Break Point: BookShots (7 page)

He sat down next to her in the steam, and for a long while neither of them said anything. Rosario had her faults, but she had been fiercely loyal to Keller and they had travelled the world together for three tough years. They were family. Foster was surprised Kirsten had held it together for so long. So he let her sob, and in the end it was Keller who spoke first, her breathing slowing as she lifted her head to look at Foster.

‘Marta Basilia was here.’

Keller ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it from her face and revealing bloodshot eyes.

‘What did she want?’

‘She brought flowers and said she was sorry about Maria. Maybe she was trying to get into my head. I don’t know. The flowers just made me realise that Maria is gone and she’s never coming back. This locker room feels so fucking empty without her.’

Foster took a breath.

‘I just spoke to Ruth Cullen. They think it was murder.’

Keller stared into the shower steam for a long minute, before eventually turning back to Foster and fixing him with a resolute stare.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Maria Rosario was a fighter. Now nobody will be able to call her a coward. She would have hated that.’

Foster nodded, and they sat in silence for a minute, listening to the sound of the water falling onto the tiles.

‘I’ll wait for you while you shower,’ he said eventually. ‘If you want me to?’

Keller said that was exactly what she wanted, and she stood up and took a deep breath.

‘Maria used to coach Basilia before she joined my team. Could she be behind all this?’

Foster looked unsure.

‘Switching teams is hardly a motive for murder,’ he said.

Keller blushed, because she realised that she should have told him something a long time ago.

‘You don’t know, do you?’

Foster’s face told her that he didn’t.

‘Maria was much more than Basilia’s coach. They were lovers.’

KELLER ASKED FOSTER
to grab a couple of coffees, telling him she needed something to pick up her mood. The truth was that she wanted five minutes alone to process everything in her head, and she stood naked in the shower, hoping the hot water would wash away the dread that had clung to her since the 4 a.m. phone call. But the water did nothing to numb the pain. She turned it from hot to cold, hoping the icy water would blast all thoughts of Maria Rosario from her mind, but it didn’t.

Under the pin-sharp jet of cold water, Keller remembered the day she and Maria had decided to work together. Rosario said that working with Marta Basilia was killing their personal relationship and they’d mutually agreed to the working split, but Keller got the feeling Basilia had resented the deal right from the start. Either way, before long the two of them separated in a horribly public break-up. The reporters had loved every minute of that, and Rosario had never been quite the same afterwards. The inevitable destination for all of these thoughts was the image of Basilia standing over Maria Rosario, and Rosario dead at her feet. Keller chastised herself. It was a dreadful accusation and she had no proof. But something rang true enough to make her feel nauseous.

She stumbled from the shower and pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, struggling to breathe. She felt as if she were suffocating, the thoughts and images knocking her off-balance and intuition twisting in the pit of her stomach. She needed air and headed for a battleship-grey fire exit, which she shoved through.

She found herself in a thoroughfare between No. 1 Court and the outer courts and started walking towards the practice courts. Almost immediately the open space did the job. She walked fast, so as not to be recognised. The further out she got, the quieter it became until the walkways were almost deserted and the wide-open sky was all hers. Her breathing became less ragged, and eventually she slowed up until she found a court wall covered in thick ivy. She turned and leaned back, sinking into the leaves like a duvet. After a few seconds she took a breath and looked down. She saw her bare feet, which made her smile.

She was still smiling when she saw the second pair of feet walk up right next to her and stop. Men’s feet. A big guy. She realised instantly what a dumb idea it had been to leave without telling Foster. On impulse, she smashed the palm of her right hand against the watch on her left wrist and fired her panic alarm.

FOSTER HAD TAKEN
his time heading towards the coffee concession, testing a gut feeling that someone was following him. There was no logic to it, just a sensation – born of years of training and service – that somebody was umbilically attached to him, weaving the same path as him through the crowds.

It was the guy with the baseball cap. The one who had filmed him on the practice courts. Foster caught a first glimpse of the man’s distorted reflection in the mirrored doors to Centre Court. He slowed his pace, reeling him in like a fish. He steered away from the cafés, where crowds were still milling, and into the shallower waters, past Court 4, then Court 8. He stole glances in windows and doors and watched the guy closing in until he was breathing down his neck. They walked past Court 12, out into the quiet of the outer courts.

