by J. D. Weston
“No, the duplicates are yellow and blue. I dealt with these all the time, sir. In Bristol, sir.”
“In the sticks?”
She ignored his comment. “This is the original. The yellow is kept by the port and the blue is kept by Customs and Excise. There’s a number scrawled on the top of this one, sir.”
“A number?” said Myers, and he took the form from her to study the number himself.
“That’s a container number. I’m sure of it. I recognise the format. Three letters followed by three numbers, then nine more.”
“So?” said Myers. “They import alcohol. We already established that.”
“But this one has the number handwritten on it.”
“So? He could have just jotted it down while he was on the phone.”
Fox deflated before his eyes. It was clear she was trying to make a good impression.
“Okay, sorry, sir. I just thought it could have been something.”
She reached to take the form from Myers, but as she did, something occurred to him.
“Hang on,” he said, and pulled the form away. “You might be onto something.”
“Sir?” she said, and she moved closer to get a better look. He inhaled again and enjoyed the scent. It was calming, even if she was irritating.
“What does he usually import?”
Fox reached for the stack of papers and sifted through them.
“Looks like cases of beer, wine, champagne, some spirits. It’s just alcohol, sir.”
“Some spirits?” he said. “What spirits?”
She gave the first few forms a quick analysis and Myers watched her analytical mind ticking away.
“Vodka mainly, plus a few cases of gin. Then it looks to me like small amounts of scotch, brandy, Jagermeister-”
“And they are all similar?” he asked.
She looked again and nodded.
“And the quantities are always the same?”
She nodded.
“It looks that way.”
“I think you found something, Fox. Find out everything you can about that container number.”
Myers headed for the door, pleased that Fox had found a purpose. The research would keep her busy for a while.
“I don’t understand, sir.”
He sighed and closed the door on the guard.
“Picture Cartwright’s bars. These aren’t your average working man’s clubs, Fox, where men order brown ale and women sip at Cinzano and lemonade. The clientele will drink wine, bottles of beer maybe. They’ll start the evening with a gin and tonic, then as the night draws on, they’ll order vodka. The barman will line shots up on the bar and they’ll down them one by one.”
She was coming round to his idea. Those country cogs of hers were ticking.
“So why did he order forty-eight cases of middle-grade scotch on a separate consignment, write the container number on the form, and then throw it away?” she asked.
“Exactly, Fox. There’s more scotch there than he’s ordered in the past six months. Find me that container.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the far side of Theydon Bois, beyond the pubs and shops and the village green, tucked away on the edge of Epping Forest, was a small two-storey block of apartments. The finish was pleasant. It was modern brickwork appointed with wooden features that were sympathetic to days gone by. Tall, lush trees lined the small driveway and the entrance to the below-ground car park. Harvey parked his bike in one of the few guest spots and waited. Before long, a taxi arrived, and a young couple emerged from the building. They were laughing about something Harvey hadn’t heard and the man even held the door for Harvey as he climbed the steps.
He watched the taxi pull away and hit the button for the elevator. There would be no need for stealth for what Harvey was about to do.
The doors opened to the second floor and Harvey turned right. The carpeted corridor smelled of pine and the bright hallway lights with the light oak finishing offered a clean environment, tainted with the aroma of various foods that were being cooked in the apartments. There was no tantalising smell coming from the last apartment along the corridor, only muted and muffled shrieks of joy.
Harvey opened the unlocked door and closed it behind him. He gazed around the living space. The light oak had been continued throughout with tasteful artwork on the walls. It looked as if it had been designed by a top interior designer, with tall potted ferns beside the balcony and polished work surfaces that ran from a breakfast bar into the kitchen, leading the eye toward the stunning treetops of the forest.
