The Wages of Sin (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  Straightening up, India looked around at the hedonistic sea of writhing female bodies. She saw plenty of seedy dark corners, but not a single ‘Exit’ sign. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said, thrusting her warrant card into the face of the flesh-market heavy, reaching to grab her. “Just show me the way out of this dive.”

  Chapter 5

  Portsmouth, Hampshire

  Gray Davies stepped from the shower and froze. Someone was clanking around in his kitchen below. His breath hitched in his throat when he heard the fridge door slam. He had nothing worth nicking and certainly nothing of interest in there. It could only be one person. His stomach did a somersault. She’d seen the news, said she knew how much he’d need her tonight. He couldn’t deny it; her call had struck him dumb. But she’d said she was working and couldn’t get out of it.

  Sounded like she’d found a way.

  He hastily pulled a towel from the rack and scrubbed roughly at his head and body before wrapping it around his waist and raking his fingers through damp hair. Rubbing condensation from the mirror, he ran a hand along his unshaven jaw, relieved he’d left the razor till last.

  Grinning like a teenager about to pop his cherry, he gave the stubble she’d once loved a liberal splash of her favourite aftershave and turned side-on to the mirror, staring at his reflection. Smoothing a hand over taut abs, he flexed and released, flexed again, and patted his stomach. Yep. He was in much better nick than when she’d left. Better than ever, in fact.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the bathroom door and casually sauntered down the stairs, ready to feign surprise and remind her exactly what she was missing. As he stepped into his lounge his heart and stomach leapt in anticipation, and then promptly fell through the floor.

  “Hello, hero,” India said, raising her bottle of Bud his way. “I thought you were supposed to be day off today.”

  “I was. Got two off with flu. Me and Charlie are pulling doubles.” With a frown, he slapped her clumpy Doc Marten boots off his coffee table and headed for the kitchen.

  India tutted. “Since you lost custody of the poncey cushions, you’ve got really anal.” She shifted in her seat to peer suspiciously around the neat room. “The picture frame I bought you is still in the box.”

  His new-found tidiness wasn’t intentional. Gray had discovered it was impossible to be anything other than tidy when you owned such a small amount of stuff. “It was a wedding gift, India. There wasn’t a wedding.”

  “Put a picture of your bike in it then, brighten the place up a bit.”

  “If it bothers you that much, take it back. Like everybody else did.”

  She snorted. “Join the slippery slope to scatter cushions? No thanks.”

  He sighed and pulled a beer from his fridge. ‘Stuff’ meant nothing to India. Nor did people, generally. She had no idea what it felt like to have someone and all their belongings just erased from your life overnight. Well, not someone she actually loved, anyway. He’d hated those scatter cushions when they lived here, but now he missed them. And he wanted them back. “Are you here about the hit and run? Textbook Trev said your lot would be treating it as attempted murder.”

  “No chance,” India said, returning her feet to the coffee table. “I’ve got my hands full finding a gun toting vegetable and a group of nonces for Shit-Fer-Brains.”

  Gray chuckled. It wasn’t just his ex he missed. He missed India too. Things hadn’t been the same since she’d finally got herself a life. “Sangrin’s still being a prick then. You want another beer?”

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I’m not stopping, just swung by on my way home.”

  Gray’s wasn’t on her way home. He dropped into the armchair, feeling more alone than ever. “Could’ve phoned.”

  “Tried,” she said, waving his mobile phone in the air. “It was permanently engaged.”

  Gray leaned forward, extending his hand. “Give it to me.”

  India looked at the screen and raised a brow when it sighed with a text message.

  He clenched his jaw and went to stand. “Just give me the bloody phone!”

  “All right, stroppy.” She glared at him as she tossed it into his lap. “She called three times while you were in the shower. Want the sofa as well now, does she?”

  Gray took a swig of beer and shrugged. “She misses me,” he said, leaving off the bit where today he’d told her he missed her too.

