Blake looked into the camera.
‘Everyone can be made to commit acts normally abhorrent to them,’ he said.
The camera zoomed in on him.
Kelly allowed her hand to slip back inside the handbag, and, once more, she gripped the revolver. She could hear the low breathing of the security guard behind her but she realized that she had no choice.
She began to ease the gun slowly from its place of concealment.
Behind her, the security man moved and Kelly swallowed hard as she heard his footsteps gradually receding. The next time she saw him he was a good fifty feet away, to the left of the studio’s set. Kelly watched him for a moment longer then turned her attention back to Blake.
He was staring into the camera, motionless in his chair.
The other three men looked at him in bewilderment and, after a minute or so of silence, some impatient mutterings began to ripple through the audience but Blake merely sat as he was, his eyes fixed on the camera as if it were a snake about to strike him.
The cameraman was not the only one in the studio to feel as if iced water had been pumped through his veins. He shivered.
Kelly too felt that freezing hand grip her tightly but the tears which ran down her cheeks were warm.
She could not take her eyes from Blake and now the cold seemed to be intensifying, growing within her until it was almost unbearable.
She slid the Magnum from her handbag and stood up, holding the gun at arm’s length, fixing Blake hurriedly in the sights.
The man in front of her turned and opened his mouth to shout a warning.
From the studio floor, the security guard spotted her. He raced towards her, his eyes fixed on the gleaming Magnum.
The noise was thunderous.
As Kelly squeezed the trigger, the .357 roared loudly. The savage recoft nearly knocked her over and she winced as the butt smashed against the heel of her hand. The Magnum bucked violently in her grip as it spat out the heavy grain bullet. The barrel flamed brilliant white for precious seconds and, in that blinding illumination, members of the audience dived for cover, most of them unaware of what had made the deafening blast.
The bullet hit the floor and drilled a hole the size of a fifty pence piece in the hard surface.
Kelly fired again.
The second shot shattered the smoked glass table in front of Blake who turned and looked up into the audience, the muzzle flash catching his eye. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions and the old priest yelped in pain as one laid open his cheek. He felt himself being pulled to one side by the psychiatrist.
Blake rose, his arms outstretched.
The writer presented a much bigger target and, this time, Kelly didn’t miss.
Moving at a speed of over 1,430 feet a second, the heavy grain slug hit him squarely in the chest. It shattered his sternum and tore through his lung before erupting from his back, blasting an exit hole the size of a fist. Lumps of grey and red viscera splattered the flimsy set behind him and Blake was lifted off his feet by the impact. He crashed to the floor and rolled over once, trying to drag himself away, but Kelly fired once more.
The next bullet hit him in the side, splintering his pelvis, decimating the liver as it ripped through him.
He clapped one hand to the gaping wound as if trying to hold the blood in. His chest felt as if it were on fire and, when he coughed, blood spilled over his lips and ran down his chin, mingling with that which was already forming a pool around him.
Nevertheless, fighting back the waves of agony which tore through him, he managed to claw his way across the set and he was on his knees when the third bullet hit him. It smashed his left shoulder and spun him round, fragments of bone spraying from the exit wound, propelled by the eruption of blood which accompanied the blast.
He sagged forward across the chair, hardly feeling any pain as^nother round practically took his head off. It caught him at the base of the throat, the
massive force throwing him onto his back where he lay motionless, a crimson fountain spurting from the large hole.
Kelly stood at the back of the studio, the gun hot in her hand, her palms stinging from the constant recoil. The smell of cordite stung her nostrils but she seemed not to notice it and, as the security man approached her, one eye on that yawning barrel, she merely dropped the Magnum and looked blankly at him.
He slowed his pace as he drew closer and she saw his lips moving as he spoke but she heard nothing. Only gradually did the sounds begin to filter back into her consciousness.
The screams. The shouts.
She shook her head then looked in bewilderment at the security man, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. She looked down at the gun which lay at her feet then back at the set.
Kelly saw two or three people gathered around a body and it took her a moment or two to realize it was the body of Blake.
She saw the blood. Smelled the cordite. Her ears were still ringing from the explosive sound of the gunshots.
First aid men scurried on to the set to tend to Blake but she saw one of them shake his head as he felt for a pulse and heartbeat. Another man removed his jacket and laid it over Blake’s face.
She realized that David Blake was dead.
The security guard took her by the arm and she looked at him, her eyes wide and questing. She shook her head, glancing down once more at the gun.
In that instant, as she was being led away, Kelly felt as if her entire body had been wrapped in freezing rags.
The room inside Albany Street police station was small. Despite the dearth of furniture it still appeared miniscule. Less than twelve feet square, it contained two chairs, one on each side of a wooden table. A cracked washbasin was jammed into one corner near the door and there was a plastic bucket beneath it to catch the drips which dribbled through the chipped porcelain.
The room smelt of perspiration and cigarette smoke, but the windows remained firmly closed. Powerful banks of fluorescents, quite disproportionately bright for the size of the room, blazed in the ceiling.
Inspector Malcolm Barton lit up another cigarette and tossed the empty packet onto the table in front of Kelly.
‘How well did you know David Blake?’ he asked.
‘I’ve already told you,’ Kelly protested.
‘So tell me again.’
‘We were lovers. I was living at his house. I had been for about a fortnight.’
‘Then why did you kill him?’
‘I’ve told you that too.’
Barton blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head.
‘You can do better than that, Miss Hunt,’ he said. ‘First you told me you intended to kill Blake then you said you didn’t remember pulling the trigger.
Now, I’m just a thick copper. I like things plain and simple. Te!l me why you shot him.’
Kelly cradled her head in her hands and tried to keep her voice calm. She had been at the police station for over an hour, taken directly there from the Euston Road studios.
‘He was dangerous,’ she said.
‘He never seemed like a nut-case to me the odd times I saw him on the box.
What gave you this special insight?’ The policeman’s voice was heavy with scorn.
‘He told me about his powers,’ said Kelly, wearily.
‘Of course, his powers, I’d forgotten about them.’
if you won’t believe me then at least let someone else back up what I’ve told you. Blake had the ability to control people’s minds, to make them act out their worst desires. That was his power.’
‘And you know of someone who’ll verify that do you?’ Barton chided. ‘I’d be
interested to meet him.’
‘Then let me make a bloody phone call,’ Kelly snapped. ‘Like you should have done when you first brought me here.’
Barton pointed an accusatory finger at her.
‘Don’t start giving me orders, Miss Hunt, you’re not in a bargaining position,’ he hissed. ‘Jesus Christ you were seen by dozens of people. You told me yourself that you had to kill Blake.’