STEALING POWER: A powerful psychological crime thriller (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  “Take a seat, Jim” Len said, gesturing to the chair opposite. “I don't know what's going on with you and Kane, and I don't want to know either, but we have a problem.”

  Colt slung his jacket across the back of the chair. “Go on,” he said, slumping into it.

  “Sarah Rowson’s in custody for the attempted murder of Martin Kennedy.”

  Colt’s eyes widened and he leant forward in his seat. “What happened? Did she recognise him?” She must’ve done. Colt’s veins prickled with excitement as his brain pieced the likely scenario together – she probably saw him on the street, remembered his face, a moment of madness ensued and she mowed him down. There was no way an attempted murder charge would stick, not after what he’d done.

  “Not quite.” Len stroked his beard and regarded him for a moment. “She claims she got his identity from you.”

  Colt jerked his head and frowned. “What?”

  “Ms Rowson claims that during a visit from you and Kane she was intensively questioned about the sale and purchase of property. After you left she –”

  “Put two and two together and came up with five,” Colt said, hanging his head in his hands.

  “After you left,” Len continued, “she went online and found the news reports from Martha Matthews’ murder. The For Sale board outside the house was the same firm she’d used.”

  Colt leant back in his chair, put his hands on his head and let out a heavy sigh. “That’s not me disclosing a suspect’s identity, Len. If anything its proof the line of investigation into Kennedy Estates is warranted.”

  Len frowned hard as he leant across the desk glowering at him. “Can you not see how this could be construed? The prime suspect’s identity gets inadvertently revealed to a mentally unstable, traumatised woman, by none other than the SIO – who is romantically linked to another victim!”

  “Now hang on a minute,” Colt said. “We spoke with Sarah Rowson way before India was –”

  “No, you hang on,” Len snapped. “Open your fucking eyes, Jim, before you flush your career down the toilet! If you and Kane are banging boots that’s exactly how Professional Standards will see it.”

  “I am not ‘banging boots,’ as you so eloquently put it, with India Kane,” Colt spat. “And even if I was, it would be nobody else’s bloody business but mine.”

  “For God’s sake, Jim!” Len slammed his hand down on his desk. “The country’s top Criminal Psychologist has just gone on record stating the reason India got attacked was because ‘you want her.’ Your fucking dick is the most critical line of inquiry this investigation has right now!”

  Colt's jaw tightened. He tugged at his tie. It suddenly felt like a noose as his racing pulse swelled his throat. The feelings of guilt that had been gnawing away in the pit of his stomach found their teeth and began to bite.

  Len let out a long expanse of breath and sat back in his seat. “I’m glad to hear there’s nothing going on between you and India,” he said evenly. “Martin Kennedy’s alibi for the night of her attack is complication enough.”

  Colt stared at him. “Where was he?”

  “Banging boots with his business partner’s wife,” Len said flatly. “Our own surveillance backs it up. He didn’t do it, Jim.”

  Colt dragged his hands down his face in despair, unable to comprehend how he’d got it so wrong. He’d seriously fucked up and it could cost Martin Kennedy his life.

  “You’re too close, Jim. It’s clouding your judgement,” Len said. “Maybe it’s time you considered stepping down from the case.”

  Colt frowned. “You can’t be fucking serious.” He rose from his seat, leant across the desk, held his index finger and thumb an inch apart at the end of Len’s nose, and said, “We are that fucking close to catching him, that close! And you want me to step down?”

  “Take the weekend to think about it,” Len said evenly as Colt snatched up his jacket and headed for the door. “You dropped something.”

  Colt’s fuming face turned in the direction of Len Firman’s cool nod, to the small white business card lying face up on the office floor. Stooping to pick it up, he paused with his hand briefly suspended in mid-air. The bold navy blue business insignia jumped off the white background and delivered a full on blow to his stomach, temporarily winding him.

  “What is it?” Len said.

  Colt threw it down on his desk. “The business card of the Agent selling the boat next to India’s.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Len murmured, picking it up. “Kennedy Estates.”