  India rolled her eyes. “Course she does. She was probably as surprised as me to see your ugly mug all over the news on your day off. Look, if you need money –”

  “I don’t,” he snapped. “I told you, we’ve got two off with flu.”

  India tilted her head understandingly. Knowingly. “Okay.”

  He leant back in his uncomfortable, cushionless armchair and took a long satisfying swig from his bottle. “She wants to meet up.”

  “Has Dodgy Dave dumped her then?”

  Gray winced at the mention of his name, wishing she didn’t always have to be so bloody cutting. “We’re going for a drink tomorrow night.”

  India spluttered on her beer and jerked her head, wiping foam from her chin. “Has she told you –”

  “Lay off her.” Gray tilted his bottle towards her in challenge. “I mean it, Ind. I don’t want to hear it. You’re happy, let me be happy too.”

  She raised her hands in wide-eyed surrender. “All righty.” She drew a deep breath and stood up. Downed the remainder of her beer in one long glug. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  Gray rose from his seat and followed her to the door. “Everyone needs someone, India. Even you.”

  “I don’t need anyone, bro. And all you need is a slap.”

  “Then why are you rushing off home?”

  “I’m going to do what I want to do. You should lighten up and try it sometime.” She thrust the empty bottle into his hands. “Stick that in your recycling bin, Mr Ideal Home. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  Gray rubbed a hand over his head as he closed the door behind her. She was going home to do Colt. She could kid herself as much as she wanted, but she needed him more than just physically. One day she’d realise that. Hopefully before it was too late.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday, 6th March

  Hampshire CID, Winchester

  India Kane ignored the uniform scribbling on the board beside her with a teeth-grating squeaky marker pen, and quirked her lips at the brief email Colt had sent back. ‘Studying tonight, or helping me prep for court tomorrow?’ She logged out of her work account and picked up her phone to tap out a private response.

  PC Paul Smith shuffled uncomfortably at the side of her desk and cleared his throat. “Got an abduction for you.”

  India glanced up as she hit send on her phone. “Give me a break, Smithy. I’ve just offloaded the last of the pervs and I still haven’t found Mr Potato Head. Can’t Sergeant Shit-Fer-Brains do it?”

  Paul Smith winced. “Sorry, mate. Tried him first, but Trevor from traffic has just dumped an attempted murder on him. He said I had to give it to whoever was bottom of the board.”

  India leant back in her chair and narrowed her eyes at the new ‘Detection Rate Leader Board’ Sangrin had mounted next to her desk. His name taunted her from pole position in big fat fuck-off letters. The smarmy bastard had kept her permanently at the bottom by shifting her from one shitty case to another and making her do all the legwork without accruing any of the brownie points.

  She turned her glare on his office and huffed when he returned a wink and gleeful wave as he shrugged into his jacket. Prick was playing psychological warfare with her as her exams approached. If Lee Sangrin could make detective sergeant, anyone could. Her eyes followed as his stubby little legs carried him past her desk and out of the building. “Bastard knows I’ve got my exams next week,” she muttered, extending her hand for the file.

  “If it’s any consolation the sketch artist is going in this afternoon,” Paul said.

  India thum
bed the file until she reached the document with the artist’s details on it. Great, not only a temp but the same one who did last month’s bank robber sketch. She’d never get to the bottom of it. Mr Potato Head and fifteen grand of Central Bank funds were still on the loose now. Resting her elbows on the desk she rubbed at her temples with her forefingers.

  “And it might be a wind-up,” Paul added cautiously.

  She lifted her eyes to meet his. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, it’s not every day Pocahontas gets grabbed Grand Theft Auto style straight off the street in front of witnesses, is it.”

  “Pocahontas,” she said flatly. “As in native American Indian.”

  “Well, more like the Disney version really. Pakistani, coffee skinned, long black hair, big doughy eyes, beautiful –”

  India raised a hand, stopping him before he drowned in a pool of his own saliva. “I get the idea, Smithy.”

  He grinned. “That’s not the best bit. Guess who phoned it in?”