The bedroom door was open, and Harvey could hear the groans of passion coming from inside. There was talk of how bad he had been, and the man begged for punishment. Harvey stepped inside the bedroom to find Sergio lying in a star shape on the bed. He wore a blindfold and each of his limbs were tied to the bed posts with shiny, black, leather straps. The girl Sergio had been talking to at the wedding was standing with her back to the door wearing only stockings and heels. Her arm was raised ready to strike his naked flesh with a horse-riding crop.
“That’s it. I’ve been such a bad boy,” he teased in his Eastern European accent.
“You want more?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, please. I deserve more.”
And she spanked him with the crop hard across his bare foot. She toyed with the loose, leather strap on the end of the crop, running it up his leg. Sergio’s excitement was evident, and he twitched in anticipation.
She raised the crop once more and Sergio inhaled a long, jittery breath.
Gently, Harvey took her wrist from behind and signed with a finger to his lips that she should be quiet. She released the crop into Harvey’s hand, and he moved her toward the door. She smiled at the game, not even trying to cover herself, and watched from the doorway with delight as Harvey delivered the first blow across Sergio’s genitals.
Sergio bucked and writhed on the bed, pulling at his restraints. His twisted face eased from excruciating pain into delight the way violent white-water froths at the foot of a waterfall then trickles downstream in search of the sea. He straightened, panting with delight, and licked his lips.
“More,” he said.
Harvey whipped the crop down onto his bare chest leaving a red mark on his skin, and Sergio laughed with pleasure through his gritted teeth, growling with the sensation.
“Again.”
Harvey struck his stomach with the crop, harder than before, and Sergio bucked. He tried to double over but the tight leather straps held him down.
“Oh yes,” he cried.
And Harvey hit out again across the hard arrogance that was the result of his twisted mind.
The effect was immediate. The pain was fierce, and Sergio’s voice rose in pitch between his ragged breath.
“Not so hard,” he said.
But Harvey was not one to take orders. He struck out three times in rapid succession leaving Sergio no time to recover. He growled with the agony and writhed on the silk sheets. Harvey glanced back at the girl, whose wandering hands had stopped exploring her own body and now covered herself. The excited expression on her face had faded to a wide-eyed and horrified stare.
And Harvey struck out three more times while holding her in his stare.
“Softer, Alina. Not so hard, please.”
He waited for Sergio to settle and he admired the angry welts across the man’s chest.
The girl, convinced that this was no longer a sordid game, collected her clothes from the floor, using them to cover herself, and she ran to the next room.
“Alina?” Sergio called.
“She’s gone,” said Harvey.
There was a moment of pause as Sergio’s mind deciphered what was happening. He no longer stood proud and cavalier. His body softened and the blood that only moments before had hardened his sexuality now pooled in his cheeks.
“Harvey?” he said, as if he dared not utter his name.
The front door slammed as the girl left th
e apartment.
“Alina? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on, Sergio,” said Harvey, and he struck Sergio’s stomach hard across an already furious looking welt.
“No, Harvey, stop. Please.”
“You know something.”
“What, Harvey? About what?”
“Who killed Julia?”
“I don’t know. How could I know? Harvey, stop. Untie me.”
He ran the crop along the length of Sergio’s leg, stopping at his foot.
“Harvey? What are you doing? This is crazy.”
Harvey struck the sole of Sergio’s foot as hard as he could and watched as Sergio struggled against the straps, bearing the pain through gritted teeth.
“There was a container delivered. You wrote the number at the top of a form.”
“What? A container? I don’t know anything about a container.”
Harvey gave the same treatment to Sergio’s other foot and waited for Sergio to recover.
“You wrote the number at the top of the form. What was in the container?”
“What, Harvey?” said Sergio. “We have containers all the time. It’s alcohol. We import it. You know that.”
It was Sergio’s small toe that bore the brunt of the next lashing. The pain was enough to instigate the tears Harvey had been sure would come at some point.
“There was something special about a particular container. I need to know what it is, Sergio. A girl died today, which means that either you or Donny upset somebody.”
