He was so quick it took Dempsey completely by surprise. He had recognised his adversary on sight, so he had the advantage. As Dempsey went for his gun, the killer's hand came out piston-like and grabbed his wrist. He pushed his arm viciously back, knocking him off balance.
Then his knee slammed into Dempsey's groin. Dempsey doubled over and sank to the floor but as he did so, he reached out and grabbed clothing. The man was pulled down with him and then Dempsey, crazed with anger and pain, punched him hard in the face. The killer was stunned but quickly retaliated with a low blow to the stomach. The two men rolled on the floor, pummelling one another.
Dempsey was fit and lean and the killer had at least ten years on him but his strength was formidable – the strength of the mad.
They were as close as lovers. Dempsey could hear his shallow gasps; smell his acrid breath. Eventually, with a glancing blow to the man's jaw, he gained the upper hand. Straddling Mr Jenkins, he pinned his arms above his head and looked at him clearly for the first time. So very unremarkable he thought. Mr Jenkins stared back at him, eyes brimming with cold hatred.
Dempsey glanced wildly around the shop. Where was the telephone, he couldn't see it. Perhaps it was behind the counter, or more likely in a backroom. Hell, why didn't he have any handcuffs with him? He weighed up his options. He could wait for someone to come but that held no guarantees. He could walk the man outside, get him to lie down in the middle of the street - but he might try something out in the open. Better to keep him in a confined space.
Then he remembered the boy. "Jack!" he shouted. His captive was limp now, regarding him stonily.
"He won't hear you," he said. "He's on his break. His girlfriend works around the corner. He'll be with her."
Dempsey deliberated. Wait for Jack or take control? After a couple of seconds, he made the decision. Letting go of the man's left hand, he reached under his jacket and retrieved the gun. He pointed it at the killer.
I could just shoot him, he thought. In his mind's eye, he saw the women: battered, bludgeoned and humiliated - tragic pawns in this man's sadistic games. He saw Harry, lying like a ragdoll on the pavement. His finger tensed on the trigger. No. It was tempting – and it would be so easy to claim self-defence - but he had to take him alive.
He patted the killers' pockets: empty. Quickly, he got to his feet, the gun trained on him.
"Stay where you are."
He moved to the shop door and with one hand, shot home the top bolt then turned the 'OPEN' sign in the window around.
"Where's your phone?"
"There's one in the back office."
"Okay. Here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna stand up nice and slow and we're gonna walk to that phone. One wrong move, and a bullet's gonna shatter your lower vertebrae. Believe me, I don't need any encouragement. Just scratchin' your nose'll be enough. A big part of me wants to do it right now and be done with it."
Mr Jenkins's lip curled. "I'm sure."
"Alright, up!" said Dempsey.
"Now walk, like I said. Keep your hands in the air."
They proceeded through the door, into a narrow corridor. Adrenalin was coursing through Dempsey's system, but he felt in control. He kept the gun muzzle pressed into the man's spine.
"It's in there," he gestured to an open door to their left. Dempsey nudged him and they entered the room. It was a small office, sparsely furnished with a threadbare sofa and an old desk. There was a black and white television set on a small stand in the corner. On the desk was a telephone.
Dempsey pushed the killer. "Sit on the sofa."
He moved to the desk and lifted the receiver with his free hand. It was going to be tricky to do this one-handed, but needs must. Suddenly, there was a sound in the corridor. Dempsey looked. Jack was standing in the doorway, his mouth open.
"What's going on?"
In the split second that Dempsey's eyes left his face, the killer sprang to his feet and was across the room.
"Freeze!" screamed Dempsey. The man had produced a small sharp knife from somewhere; whether it had been concealed in the sofa or elsewhere on his person, Dempsey would never know. It happened very quickly. He grabbed Jack and pressed the knife into the flesh of his throat, pushing him forward so that he was between them.
"Why didn't you just shoot me, Officer? Between you and your partner… I'm disappointed by the quality of opponent. Very disappointed."
Dempsey had dropped the phone and was trying to gauge whether he could get a shot at the man. The trouble was, Jack was so tall. He looked at Dempsey wordlessly, eyes bulging in terror. There was a deepening red mark on his pale throat as the knife dug into it.
Mr Jenkins backed out of the door. Dempsey followed, gun still pointed. He spoke softly to the boy.
"Just stay calm, Jack. Don't panic, and you'll be okay," He tried to reassure him with his eyes. Jack's face was a mask of fear and incomprehension.
The killer was heading for the back door at the end of the corridor. When he was almost there, he suddenly reached down and slashed Jack viciously in his side, ripping through the thin material of his t-shirt. Blood spurted. Jack screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching himself. Then the killer pushed open the door and ran.
Dempsey looked down at Jack. Blood was pouring from his wound, but he couldn't stop and help him. "Try and get to the phone. Call the police!" he shouted, and ran out of the door after the Suitor.