  India threw her hands in the air. “Mahatma Ghandi.”

  “Not even warm. Try Jason Preston.”

  India frowned. “Slack Alice’s boy?”

  “Yep. Him and little Leroy are your witnesses. Both had pupils the size of bin lids too.”

  India slumped across her desk. Fabulous. An abducted cartoon character, a dodgy sketch artist, and a couple of stoners with rap sheets as long as toilet rolls for witnesses. No wonder Sangrin had dumped it on her. “You checked MISPERS?” she groaned.

  “Of course. No Walt Disney characters reported missing in the last twenty-four hours. There was a Buzz Lightyear on Saturday night, but he was found gaffer-taped to a lamp post Sunday morning. Stag do.”

  India let out an exasperated sigh. The Preston potheads were probably taking the piss, going through their giggly stage before they demolished a hundredweight of crisps when the munchies bit. She never usually bothered with recreational drug users, but these two were a regular pain in the arse. If this was a wind-up, she’d nab the little tossers for wasting police time. At least she’d get off the starting blocks on the leader board if nothing else. She slammed the file shut and tugged her coat from the back of her chair. “I suppose I’d better go and pay Satan’s little helpers a visit then.”

  The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London

  Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt hit ‘print’ on his computer screen and reached for his phone when it pinged with incoming private mail. Jesus Christ, he thought, reading India’s response. If this was a taste of the evening to come – he wouldn’t be taking the stand tense tomorrow, he’d be taking it bloody exhausted.

  Suddenly hot, he loosened his tie and strummed his fingers against his desk in time with the steady chug of his office printer, wondering exactly how many documents she’d sent as the pile in the tray grew thicker by the second. He sprung from his seat when the printer finally ground to a halt.

  One hundred and eighty-seven pages to be precise. Thorough as ever.

  Re-reading India’s formal covering email, he flicked to the relevant parts she’d highlighted on the accompanying statement. His skin prickled when he saw their suspect’s name in black and white for the very first time. Thumbing to the exhibits, he scanned the transcripts of the chat room conversations and his jaw instinctively tightened, only loosening again at the sight of the bank transfer receipt that followed. He nodded in approval. Winchester had nailed the sleazy bastard to the floor.

  And the timing was perfect.

  He glanced out to the main office where his entire embattled team had their heads down, busily beavering away as usual. They’d come under attack from all sides lately, leaving them mentally battered and emotionally bruised. They were in dire need of a major morale boost. And they were absolutely going to love this.

  “Listen up, Ladies and Gents,” Colt said, resting his considerable bulk on the edge of DI Maggie Bevan’s desk, hefty wodge of documents raised. “Our friends in Winchester have sent us a gift. One of our great and good has been caught with his virtual pants down. But this time our groomer got himself groomed, by someone other than us.”

  “Go on,” Maggie said, leaning back in her chair.

  Colt placed the documents beside him on her desk, resting his hand on the pile as he spoke. “Winchester have lifted a thirty-eight-year-old male who has been masquerading online as an eleven-year-old girl.”

  Maggie lifted his thumb to read the sender’s details, and tutted, her disdain for the source clear. “What’s that got to do with us?” she huffed. “It’s nothing new. Three quarters of the pervs we arrest are masquerading as kids online.”

  “Ah, but this guy wasn’t after kids, Mags. He was after pervs,” Colt said, wishing Winchester could transfer the industrious guy to their team instead of banging him up. “And he found plenty of them too. He’s been blackmailing all the creeps who turned up at his house expecting to have sex with an eleven-year-old. Twenty-three blackmail victims in total – and I use the term ‘victim’ loosely,” he said punctuating the air with his fingers. “Our man is one of them.”

  Nervous laughter filled the small office. “Are you being serious?” Nathan Sharp said. “Our man went to the police and complained he was being blackmailed for attempting to groom children online?”