  The name hung heavily in the air, prolonging the stifling silence before either man spoke again.

  “Maybe we've had the wrong partner under surveillance,” Len said, stroking his beard. “The FLOs came back with eighteen of the known victims having some connection with this crowd.”

  “He could be viewing their properties,” Colt said. “Or viewing the neighbouring properties to establish the layout.”

  Len raised his brows. “Doesn't explain how he knows they live alone.”

  “Over eager vendor, keen to sell up,” Colt theorised. “Nice quiet lady living on her own next door, out at work all day, never hear a peep?”

  “But he'd have to know they were on the market in the first place,” Len mumbled, deep in thought.

  “They're pretty free and easy with the information they give out on these social network sites, Len, relationship status updates, the whole nine yards,” Colt said. “Combine the two and there could be something there.”

  “Leave it with me, I'll have a word with Veronica and see if we can get Kennedy Estates viewing diaries and personnel files seized.”

  “Or I could go and ask them nicely,” Colt pushed.

  “I get complaints and earache from above when you ask nicely,” Len grumbled. “Get out of here and enjoy what's left of the weekend. And stay the fuck away from Kennedy’s and Kane.”

  Colt opened the car door for her before sliding into the driver’s seat; he didn’t need to look up to know Len Firman was watching them from his third floor office window.

  “What did Firman want?” India said.

  “Nothing much. You know what he’s like, always making a drama out of a crisis.” Colt smiled at her as he started the engine. “Want to do something this afternoon, together, with me?”

  “No,” she said, and Colt felt his heart sink.

  “I already have plans,” she added. “The girls invited themselves for a sleepover.”

  “A sleepover?” Colt laughed, couldn’t imagine her doing anything so twee. “That's a bit girly isn't it?”

  India raised a shoulder. “Keeps them happy. Clare's all loved up with the weirdo waiter. It's her chance to convince two sad singletons true love exists.”

  Colt grimaced as he pulled out of the station. He wanted to be the one to convince her true love existed, all-consuming love not fleeting short lived liaisons. He'd loved a lot of women in his life for periods ranging from an hour to years, but only ever been in love once. And he hadn't even made love to her yet. It felt like stepping from a lifetime of darkness into a brilliant white light, it was intoxicating. Blinding. Painful. And it was probably going to cost him his career.

  “As long as you're not on your own,” he said.

  India tutted. “Stop fussing, I don't need anybody to look after me.”

  Colt swallowed hard and stared at the road ahead. That's all he wanted to do. Little Miss 'I Don't Need Anybody' had needed him last night, hell she'd wanted him last night. He'd never encountered anyone so infuriatingly stubborn and difficult before, yet he yearned to know everything about her, know what made her tick, what made her laugh and cry. Ached to know what turned her on. Knew it would take time, but he was prepared to devote a lifetime to learning, if only she would let him.

  “And you can call off the guard dogs, too,” she said. “They must be eating the department budget.”

  “They're staying.” The uniforms guarding her were going nowhere until the person who ha
d violated her in her own home was in custody, or dead. Colt knew which endgame he preferred, and would relish the opportunity to mete out the punishment. “But I'll brief them to expect some girly screams tonight.”

  She glanced across at him and let out a strangled little chuckle, which made him unexpectedly grin. “Perhaps we could do something another time then?” he said.

  “Perhaps.”

  Probably just as well tonight is out of the question, he thought, spotting the Kennedy Estates ‘For Sale’ sign, half obscured by bushes at the top of the dirt track. He had plans of his own to attend to.

  Is this some kind of sick fucking joke? There was a copper outside her door, leaning on his post box, using it as a coffee table.

  They were really going out of their way to fuck up his day. Caroline Connor had probably been looking forward to his memento all week. Bastards. They were ruining everything. He just knew the meathead was behind all this. AJ Colt was turning the country into a fucking police state, couldn’t even post a simple letter, or get his car fixed, without the wanker’s foot soldiers harassing him.

