by Adam Carter
Baronaire stared out across the water. “I must say you’re taking this surprisingly calm, Ed.”
“No other way to take it.”
The two men were silent for some moments, before Baronaire said, “I want to be put on a St John’s Ambulance course.”
“Whatever for?”
“So I can learn to save lives as well as take them.”
Sanders seemed almost amused. “You do realise she’s romantically latched onto you because you’re her protector, Charles?”
“Maybe.”
“It won’t last.”
“Maybe not. Can’t you just be happy for me, Ed?”
It was Sanders’s turn to look out across the water. “Charles, do you trust me?”
Baronaire shrugged.
“I know what you are, Charles. Remember that. And armed with that knowledge I would strongly advise that if you believe you love this girl, walk away. Anything else will only end badly.”
“We’re willing to give it a go.”
“Until she finds out what you are, what you can do.” When Baronaire did not reply, Sanders frowned. “She already knows? Does she know about WetFish?”
“I think there are far worse people who know about us than Rachael Webster, Ed.”
Sanders inhaled deeply, staring at his old friend with narrowed eyes. Finally he shrugged. “Your call.”
Baronaire blinked. “You’re not going to press the issue?”
“Officers aren’t allowed to reveal the existence of WetFish to anyone, but I get the impression it was Johnson who spilled. I’m not going to kill someone for that. And too many girls under my protection have died because of that man.” He clapped Baronaire on the shoulder. “Just look after her. And if you ever feel you’re taking things too far, back off.”
“That an order?”
“A piece of advice from one of your only friends.”
It was advice Baronaire vowed he would not have to heed.
*
The flat was smaller than she had expected, and there were very few amenities. Baronaire had a television, some chairs, but that was about it. He didn’t seem to have a bathroom, which was odd, and he closed the door quickly to his bedroom, as though there were things in there he did not want her to see.
“Nice place,” she said.
“No it’s not,” Baronaire said with a frown. He flipped on the television for some background noise. “I’ll have to speak with Sanders about getting me moved. I’m starting to think I need somewhere bigger.”
“Well I’ll be back to work soon,” Rachael said. “I spoke with Tammy and she’s more than happy for me to come back to work. I was kinda thinking she might take me for a trouble magnet, but she’s cool with the way Sanders handled things. Tammy says there’ll be no comeback on me by anyone connected with Johnson.”
“Sanders is good like that.”
“I was thinking, we could get a place together. You could protect me better then.”
“I’ll have to talk with Sanders about getting a raise. Actually, he doesn’t pay me, so maybe I should look into that instead. Excuse me a moment.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and Rachael let him go. Whatever he was tidying away in there was none of her business. Instead she turned her attention to the television, which had a news story about the Red Pier down at the docks. A politician had been found murdered there, blasted at close-range by a shotgun. The story went on to say that a local prostitute had confessed to the shooting, having taken the murder weapon from behind the bar downstairs.
Rachael was still staring at the television when Baronaire came back in. “What?” he asked.
“You made her confess.” It was not a question. And when Baronaire did not answer she span about, staring him directly in the eyes.
“Yes,” he replied sheepishly. “It was the only way to save you. Besides, she likely wanted to kill him anyway. I ... take it you don’t approve?”
Rachael slowly shook her head. Here was a man approaching his late-thirties and he really didn’t have a clue about women. Placing her hands either side of his face she drew his lips to her. He was colder than she had expected, but there was passion within that man, an untapped passion she longed to understand.
When she pulled away he was blinking rapidly, confused. She smiled, placing a finger to his lips. “You done clearing away your dirty mags yet?”
“Dirty ...? I was tidying up my soil.”
She shook her head as she laughed. “Charles, you get stranger by the moment.” Taking his hand she led him through the door, and didn’t even mind she had walked in on the strangest bed she had ever seen in her life.
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 10
A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
CHAPTER ONE
Martin Smith had the most unassuming name a man could have. With a name like Martin Smith he could have wandered through an uncomplicated life, bothered by no one, his name only half remembered by anyone who met him. Martin Smith should have been able to blend into any register, disappear into any phonebook, vanish from people’s memories as quickly as last week’s breakfast.
Instead Martin Smith was lying in bed, his eyes closed, a machine beside his head steadily blipping to show he was even alive. Martin Smith had not moved for almost a year now, had not responded to any medication or external stimulus. There was a good chance his next of kin would shortly be asked that singularly terrible question and Martin Smith would no longer even have this little to call his life. He had not wandered through life untroubled and unknown, for Martin Smith had come to the attention of some very bad people. Very bad people who had beaten him around the head, kicked him to the floor in broad daylight before finally leaving him for dead. Passers-by had looked on, some horrified, a few rushing to the nearest phone booth to call the police. There had been so many witnesses.
A year on the entire case had fallen apart and the six men identified as the attackers of Martin Smith had walked free. Witnesses had backed out, not wanting to get involved, police testimony was insubstantial. In short no one cared enough about Martin Smith to do the right thing and make sure the thugs who had confined him to a hospital bed were put behind bars.
