And then her mouth was flooded with the oily, white fluid, gouts of it shooting into her throat. She swallowed as fast as she could until her mouth was full and some of the sticky liquid dribbled from the sides of it.
She felt her own orgasm surge through her and opened her mouth to gasp her pleasure as his fingers rammed deeper into her and she too spilled her ecstasy onto his hand.
Callahan gradually withdrew his fingers from her and held them before her.
She sucked at them, licking the slicks of fluid, sucking his fingertips like a hungry child would suck a nipple.
She tasted herself. She tasted his emission on her tongue.
They laughed loudly as they embraced, both coated in sweat from their pleasure. Then they both looked towards the bottom of the bed and grinned.
The image disappeared instantly as David Callahan pressed the ‘Stop’ button on the video.
Lying beside him on the huge bed, Laura Callahan took a sip of Jack Daniels and smiled. She moved closer to her husband, one hand reaching for his stiffening penis.
‘You were great,’ said Callahan, smiling. ‘You should get an Oscar.’
‘I don’t want an Oscar,’ she purred, nuzzling his neck. ‘I want you.’ She closed her hand around his erection.
Callahan thrust into her hard and she raised her legs, allowing him deeper penetration, finally locking her ankles behind his back as his movements became more forceful.
The video camera at the bottom of the bed regarded them impassively this time, their lovemaking reflected in its single glass eye.
Seven
In the silence of the bedroom he could hear her breathing.
There was a slightly nasal quality to Laura’s exhalations, a product of more than five years on cocaine.
Callahan didn’t know exactly what it did to the nasal passages. He didn’t really care. She enjoyed it. Who was he to deny her pleasure?
He sat up in bed, careful not to disturb his wife. For long moments he watched her sleeping: the steady rise and fall of her chest, the gentle pulse in her throat. Then, carefully, he swung himself out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe and padded across the bedroom towards the bathroom. Once inside he flicked on the light, wincing as the fluorescents buzzed into life. Callahan turned on the tap, scooped some water into his mouth and smoothed his hand through his short dark hair. He stood before the mirror gazing at his reflection, pleased with what he saw.
He was thirty-six, four years older than his wife, and his body was still lean and muscular. He opened the bathrobe to inspect his pectoral muscles. He worked out every morning in the small gym which he’d had built into the house when they’d first bought it two years ago. The house and the fifteen acres of land which went with it had been relatively cheap, certainly to a man of Callahan’s means. He wasn’t sure exactly how many million he was worth. He didn’t think that much about money. He had more than he’d ever need so there wasn’t the necessity to think about it. Only those who didn’t have enough were obsessed with the stuff, he thought, amused by his own philosophy.
He splashed more water onto his face, wiping the excess moisture away with the sleeve of his bathrobe. Then he tugged on the string and the bathroom was plunged into darkness again.
Callahan moved back into the bedroom, glancing across at Laura.
She had rolled onto her side now, her legs drawn up to her chest.
Callahan stood gazing at her for a moment then crossed to the window.
Their bedroom was at the front of the house and, with the aid of the large spotlights which blazed from the roof, Callahan could see about twenty or thirty yards down the wide driveway which approached the massive house.
Visible through the gloom were the stables which housed half a dozen horses. To the right of them stood a couple of barns. Another gap of ten yards or so and the west wing of the house was visible.
The whole building was white-washed, in places its walls covered by ivy that grew so densely the stonework was almost totally obscured by the parasitic plant. Elsewhere dozens of windows reflected the night like scores of blind eyes.
All except one.
Callahan gazed out over the driveway in front of the house, peering close to the glass of the window to get a better view.
A light came on in one of the downstairs rooms.
He looked at his watch, the hands glowing sickly green in the darkness.
3.32 a.m.
Surely none of the staff would be up at this time of the morning.
The light went off again and Callahan relaxed for a moment.
He rubbed his eyes, as if he’d just woken.
The light came on again.
Went off.
Came on.
Callahan turned and headed for the bed, stopping short, pulling open the drawer of the cabinet beside it.
From the top drawer he pulled out a Smith and Wesson .38.
He flipped out the cylinder, checking that the weapon was full, then, satisfied that it was, he crossed back to the window and looked out.
The light was still on in the downstairs room.
Callahan gripped the revolver in his fist. Glancing back at Laura, he headed for the bedroom door.
Eight
The silence inside the house was almost oppressive, the only sounds coming from Callahan himself as he moved quickly but quietly across the vast landing towards the head of the stairs.
As he reached the balustrade he stopped and peered over, looking down into the hallway. Without lights it was like looking into a well. He thought about flicking on the switch at the top of the stairs, flooding the flight of steps and the hall beneath with bright light, and his finger hovered for a moment before he decided against that course of action. Instead he gripped the .38 more tightly and began to descend.
The fourth step creaked loudly in the silence and Callahan muttered something under his breath, pausing for a moment in the stillness.