“I haven’t upset anybody,” said Sergio. “I just do my job. Talk to Donny. He does it all. He makes the orders. It’s him that receives the shipments. All I do is make sure everything is done properly and report to John. Please, Harvey. Let me go.”
“Where do I find Donny? Where did Julios take him?”
Harvey rested the crop on Sergio’s already swollen toe.
“No, please, Harvey. I can’t tell you. You heard what John said. I can’t tell you that.”
His foot trembled with the anticipation. His body tensed, and his genitals, which only minutes before had been swollen with joy and lewd excitement, were shrivelled and flaccid.
The second blow across Sergio’s toe was sharper than the first. Harvey felt the perfect connection between leather and flesh and heard the snap of the crop as Sergio entered into a state of total panic and fear. His body jumped across the bed as far as his restraints would allow and twisted to protect his exposed groin. It took five more lashes across the soft and tender parts of Sergio’s legs to calm him down.
“You’re sick, Sergio. You know that?”
“I’m sick?” he gasped. “You’re the one whipping me.”
“Your best friend’s wife has just been killed and you brought one of the hostesses home for some sordid sex games.”
“He told me to go. John did. You heard him, Harvey. He said he didn’t want to see me. Stay out of sight. That’s what he said.”
“Where do I find Donny and Julios?”
“Harvey, please. I can’t tell you. I can’t take any more of this.” He must have sensed that Harvey had raised the whip because the moment Harvey’s body tensed to deliver another strike, Sergio crumbled. “Okay, okay. Stop. Enough, Harvey. I’ll tell you.”
Harvey let the crop rest on Sergio’s shrivelled manhood and saw the man’s chest rise and fall in quick succession.
He relayed the address with reluctance and a tear ran from beneath the fluffy eye mask.
Harvey lay the crop across Sergio’s chest.
“If you’re lying, I’ll be back.”
“What? Harvey, untie me. You can’t leave me like this,” said Sergio, his voice even more panicked than before.
Harvey listened to Sergio calling after him, his voice growing quieter as he reached the elevator and pushed the button to go down.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Myers pushed through the double doors that led from the staff car park. Fox followed behind, and as he placed his wallet against the card reader to open the next set of doors, he found her right beside him.
He sighed and she looked bemused at his annoyance.
“Find out whatever you can about that container number. I want to know where it came from, what was in it, who signed for it, and where it was delivered. Anything else is a bonus.”
“I’m on it, sir,” she said, and seemed to glow with the opportunity. Myers was close to telling her thanks. But he thought better of it. He’d see what she came up with. He’d given her an opportunity to demonstrate what all that training can do. He stopped and let her walk on, partly to give him room to think and partly because he was tired of her incessant desire to be his shadow.
It was then that the door to his right buzzed. It was the door to the evidence room and the electro-magnetic lock clicked to release. Carver pushed the door open, but he didn’t seem to acknowledge Myers’ presence at all. He appeared vacant and lost in his own thoughts.
“Looking glum, Carver,” said Myers. “What’s the matter? Did you miss the party?”
“Not now, Myers,” Carver replied.
“Oh, come on. That’s not like you. Where’s the banter?”
Carver turned, his face was angry and his eyes red.
“I said, not now.”
“Okay, okay,” said Myers, holding his hands up in defence. “I was just kidding around. I actually wanted to come and find you anyway.”
“You’re out of favours, Myers.”
“I just wanted to say thanks.”
Carver raised an eyebrow.
“Genuinely,” said Myers. “The tip you gave me about Cartwright. We might have a decent lead. So, thanks.”
Carver huffed. It wasn’t like him to miss an opportunity to gloat. He cast his eyes away.
“What’s got to you, Frank?” said Myers.
“Ah, just leave it, Myers.”
“No, seriously.” Myers pulled him from the doorway to let a couple of uniformed officers through. Then he led him out to the car park. “Talk to me.”