Had Martin Smith been guilty of a terrible crime perhaps he would have deserved his fate. Had he murdered someone, committed armed robbery, been guilty of child molestation perhaps the witnesses would have a valid reason not to care to prosecute his attackers. Martin Smith had not been guilty of a terrible crime.
Had Martin Smith been guilty of a smaller offence – infidelity, driving through a red light, not tipping the perfect waiter – perhaps there would be nods of understanding as to why no one stood as witness to his attack. Martin Smith had not been guilty of a smaller offence.
Martin Smith had been a gay man living in the year nineteen ninety-three, and that was more than enough to not only get him beaten in the streets, but to have his witnesses suddenly turn away from their duty.
A year on very little had changed. As Detective Jen Thompson sat by Smith’s bed it was with the sad realisation that now, in September of nineteen ninety-four, such things could still happen and no one would care. Attitudes to the gay community were changing, that much was certain, but homosexuality had been legal in the United Kingdom for over twenty years now and it was a sad, disturbing thought that such heinous attacks could still occur. And that people could still not care enough to put away the monsters who had taken everything away from a simple, unassuming man.
“He looks peaceful doesn’t he?”
Thompson looked up. The man standing in the doorway was tall, a little on the thin side, although not quite gaunt. He had short hair and an eternally sad expression. He handed Thompson a cup of coffee and sat beside her, taking Smith’s unresponsive hand with a small smile which was fighting to show as much happiness as it could. This man was remembering, Thompson could see as much clearly. He was remembering the good times, and Thompson knew that was all he had left.
/> She had been to the trial. It was against her department’s protocol for any of their officers to attend court unnecessarily, but the case had disturbed her and she had felt that she had to attend. She had been upfront with her DCI about it, not wanting to hide anything from him (as if that was even possible) and her DCI had smiled a sad smile and wished her all the best. He had also offered her some parting words of encouragement. “If the courts throw it out, Jen,” he had said, “it’s all yours. I promise.”
Detective Chief Inspector Sanders was a difficult man to like, but Detective Thompson had known him for several years now and had discovered if there was one good thing about him it was that he was fair. No matter what other people said about Sanders, he didn’t care whether you were black, white, straight, gay, Martian or Neo-Nazi; if you were guilty he would make you pay. Otherwise he would leave you well enough alone. Thompson had to respect him for that, and she only wished other people could see through the gruff exterior to the true man within.
The court case has gone as they had both expected. And now Thompson sat in the hospital room, trying to get her mind around why someone would want to do this to a fellow human being. How they could possibly have considered this type of behaviour acceptable, how they could brag about it down the pub later on, celebrating their just release.
And as she looked at the man sitting beside her a stern resolve entered her very being. She would see this through to the end and she would have the monsters who had committed this atrocity. Whatever it took, she would bring them to justice. Her justice. The justice which had men like Edward Sanders behind it.
“I’m sorry,” Thompson said, aware she had been sitting there in silence since the coffee had been brought her. Ralph Lorenzo was Italian born, she believed, and had come to England to be with the man he loved. Or at least she had always assumed he was Italian; she had never actually asked. She had got to know him after the attack a year ago, but they had not really kept in contact. She had not been assigned to the case back then, had only involved herself so she could offer Lorenzo support; but there was nothing she could really offer him. They had met up at the start of the trial a while back and she had helped him through it. Again, that was entirely outside of her jurisdiction, and her department’s rules expressly forbade it. But again she had been upfront with her DCI and he had allowed her to do so. Sanders trusted her to be cautious, professional, and sane.
Right now she was feeling empty and angry and wanted blood.
And ‘I’m sorry’ hardly seemed adequate words to be saying.
Lorenzo did not take his eyes from Smith, lying there so still. “In my country,” he said flatly, “we would have been frowned upon. That’s why we settled here. The land of tolerance.”
He did not specify what country that was and Thompson felt bad all over again for not knowing. He had a slight accent, but even that she could not place. She couldn’t see what it mattered though; wherever he was from, it did not change what had happened.
“It’s not right,” Thompson said, keeping her anger in check. “I’m sorry the system’s failed you, Ralph. But they won’t get away with it, I promise you.”
Lorenzo shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble, Jen; they already have.”
Thompson left the hospital shortly after, returning to her motorbike parked in the lot. She was a tall, well-built woman with shoulder-length dark hair and what people had often told her were fierce, intense eyes. Her body was lithe from working out, her mind sharp from long practice. Presently she was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, which were her standard attire for when she was out on her bike. It was perhaps not the image one would conjure up of a police detective, but she liked the bike. It afforded her freedom where a car was enclosing. She could feel the wind against her face, battering her, fighting her attempts to plough through it; she could take turnings a car could not, enabling her to go anywhere, do anything, be anyone; and most of all, even if she had a passenger, she couldn’t easily speak to them. Detective Jen Thompson was not what one would call a people person, and on days like this she really didn’t like to talk to anyone at all.