  “Nope, the original complainant has been charged. Our man paid up. He doesn’t know we’re coming,” Colt said. “Winchester charged the blackmailer yesterday afternoon and he happily gave the details of the –” he lifted India’s covering email from the top of the document pile and read directly from it, “and I quote, ‘filthy fucking kiddy-fiddling bastards’.”

  “Nice,” Nathan mused. “Try saying that after a couple of beers.”

  “Anyone we know, guv?” Maggie asked.

  Colt interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Councillor Colin Cooper.”

  “No fucking way!” Nathan spat, almost leaping from his seat. “He was at the community meeting last week giving us shit about not doing enough to –”

  “Stop the Asian grooming epidemic, I know, I know.” Colt raised his hands to quieten their growing outrage. “Now, ordinarily, nothing would give me greater pleasure than knocking his door myself, but, unfortunately, I’m a little tied up this week dealing with the so called –”

  “Asian grooming epidemic,” they all chorused.

  “We all know where to find Councillor Cooper. So, hands up. Who wants it?”

  Colt grinned. Every hand shot up except Maggie’s. She was snooping in the court for him all week. Right place, wrong time. She slumped back in her seat, arms crossed, lips pursed, silently fuming. He tilted his head her way and spread his hands in apology. The fact Councillor Cooper had been giving them a kicking at every opportunity lately had merely added fuel to his funeral pyre.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, signalling for them to drop their hands. “Nate, pick a DC who needs the experience and it’s their collar.”

  “Nice one, guv.” Nathan Sharp peered intently at the six detective constables jostling for his attention, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he made a meal of his decision. Finally, he clapped his hands together. “Right then,” he chirped. “Which one of you wants to make me a nice cup of tea?”

  Colt laughed and shook his head as DC Clorindar Hussein sprang from her seat and sprinted tothe tea room.

  Chapter 7

  Royal South Hants Hospital, Winchester

  “Who – might – want – to – kill – you?”

  Shayla Begum stared vacantly at the short man with tall hair who had spent the last thirty minutes speaking to her as though she were retarded. If Detective Sergeant Sangrin was the best Hampshire Constabulary could do, she’d at least make it out of here alive. Her gaze drifted over his shoulder, to the broad expanse of windows making up almost an entire wall of her hospital room. It was a beautifully bright day outside. Crisp and fresh, the sort of day that made you feel lucky to be alive. And she did. She lifted her head off the p
illows and smiled weakly, the glistening white landscape she’d awoken to still clung to the high ground.

  The police officer shifted in his seat, tilting his reddening face into her line of vision. “WHO – MIGHT . . .”

  Great, now he thought if he said it louder – loud enough to wake the dead – that she might finally answer him. Resisting her natural instinct to shush him to silence, Shayla sighed and rested her head back against the pillows, blank eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

  The sound of her visitor’s chair scraping against the floor was accompanied by movement in her peripheral vision. She held her breath, hopeful that he was leaving now, and scowled, biting back a cuss when he gave her a sharp prod in the shoulder.

  “Look – at – me,” he demanded, jabbing his index and forefinger back and forth between his eyes and hers.

  Shayla did . . . and almost lost it when the charades started. He gripped a giant imaginary steering wheel mid-air and proceeded to perform an exaggerated driving mime, complete with ginormous invisible gear stick.

  The accompanying ‘vroom vroom’ noises pushed her over the edge.

  She covered her mouth with a shunted hand, morphing her involuntary chortle into a cough. The pained expression and breathless squeal that followed was one hundred percent real. Broken ribs and coughing was a recipe for disaster.

  “If you think that’s painful, you wanna be in my fucking shoes,” Detective Sergeant Sangrin muttered, rubbing at his brow. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Shayla gripped her side, wincing with pain as he left the room, and even more pained that he was coming back.

  She’d anticipated he’d grab the first off-white person he encountered and drag them in to harass her further, so she was perplexed when he triumphantly returned clutching a laminated sheet of paper instead of a human being. When he thrust it in front of her she realised she’d seriously overestimated him with the person thing.