The room where he’d seen the light, however, was well away from the stairs. Even if there were anyone in there it was unlikely they’d heard the groaning stair.
He pressed on, taking the steps more quickly now, anxious to reach the bottom.
Could it be an intruder, he wondered?
That possibility seemed unlikely.
The house itself was more than fifteen miles from the nearest village, the grounds protected by a stone wall twelve feet high.
Any intruder met a sophisticated alarm system wired to every door and window inside the house itself and there was also the distinct possibility that they might disturb one of the members of staff.
If there was an intruder in the house then they were both determined and expert.
Unless it wasn’t a burglar.
Callahan paused a moment longer, feeling the sweat on his palms. He let go of the revolver and wiped both hands on his bathrobe before seizing the gun once more.
Not a burglar.
Maybe the intruder didn’t want his money or his valuables.
Maybe they wanted him.
Callahan had made enough enemies in his time, on both sides of the law and on both sides of the Irish sea. He knew there were men who, even now, would pay a great deal of money to see him dead.
That was one of the reasons he’d been forced to leave London. The situation there had simply become too dangerous for him. He’d had too much to lose, his life not being the least.
He gripped the pistol tighter and moved out of the hall towards the door on his right.
It led through into a long corridor flanked on either side by more closed doors.
Callahan paused beside the door, then swiftly turned the knob and stepped through.
The room where he’d seen the light was ahead of him, around a bend in the corridor.
On the walls on both sides paintings hung: here a Matisse, there a Dali. Further down there was a Goya. They were all originals. All priceless now.
Callahan moved slowly down the corridor, his footsteps muffled by the thi
ck carpet. He was aware of his own low breathing as he moved further towards the bend.
As he reached it he stopped again, a single bead of perspiration squeezing itself onto his forehead.
There were more light switches at hand but he resisted the temptation to flick them on. He saw the thin band of light beneath the door directly in front of him.
Callahan approached slowly, his eyes on the thin strip of luminosity.
The light went out.
He froze.
Had whoever was inside heard him?
The brightness returned.
Callahan gritted his teeth, pulled the .38 from his pocket and moved towards the door again, his hand hovering over the knob.
There was no sound from inside.
Except...
What the hell was that noise?
He stood close to the door, listening, a frown creasing his brow.
The light went off once more.
Callahan actually had his hand on the handle now, turning it slowly, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that it wouldn’t squeak.
‘Right, you bastard,’ he whispered under his breath.
He threw the door open, the pistol raised before him.
As he did the light came flickering on and, as it did, he heard the noise again.
A buzzing, puttering sound.
It came from above him.
From the fluorescent light which was flickering on and off.
It was faulty. The bloody light was faulty.
Callahan chuckled, shook his head and exhaled deeply, annoyed with himself for having allowed fear to take such a hold on him. Christ, what the imagination could do to you! But there was also relief in his exhalation.
Relief that there had been no one in the room.
He looked at the .38 in his hand and slipped it back into his pocket. No one this time, but next time who could tell? He wondered how much longer he would have to wait.
Callahan flicked off the faulty light, making a mental note to get one of the staff to fix it in the morning. He turned and headed back down the corridor, past the Matisse and the Dali and the Goya and the sculptures. Past all the possessions that testified to the magnitude of his wealth.
As he closed the door he could not help but glance over his shoulder, as if this had been some kind of warning. A portent.
He knew they would come eventually.
But when they did, he’d be ready for them.
Nine
The house in Porten Road, Hammersmith was unremarkable; a simple terraced place badly in need of some exterior decoration.
Sean Doyle sat in the Datsun, one foot up on the dashboard, alternately glancing out of the window and flicking at the laces that hung from his baseball boots.
Doyle noticed how some of the houses, formerly council, had been bought by their occupants. Many sported the mock-stone frontages that seemed the mark of new owner-occupiers. All taking advantage of the Government’s wonderful offer to own the houses they’d lived in since rent was ten shillings a week, thought Doyle, gazing at the rows of houses.
Lights burned in many front windows, promising warmth beyond their closed curtains.
It wasn’t too warm inside the car and Doyle turned up the heating, massaging his left leg as he felt a twinge of cramp in his calf. He lowered his leg, raising his right instead, propping that against the dashboard.
He flicked on the radio, tired of the silence.
Doyle twisted the frequency dial but found only vacuous pop music, the same sanitized crap on every station, it seemed. There was a play on Radio Four but he skipped by that and finally found the tail end of a Black Sabbath track, but the static was so bad he decided to turn the set off again.
Doyle was bored. He’d been sitting in the car for nearly two hours already. His back ached, his arse ached and his head was beginning to ache. He fumbled in the glove compartment for the remains of a Mars Bar he’d started devouring earlier. He hadn’t eaten for over six hours, apart from the few mouthfuls of chocolate. At two-thirty that afternoon he’d bought a hamburger but now his stomach was growling loudly. He patted it in a gesture of placation, then yawned and tried to stretch in the confines of the car, hearing his shoulders and elbows crack.