Foster turned into the public toilets near the exit onto Somerset Road. He took two paces inside and then turned on his heel and barrelled back out at full speed, straight at the stalker. He struck the guy as he reached the door, taking him completely by surprise. This turned out to be a big problem, because the guy was not carrying nearly as much weight as Foster had expected. Foster hit him too well. Too hard. Too cleanly. The guy’s legs ripped out from under him and he cartwheeled through the air like a table footballer spinning on his bar. Foster had expected to use the guy as a cushion as they hit the concrete floor. In the event, he went straight through him, landing hard on the walkway and smashing all of his weight onto his scarred, damaged left arm.

Barbed-wire ribbons of pain ripped across his bicep and seared so painfully through his pectorals that he felt as if they were ripping his heart out of his chest. He screamed and rolled, clutching his left arm with his right. He heard the ring of metal on concrete as the knife fell from the stalker’s hand. The guy was dazed, but already struggling to his feet. Foster wanted to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. But he forced himself upwards and towards the attacker, smashing a fist into his throat. The guy twisted away and ran.

It was a slow-motion chase, both men stumbling like drunken brawlers on the concourse. Foster would have reached him if the alarm hadn’t gone off, but it did. Years of training fired through his body, and his mind switched instantly to his client. Kirsten Keller. Alone and in danger.

FOSTER MOVED AS
quickly as his body would allow. Every step sent new explosions of pain through his arm. His GPS told him that Keller was at the other end of the park, beyond No. 1 Court, somewhere in amongst the practice courts. He saw her a minute later leaning against the ivy-clad wall, a big guy standing over her. Both of them smiling. Foster instantly slowed and relaxed. It was Tom Abbot.

Keller’s smile faded as Foster came closer into view and she could see the pain in his eyes. His breathing was laboured. The adrenalin had begun to seep from him and exhaustion was kicking in.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Keller said. ‘Are you alright?’

Tom Abbot could see the delicate way Foster was holding his arm.

‘What do you need, Chris?’

Foster held onto Abbot’s shoulder for support and Keller stayed close as they made their way back across the concourse.

‘I got your call,’ Abbot said as he took the strain.

‘So I see,’ Foster said. ‘I appreciate it. Have you got your phone on you?’

Abbot nodded.

‘Call the police,’ Foster said. ‘Ask for Cullen.’

He was in a world of hurt as they walked across the concourse. He relayed the details of what had happened through Abbot, as Cullen listened at the other end of the line. He told her about the guy in the cap, and the knife, and the way the sly bastard liked to sneak up on people from behind. Foster knew he should have ended it there and then, outside Court 12. But he hadn’t. One miscalculation, and the guy had gone free. And there was no way to fix it, except to get it right next time.

‘Do you need codeine?’ Abbot asked when he came off the phone. ‘Or something stronger?’

Foster shook his head.

‘Shouldn’t mix codeine with alcohol,’ he told Abbot. ‘And God knows, I need a drink.’

FOSTER SLEPT FOR
five straight hours that night, outside Kirsten Keller’s room at the Shangri-La, waking with the light pouring through the unshaded glass. The unbroken half of his body pulled the rest of him from the sofa, and fierce pain instantly spread across his ribs. He spent the day with a brooding sense that trouble was coming, but it never did. In the evening, he sat with Keller and watched the sun setting behind St Paul’s Cathedral, and the last of the river traffic crossing the muddy Thames, and the London Eye slowly turning like the mechanism of a giant clock. Days passed with the same aching sense of dread, but Keller’s matches came and went, and she won them all, and nobody came out of the shadows.

Foster woke to grey skies on Thursday morning, knowing that Keller was facing Marta Basilia in the semi-finals, and sensing that if her attacker was going to strike, he would have to do it soon. Foster’s body still ached, so he found a tumbler and filled it with water, then gulped down four large codeine tablets. He woke Keller an hour later when the sky had turned to a warm summer blue. She showered and dressed and they ate breakfast in the Shangri-La, before heading across London listening to the Rolling Stones, Jagger’s mournful voice setting a tone for the journey.