Carver pulled some cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He let his head fall back and released the smoke through his nostrils.
“I didn’t mean to push the wrong buttons, Frank. You know how it is. The best form of defence is attack.”
Carver nodded and leaned against the wall.
“Is Allenby on your case?” asked Myers.
“No.”
A single word response and Carver slipped back into his own mind.
Myers gave him a minute to think but stayed close by, knowing he’d open up eventually.
“How do you do it?” asked Carver. He cleared his throat and spat.
“Do what?”
“How do you deal with it? The innocence.”
Myers said nothing.
“I see death on a weekly basis, Myers. I see death everywhere I go. But it’s mostly thugs. They deserve it, and if they don’t, then they’d probably wind up doing something that does make them deserve it. It’s part of the life. Organised crime. It’s more like organised death, Myers. They all deserve it one way or another. But you’ll never find out who pulled the trigger and part of you doesn’t care who did pull the trigger. They deserved it.”
The emotion had drawn out Carver’s Scottish accent. He was a hard man and to see him cut up was humbling.
“But a young girl. A young girl far too young to have done anything so bad that she deserved…”
He paused and his eyes watered. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
“They don’t train you for this, Myers. Well, maybe now they do, but…”
He stopped again and Myers knew what he was feeling. His mind was showing him the image he was trying to block. Some images never leave. Over time, with enough death, those images merge into one.
“Did you get her name?” asked Myers.
Carver shook his head.
“They’re identifying her now. What’s left of her.” He shook his head
in disbelief and took another long pull on his cigarette. “So savage, Myers. So savage.”
“Any leads?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head again and flicked his cigarette, watching it spin away and land on the tarmac. “Not a thing. We have her belongings, but there’s no ID. She’s too young for a driving license and her bag was just full of…” He paused again and stared up at Myers. “Kids stuff, Myers. The type of stuff kids carry in their bags. Cheap makeup, chewing gum, and a sodding personal CD player that won’t turn on.”
“Sorry, Frank,” said Myers. “Was she…”
It was Myers’ turn to pause. He didn’t need to say anymore.
“Not that we know of. Her clothes were intact. If she was, they’ll find out.”
There was a silence between them that said more than any of their words had.
“If you want to talk about it,” said Myers.
Carver laughed a single shot of defiance.
“We have shrinks for that type of thing, don’t we?” he said.
“Shrinks aren’t out there seeing what we see, Frank.”
“Why are you being nice, Myers?” said Carver, and he rubbed his face with both hands and straightened his jacket. He stared at Myers. “What’s with the politeness?”
“Banter is one thing, Frank. Some things go beyond that, don't they?”
“I guess.” He pushed himself off the wall. “I better make a start.”
“I mean it, Frank. I know I’m a dick to you and, well, you’re a dick to me. But if you need to…”
Carver nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind, Myers. I’ll bear it in mind.”
Carver turned away and pushed through the door then stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Myers, tightened his lips in a half-smile, and nodded once, then let the door close. Myers waited for the buzz of the doors and then leaned on the wall where Carver had stood. There wasn’t much that got to Myers. Back-stabbing and banter were all part of the fight. They were there to harden those who wanted to climb the ladder and to highlight those who just didn’t have the resilience to handle it. But somewhere beyond all of that, something intangible that ran parallel with the to-and-fro of police life, was an emotional level that people rarely spoke of. Myers could see it in the eyes of nearly all of the officers he’d worked with over the years. Other signs of the disturbance included greying hair or balding, and the bags beneath their eyes. Some men even developed a tremble which they passed off with bravado as having had too much caffeine. But Myers knew. And that was what it was, a disturbance. A tremble in that parallel world could ripple through the real world that people saw. It could change things, alter outcomes, and the host could make a wrong decision. He understood that. He understood what Carver was going through. No doubt, Carver would be in the first-floor office now, wearing a shield to fend off the banter and backstabbing, and retaliating with comebacks of his own.