Donning her helmet – she was cool, not stupid – Thompson drove. She had no destination in mind, she just drove.
An hour later she could not even say where she had been, but found herself heading into work. Thompson did not work in a traditional police station, but an underground facility affectionately called the bunker. As she drove into their parking lot, she secured her bike, even knowing there was no way any thieves could work their way in there. She paused as she removed her helmet and gloves. There was an entire array of motorbikes, and all of them she had ridden at some point. She did not own any of these, they were all paid for through the budget, but she had tinkered with them, upgraded them, and they were hers no matter what anyone else said. Other officers were allowed to use them, but most did not dare, at least not without asking permission.
Staring at the row of bikes, Thompson simply did not care any longer. They were machines brought to life only at the stroke of gentle fingers. They were her work lovers who responded so passionately to every tender touch and shift. But right now all she could see were heaps of metal and paint. There was so much out in the country more valuable than machines, yet some people valued things like this over the lives of innocent people.
No one would think twice about owning a black bike, but some people were willing to kill a human being for being that same colour.
The world was truly a screwed up place to live.
She moved into the office and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation and even a good morning would likely set her off. Thankfully the DCI discouraged familiarity in the workplace as much as possible, and Thompson was able to reach her desk without any mishaps. Turning on her computer, she went through some of her files while she waited for it to boot up. She had a lot of photographs of the six men who had put Smith in the hospital, names and addresses to go with each of them. She had everything she needed to get on with her assignment. The only things she lacked were a motive and a victim. If she was going to get these guys she would need to find a patsy.
“You OK?”
Thompson almost did not look up, would have barked out a less than flattering description of whoever was asking her, had she not recognised the gruff tone of her DCI. But he wasn’t simply gruff this morning; Thompson could detect a note of concern. Whether it was concern for Smith or for Thompson herself she could not say.
“I’m fine,” she said, only briefly looking up. “I got a lot of work to do, boss. Names and stuff to cross-reference.” It was her polite way of dismissing him, but she could see out the corner of her eye Sanders was still standing there.
“I want you to take this one carefully, Jen,” he told her. “I know you’re being affected by it and ordinarily I’d take you off the case. But I know you’d hate me for that, and I can’t have everyone around here hating my guts.” It was a poor attempt at humour, although at least he was making one. “Seriously,” he continued, “I don’t want this going badly for you.”
“I just need to know one thing, boss,” Thompson said. “Arrest or exterminate?”
She looked him directly in the eyes then. Detective Chief Inspector Edward Sanders was a man of perhaps fifty years. His short hair was receding, there were lines appearing about his eyes, but his suits always fit him well. He was in charge of a department known as Operation WetFish, which was a legal but unorthodox arm of the law. Here at WetFish the officers cleaned up the mistakes of the courts. If an obviously guilty party was released, through lack of evidence, witness intimidation or just plain expensive lawyers, WetFish stepped in to make sure justice was served. Sometimes they would frame the suspect for a crime which held a similar punishment – a man gets released from a charge of an off-licence robbery so you frame him for a bank job – and sometimes they took the suspect out permanently. A rapist is found hanging, a convenient suicide note express
ing his remorse. However WetFish dealt with a case, it had to not make the newspapers, and if it did, it had to be in such a way that no one would suspect the law had been involved.
Forging six suicide notes, however, was not something Thompson believed would fool anyone.
“It’s up to you,” Sanders replied. “But if you choose to have them arrested, just try to live with yourself.”
It was a bold statement from Sanders, and Thompson found herself taken aback. Ordinarily they were told whether to arrest or kill, like a journalist reviewing a play or film is told beforehand by their editor whether they enjoyed it, and it was an unusual move in itself for Sanders to give her the option. But his words riled her and if he was anyone else she likely would have hit him by now. “How do you mean, sir?” she asked, tight-lipped.
Sanders seemed not to notice. “If you have them arrested,” he said, “it’ll have to be for a similar crime. Killing someone else. You think you’ll be someone good to work with if you have to frame these guys for the murder of a heterosexual before they go down for something?”
Thompson’s anger evaporated. She had not even thought of that, but Sanders was a master psychologist, a manipulator of the highest magnitude. He was, it seemed, looking out for her in ways even she did not understand. “Then they die,” she said simply.
Sanders nodded sagely. “If you need anything, just let me know.” He placed a hand upon her shoulder. “And I mean anything, Jen.”
“Thanks, boss, but I’ve done this before.”
He offered her another smile, and she already regretted her harsh words. She did not want to upset him, but she was certain he had not taken her words to heart. “Still, you know where I am if you need me.”
As he walked off, Thompson turned back to her notes. Sanders was a good man. It had taken her a long while to get used to him, but he was a good man and there were far worse employers she could have.
Suddenly someone else appeared at her desk. A short redhead with a beaming smile and a wad of papers, which she unceremoniously dumped on Thompson’s desk as she tripped over her own feet. “Oops! Sorry, Jen. So, I’ve triangulated positions and cross-referenced everything. We’re good to go, just give the word and we’re on it.”