‘What happens if I see him?’ Keller asked. ‘You know, staring out from the crowd?’

‘Let me know,’ Foster said simply. ‘And I’ll come and get you.’

She stared at him.

‘On the court? Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously,’ Foster said.

Keller looked at him for a moment, studying his face as he watched the road ahead. He sensed her stare and glanced across at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

She sat back in her seat and smiled, and Foster drove on until they reached Wimbledon. Keller settled into her pre-match routine and Foster melted into the background, watching everything and trusting no one. He saw the crowds swell on Centre Court, slowly blooming and spreading over the green plastic seats like spores on a Petri dish. His skilled eyes swept through the mass of people, watching for anything unusual. In the end he saw nothing but thousands of excited fans gorging on strawberries and protecting themselves from the midday sun. By the time Keller reached the court, the atmosphere was electric.

Keller lost the first set 6–0, unable to find a rhythm. Her eyes flicked constantly from Basilia to the grandstand and back again, her mind distracted by the baying crowd and its lurking danger. Foster could almost hear her nerves jangling as she sat dejectedly in an olive-green chair with her head under her towel.

‘How’s it looking outside?’ Foster asked, as Tom Abbot appeared by his side.

‘Nothing doing. It’s all quiet.’

‘Okay.’

‘Think she can get back into it?’ Abbot said.

‘She will,’ Foster said. ‘She’s a fighter.’

The second set was ferocious. Keller was lithe and fast, Basilia strong and resolute. Basilia dropped an early service game, but broke back in the ninth. They’d been playing for just over an hour when Basilia held serve to send them into a tiebreak.

Foster washed his eyes across the vast crowd, who were all leaning forward in anticipation. Keller came out onto the court with new determination and fired five explosive shots across the net. Basilia had no answer for any of them, and the crowd cheered as Keller clawed her way back into the match. Under pressure, Basilia went for the line and missed, giving Keller a set point. The American spun her racket in her hand, staring across the court as Basilia bounced the ball, tossed it high and double-faulted. Keller held her arms to the sky and roared like a Roman gladiator slaying an opponent.

The rest was easy. Keller dismantled the world champion blow by brutish blow. At the far end of the court, Marta Basilia looked like thunder. If Keller’s theory that Basilia had given her the black roses to get inside her head was correct, then the plan had backfired spectacularly. No matter how hard Basilia hit the ball, Keller hit harder. No matter how precise her angles were, Keller threw herself at the ball and found an even better return.

Eventually, Keller served for the match. Her first serve was an ace, straight down the middle of the court, kicking high past Basilia and thumping against the green tarpaulin behind her. The second serve was almost as good, flying wide of Basilia’s forehand. Another ace. Basilia screamed and cursed into the afternoon air. The crowd gasped and then giggled until the umpire settled them. Thirty–love. Halfway there. Keller fired the next serve straight into the net. She stepped back and shook the nerves out of her shoulders. Foster watched the crowd. Nobody was moving. Nobody was breathing. Nobody was doing anything but watching Keller, two points away from a place in the final. She bounced the ball and instead of opting for a softer serve, she put everything into it. Basilia had stepped into the court, not expecting such a fierce delivery. The ball kicked right in front of her, flying hard into her body. She was a supreme athlete, but even she could not twist herself into a shape that would allow her to play the ball. It smashed into her ribs, making a hollow thump that the whole crowd heard. Keller held up a hand of apology and returned to the baseline.

‘Forty–love,’ the umpire said.

Match point.

Foster didn’t breathe. If Keller’s stalker had a sense of drama, which apparently he did, then this was a critical moment. A dangerous moment. To the crowd, Keller was looking invincible. To Foster, she was exposed and vulnerable. His eyes scanned the crowd and he was drawn to a movement. A baseball cap, on the far side of the crowd. Climbing the stairs towards the exit. But as quickly as Foster spotted him, he was gone. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something. He wasn’t sure, and without being sure he couldn’t leave Keller unwatched.
Where was Tom Abbot?