He coughed and looked around once more, catching sight of his own reflection in the rear-view mirror. He ran both hands through his shoulder-length brown hair. His eyes looked sunken, as if someone had coloured in the area beneath his lower lids with dark ink. His haggard look was negated somewhat, however, by the gleam of his dark grey eyes. They seemed to glow in the dull light of the street lamp, darting back and forth with an alertness and energy that seemed to have deserted the rest of his body.
He rubbed his hands together and stuck them in the pockets of his leather jacket, slumping back in his seat and gazing out into the street. He could feel the ache beginning to creep up from the small of his back. He fidgeted, trying to make himself comfortable. Thirty years old and you’re a fucking wreck, he told himself, a slight smile creasing his lips.
Unlike most of the other houses in Porten Road, no light burned in the window of Number 22.
In fact, no light burned anywhere in the place. Not that he could see, anyway. He knew, however, that there were people inside: He’d seen three enter in the last thirty minutes. The first had arrived in a battered old Capri which he’d parked across the street from where Doyle now sat. He’d let himself in by the front door, glancing furtively around before opening it.
The other two had arrived together about ten minutes ago.
Doyle checked his watch.
8.36 p.m.
On this side of the road a man was walking his dog, trying to keep the wretched animal under control as it jerked and pulled on the end of the lead. Doyle smiled to himself as the man swore at the Alsatian which, it seemed, had decided to cross the street, tugging its reluctant owner with it. He watched them in the rear-view mirror and caught sight of another man.
The newcomer was short and stocky, hands tucked deep into the pockets of an overcoat. He glanced at the Alsatian, quickening his pace when it seemed to be making for him.
Doyle saw the man turn into the short pathway that led to the door of Number 22. He walked up to the door and knocked once. The door was opened a fraction and the man entered.
Quite a gathering, Doyle thought, checking his watch again.
Another five minutes.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes, blinking myopically through the gloom.
‘Panther One, come in.’
The voice sounded loud in the confines of the car, despite the fact that there was a newspaper laid over the two-way radio.
‘Panther One, do you read me, over?’
Doyle picked up the newspaper, glancing again at the photo of the topless model. Her name was Tina and she was a hairdresser; the caption said, ‘Guaranteed to make your hair curl.’ Doyle grinned and tossed the paper onto the back seat.
‘Panther One, for Christ’s sake ...’
He picked up the two-way.
‘Panther One. Don’t have a fit, I can hear you,’ Doyle said quietly, eyes still scanning the street ahead of him.
‘Then why didn’t you answer?’ the metallic voice demanded.
‘I did answer. I’m speaking to you now. What the fuck do you want?’
‘We’re in position.’
‘Good for you,’ said Doyle disinterestedly, eyes still roving.
‘Porten Road, Ceylon Road and Milson Road are all closed off,’ the voice told him.
Doyle didn’t answer. He’d spotted another man approaching the front door of Number 22.
‘Doyle, I said ...’
‘I heard what you said. Stand by.’ Still gripping the two-way, Doyle watched as the man advanced towards the door and knocked twice. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as he waited for it to be opened. When it finally was, he walked in, disappearing from view. Doyle held on to the two-way with his left hand; with his right he reached i
nside his jacket.
The rubber grips of the CZ-75 automatic brushed against his finger-tips as he felt the shoulder holster.
In another holster, worn around his waist, hidden by his leather jacket, he carried a much more formidable weapon. The .44 Bulldog, despite its small size, could put a hole in a wall at two hundred yards.
‘You and your men ready?’ Doyle asked, eyes now fixed on the front door of Number 22.
‘I told you we’re in position,’ the voice replied irritably.
‘Well, tell them to stay out of my fucking way. Let’s go. It’s party time.’
Ten
As Doyle swung himself out of the car he saw other men running towards Number 22.
Some were in uniform.
Doyle made it to the door first, vaulting the gate as if there were some kind of prize for reaching the house ahead of his colleagues. He didn’t slow his pace, merely ran at the door and launched himself at it, slamming against the wood, which creaked protestingly. He took a step back and drove a powerful kick against the lock, grinning when the door crashed back on its hinges. He dashed into the hallway, followed by two of the uniformed men.
The place smelt of damp, neglect and something more pungent which Doyle recognised as urine. But smells didn’t bother him. He heard raised voices from a room to his left and he turned.
‘Upstairs,’ came a shout from behind him.
Two of the uniformed constables thundered up the stairs. Doyle kicked the door ahead of him open, the CZ now gripped in his fist. He stepped away from the door, heard more shouts from inside.
From the rear of the house there was the sound of breaking glass. Curses.
He ducked into what was supposed to be the sitting room. There was a battered old sofa, the stuffing spilling out of one arm. Two wooden chairs. Nothing else. The floor was bare board.
There were three men inside the room and Doyle levelled his pistol at the closest one.
The man immediately raised his hands in surrender, his face losing its colour as if the blood had been sucked from his cheeks.
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