’
m afraid you
’
ll need to have to leave if you
’
re
going to be difficult.  Please call our customer service number if you
’
d like to make a complaint.
”

Sarah moved her face right up
to the glass so that the obstinate arsehole could get a good look at her. 
“
I
’
m not the one being difficult.  Don
’
t
you people get paid enough not to treat your customers like a nuisance?  Your
job is to serve us, but you make it seem like you
’
re
doing us a favour.  We give you our money and you act like it
’
s yours.  We ask for it back and you make us jump through hoops. 
You fine and charge us every chance you get, then refuse to explain why, as if
we should just accept that you make the rules.  Well, let me tell you
something, Mr Assisant Manager, I got my face blown off fighting in a foreign
country so that oil companies and fat cat bankers like your bosses could keep
their big houses and shiny sports cars. So, when I say get your bone-idle arses
out here right now and do your goddamn jobs, I think I earned the right to say
so.
”

There was an outright cheer
from the queue of customers.  The other customers were solidly behind her now,
but the Assisant Manager was not.  He nodded over Sarah
’
s
shoulder, as if he were Augustus Caesar having a dissenting peasant dragged
away and executed. 

Sarah spun around to see a
wide-shouldered security guard stomping towards her.  With his bald head and
tattoos, he looked absurd in the smart uniform they
’
d
given him. 
“
You
’
ve been asked to leave, luv.
”

“
And yet I
’
m still here.  Whatever should we do?
”

More chuckles.  The crowd was
egging her on, eager to see what happened.  Sarah rolled her eyes.  They were happy
to let a disfigured freak entertain them for a while, but she doubted any of
them would step in and help her if she needed it.

“
You need to leave,
”
the guard commanded, giving her his best impression of
a snarling bear.

Sarah waved a hand in front of
her face. 
“
And you need to take a breath mint.
”

The guard reached out his hand
to grab her shoulder.

Without thinking about it,
Sarah grabbed the big man
’
s hand and twisted it.  She yanked him one way and then the other,
flipping him over his own wrist.  It was a basic Aikido throw and one that was
second-nature to her. 
Like riding a rusty old bike.

The guard hit the ground like
a sack of potatoes.  He wasn
’
t hurt, but was more than a little surprised.  Sarah stood over him
and snarled. 
“
I
’
d advise against standing up, mate, or I
’
m
going to have to make a deposit up your arse with my foot.
”

The other customers bellowed
with laughter.  Their blood lust was up and the violence had excited them. 
Sarah knew enough about mob mentality to know how people
’
s morals soon changed when their neighbours acted up.  It was time
to leave; she
’
d made her point.

Sarah looked back at the
stunned Assisant Manager, still safe behind his glass barrier, and pointed her
finger at him. 
“
Get your name badge replaced, dickhead.  It gives away how much of
an idiot you are.
” 
She then strolled out of the bank and into the crisp
air of early May, wondering how the hell she was going to get by without her
cheques being cashed.  Maybe if she came back tomorrow they wouldn
’
t remember her face.

Yeah right!

Sarah picked up her pace and
hurried away from the bank.  If they called the police she wouldn
’
t be hard to identify.  Heavily-scarred women wearing jeans and work
boots were pretty easy to spot, and sure enough, it didn
’
t take long before Sarah was certain she was being followed.

Her pursuer was staying back,
slipping behind other pedestrians. Every time Sarah looked back, the man would
pretended to be busy with his phone or the produce of a nearby market stall. 
He was wearing a long grey coat which made him look like a middle-class car
salesman.

Sarah slid into an alleyway
between two estate agents and headed around the back of the high street, where
there was only a car park and a dingy hairdresser
’
s. 
She picked up speed and glanced over her shoulder.  The man could make no
secret of pursuing her now.  His footsteps echoed on the concrete behind her,
keeping pace rather than catching up.  He was apparently in no rush to catch
her.

Sarah rounded a brick wall
that sectioned off a small parking yard belonging to the bank, of all places,
and slid herself behind a large, steel wheelie bin.  Her pursuer would
’
ve seen her sneak around the wall and into the parking yard, but he
wouldn
’
t have seen her slip behind the bin.