  If they were here, they'd be at the cocksucker’s place too – it was only a couple of miles up the road. He didn’t want that disease riddled faggot touching his motor anyway. Need to fix it, need to post my letters.

  What to do, what to do? Calm, calm, calm. Think.

  He looked to his wing mirror, devoid of glass. Couldn’t go anywhere near a garage, and the internet would take too long. It was just a piece of glass, how hard could it be? A template and a glass centre that's all he needed. There must be someone who could cut a piece of mirrored glass to shape. Portsmouth, there was a glass place there. In the road that used to house all the pubs, now it housed all the criminals and dead people.

  The post box was a trickier issue. It would take more than chucking a couple of donuts up the road to distract Dibble’s attention. It had to be that one, it would be bad luck to deviate from the formula now. And it had to be today. He always posted today.

  Chapter 53

  The uniforms had taken delivery of India’s new bed this afternoon. By the time she’d arrived home they’d even bolted it together, and put it in the stupidest place possible. She’d bought them all a bag of chips as a thank you, and swiftly banished them from her home.

  After much debate amongst Terri and Clare, the entire room had been rearranged and dressed – to their liking. India’s input was limited to opting out of tomorrow’s family lunch in favour of repainting the bedroom top to bottom in dark red, to match her current mood. The girls seemed thankful she hadn't chosen black. All three of them were now sprawled on top of her brand new king sized wrought iron bed.

  “This mattress is a bit firm,” Terri frowned.

  “It just needs breaking in a bit,” Clare laughed, thrusting her hips. “It’s got plenty of bounce.”

  “Oh, here we go.” Terri sighed dramatically. “She's gonna make us pig sick now with all the gory details of the fabulous sex she's getting.”

  “It is pretty fabulous,” Clare giggled, massaging India's sore toes with healing cream, “and very, very plentiful. Pick a colour for your pedicures and I'll tell you all about it.”

  Yep, it was official. Zane was the love of Clare's life. The One. Well, for this month at least. He was big on family, his were very close knit. He was looking forward to meeting Clare’s family, which was an absolute first for any man she'd ever dated before. India was bored already. Anything remotely resembling the Waltons had her mind wandering elsewhere. She wondered what Colt was doing now, if he was alone. He’d seemed disappointed that she had plans this evening. A vicious squeeze of her big toe soon refocused her mind on the conversation.

  “Listen,” Clare hissed, “or I'll leave your toenails half done.”

  “What a vile and hideous punishment,” Terri said, drolly. “How on earth will she cope?”

  “Go on, I'm listening,” India encouraged, against her better judgement.

  Transpired Zane was an all-round good egg. He was working part time in the restaurant on top of his studies as a law student and looking after his terminally ill mother, who he adored. She sounded like a wonderful woman, and Clare couldn't wait to meet her. Deep joy.

  His father, an accomplished and well respected law man, had been murdered when he was a child. Zane wanted to follow in his footsteps, and commemorate his memory, by curing the world of injustice. A Nobel Peace Prize winner in the making, India thought, rolling her eyes.

  He wore boxers as opposed to briefs, always a good sign, folded his clothes when he took them off at night, and never left the toilet seat up or wet towels on the floor. He loved, loved, loved oral sex. Well, receiving it anyway, wasn't particularly giving by all accounts. India winced, thought this may be a little more information than she expected to hear, although Terri was almost foaming at the mouth, getting off on the details.

  “Sounds like you've got it bad,” India teased, seizing the opportunity to get a word in edgeways when Clare finally drew breath.

  Terri huffed. “Sounds like she's getting lock jaw to me.”

  “Not all men like to give, do they?” Clare pouted, looking to India for support.

  “Don't ask me,” India said. “I don't know the first thing about what men like.”

  “Well, that's not strictly true,” Terri mused. “You know AJ Colt's a giver, given half the chance.”

  “Oh my god,” Clare shrieked, clapping and bouncing around like a child that had had too many e numbers. “AJ Colt went down on you?”

  “Shush! No, he fucking didn't,” India said fiercely, wanting to knock her unconscious for the rest of the night. The thought that her colleagues outside might be listening filled her with dread. “Get it in your heads, there is nothing going on.”

  “Hold that thought, I'll get the wine,” Clare chirped, leaping off the bed, beaming from ear to ear. She stopped at the bedroom door, a confused expression on her face. “Should I bring enough glasses for the blokes outside?” she said.

  Colt lay on his hotel bed, hands behind his head, feet crossed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't get her out of his mind, wondered what she and the girls were doing now, couldn't imagine her enjoying a girly night in. He tried to envisage what her ‘sisters’ were like, and gave up pretty quickly when the only person he could visualise was India.

  Looked to his car keys on the bedside table, and looked away again, resisting the urge to drive down there and check everything was ok. Resisting the urge to fuss. He glanced at his phone, he could just call her. Or better still call control, just make sure everything was in order. She wouldn't even have to know.

  He sighed and chewed at the inside of his cheek as his eyes spied the ragged slip of paper next to his keys. Sitting up he flicked it between his fingers, couldn't even pronounce the words written on it. ‘Opiates,’ Gray had said in the hospital. Thirty seconds on Google would tell him exactly what they were. They certainly weren’t prescribed, not to her anyway – the patient’s name on the pill box had been torn off. A classic street corner dealer’s trick if ever there was one.

  Colt felt guilty. She trusted him. He should've just asked her instead of sneaking about in her medicine cabinet in the dead of night. He took a deep breath, rolled it into a tight ball between his palms and tossed it in the waste paper bin by the door, swung his legs off the bed and decided to hit the hotel gym.

  They were everywhere, like a plague of fucking locusts. He paced up and down, growing more and more agitated, it was gone 9 pm and his mementoes remained undelivered.

  Meathead had well and truly marked his territory, had cocked his leg from here to Oxford. The whole thing stank of him, reeked of him and his fucking infernal spraying. He’d pissed a complete ring all the way around India Kane’s place, couldn't get within a mile of it.

  His bollocks were heavy and hurt. He wasn't going to sort himself out. Why the fuck should he? Because AJ Colt has rounded up his bitches. He dropped to the floor and powered thr
ough some press ups, that always helped. Pumping them out faster and faster, springing a clap in between each one, concentrating his mind.

  The meathead needed a diversion to take his eyes off the prize. Clap. Come on, come on. Clap. What’s the chink in his armour? Clap. The one thing guaranteed to bring him to his spazzy knees? Clap.

  Death.

  He sprang to his feet and smiled. AJ Colt was a right wuss when it came to death. He’d hit him where it would really hurt. Take out one of his own. Take it right to his front door.

  Chapter 54

  Sunday 19th December

  Colt had almost stepped on it when he opened his hotel room door at 6 am. The obnoxious padded envelope was propped against the door frame.

  He phoned India, no answer. He banged frantically on Lacey's door, before remembering she wasn't there. Phoned India, no answer. Phoned Firman, got him out of bed. Phoned India, no answer. Ran to reception, got the floor sealed off until back up arrived. Phoned India, no answer. Secured the security footage from the hotel entrance camera.

  Phoned India again, still no fucking answer!

  Colt anxiously paced outside the hotel, waiting for the blue lights to descend. As soon as they arrived, he issued them with his orders, jumped in his car and sped down the motorway towards India’s place.

  His heart hit him in the mouth when he saw her name flash up on his mobile screen.

  “I've been trying to phone you back,” she said sleepily. “You’ve been permanently engaged. What’s up?”

  Colt laughed almost hysterically and pulled on to the hard shoulder, operating his hazard warning lights with a trembling hand. He rested his head on the steering wheel, allowing the adrenaline rush to subside, and told her that sometime between eleven last night and six this morning the fucker had paid a visit to his hotel.