by AJ Adams
Thinking it all over carefully, I decided my plan was a good one. I was getting my bounce back, so I was grinning at Anna, “You know what? Being banged up in Bonnington might be an excellent thing for me.” That just floated out, but it came from the heart. “Thanks, love.”
Reynolds had been a nasty bugger, but now he was going to pay me back. All I had to do, was get out of Bonnington lock-up.
For once the gods were listening. The door opened again. This time Henry was escorted by three very drunken blokes, so drunk, that each was being held up by a uniformed plod. Loud song, ‘four and twenty virgins, down from Inverness’ came drifting down the corridor. From the sweaters announcing ‘Bonnington FC Kicks Arse,’ this lot had been celebrating a football match.
“You can’t put them in with us,” Anna squawked.
“You can go,” Henry was looking rather harassed. “There will be no charges. Just stay out of trouble.”
“Absolutely,” Anna nodded.
I didn’t know if Henry had mistakenly lumped me in with his haul of tarts or not and I didn’t care. “No problem,” I said.
I was on Anna’s heels all the way, stopping only to claim my bag and phone. Nobody even looked at us because the place was filled to the rafters again, this time with drunken football supporters.
I slid out of the cop shop, took a brief look around in case Jason should be lurking, and when I saw the coast was clear, I ran to Crystal Wave’s place. Most annoyingly, my little Volkswagen was gone, no doubt towed away by an enthusiastic traffic warden. It didn’t matter; Rex would get Harding to fix that for me too.
With a surge of optimism, I jumped into the road and waved down a cruising taxi. “Take me to Perdition.”
Chapter Four
Rex
“I don’t care who you are,” Harding snarled. “You had no right to go behind my back and call Chief Constable Nichols!”
“I did try to talk to you first,” I reminded him. “I invited you for drinks too. But you wouldn’t take my calls, remember? You left me with no alternative.”
Inspector Harding had arrived in Bonnington the day before, and his first act had been to arrest the working girls who plied their trade in my massage centre. “Those tarts are a disgrace!” Harding growled. “I did right to arrest them!”
“Every holiday town has a sex trade, you know it’s unavoidable,” I put him straight right away. “We have it well organised. The girls are over eighteen, clean, and we don’t have problems with blackmail and other nonsense.”
“So you say,” Harding scoffed. “In my experience, they’re trafficked kids.”
“Try that shit here, and you’ll be treading water five miles out at sea,” I snapped.
“It’s up to the police to safeguard the community.”
That had me steaming. “Right, because you do such a great job.” I held on to my temper. “We’re not letting politically correct plods turn us into a fucking Telford or Rotherham.”
Reminding him of how the police had let paedophile gangs abuse thousands of kids had him flushing beetroot with mortification. “I wasn’t stationed at either of those places,” he protested.
“But you’re constricted by the same rules.”
“Which forbid soliciting,” he snapped back.
“But selling sex is not illegal in England,” I reminded him. “As for soliciting, they were doing nothing of the kind. The girls offer massages and if a visitor requests for extras, that’s between them.” I ignored the inspector’s snort of scepticism. “It’s clean, discrete and safe.”
The inspector wasn’t pleased. When he’d rounded up the girls, he’d been proud of himself, thinking he was the new sheriff in town. When I’d phoned him, he’d blown me off. No doubt he thought he could freeze me out. A call from the Chief Constable had set him straight.
“Even if the Chief is your cousin, you have no special rights,” he grumped.
“Don’t be naive.”
His eyes told me he was planning to find a way to fuck me over.
“It gets worse,” I told him cheerfully. “Gwendolyn Pearce, the justice of the peace, is also my cousin, William Fitz-Morley, circuit judge for north-east England, is my uncle, and Sir William Rhys-Lawson, the lord lieutenant, is my godfather.”
That’s the thing about the aristocracy. It isn’t about titles; it’s about power. My ancestors got their start as robber barons back in the time of the Normans and proceeded to hook up with similarly minded folk throughout the centuries.
Apart from being related to every blue blood in the country, I had built a network of celebrity friends through my event management company. Putting it all together, I’m better connected than Heathrow airport.
Having been shown rather forcibly that it’s bad news to mess with me, Harding was fuming. “It’s not right,” he repeated. “The lord lieutenant shouldn’t get involved in everyday policing.”
“Is that so? Well, I was at Eton with Chief Constable Nichols, your boss back in London.”
“Yes, Lord Ravenshurst,” he grumped. “I do know.”
Not good. I’d pushed him too far.
Sometimes it is useful to leverage the title but being lorded is usually a sign of trouble. Part of me wanted to rip into him, but my sensible self reminded me that formality gets in the way of good communication.
“Call me Rex,” I told Harding. With difficulty, I got myself under control and made an effort to reach him. “Look, you’re new here so I’ll cut to the chase. Bonnington is a small place, and we all have to work together.”
We were in Perdition, in the yellow drawing room. I love it, but the inspector was gazing at the Adams fireplace and the Van Dyck on the wall with less than pleasure. I recognized that look: disapproval. Harding was not a fan of inherited wealth.
“I work with my team,” Harding looked as if he had a poker shoved up his bum. “I don’t need your help.” Then, nastily, “My Lord.”
There was a cold silence. We eyeballed each other, and it was clear that the inspector didn’t want to play nice. I put it to him straight. “You can’t police the village with the team you have. The Bonnington-Lincoln friendly football match today would have turned into a drunken riot if we hadn’t pitched in to help.”
Knowing his cells were filled to capacity and that the Disciples had frustrated a concerted effort to set a patrol car on fire, never mind preventing dozens of shops being looted, the inspector vented his frustration. “Funding’s been cut back so much, that I’m considering drafting in the Girl Guides as special constables.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I agreed gently. “We only stepped in because we had to. And if you remember, we had the blessing of Inspector Finn Tylor.”
Tylor had been Harding’s predecessor. He’d worked with us when we’d had a problem with the Alistairs. As we’d cleared the bastards out, Tylor had been promoted and sent back to London. That was great for him but not so good for us. Prickly, uptight, prissy Inspector Harding wasn’t a good fit for Bonnington.
“You’re understaffed, so you need all the help you can get,” I reminded him. “When the Bonnington Music Fest kicks off at noon tomorrow, it will be all you can do to manage the village. The hotels and restaurants will be booked solid.”
“I know that,” Harding snapped. “You’ve got ten thousand people turning up over a three day weekend!”
As if I didn’t know. “I did sell the tickets,” I said mildly.
“I don’t have enough staff to cover security,” Harding admitted grudgingly.
“We can handle the crowds at Perdition. We have lots of experience, and my people are already in place.”
“You mean the Disciples,” Harding didn’t sound pleased about it.
“Our team is excellent, well seasoned and fully licensed,” I told him patiently. “It includes Disciples because they’re the best.”
“They?” Harding asked.
“We,” I admitted.
There was another silence. Then Harding sig
hed. “What’s a toff like you doing with the MC?”
“They’re good people. The best.” And then, because we needed this man on board, I explained. “My parents died within weeks of each other,” I ignored the lancing pain that always hit me when I remembered those dark days. “Inheriting the title came with a double whammy of death duties. My business was new, and the bank was going to pull the plug. Crush, President of the Bonnington Belial’s Disciples, stepped up. We’ve been partners ever since.”
“But it’s your brother who owns the place.”
“Caden. Yes, he made his fortune abroad,” I wasn’t going to say how. “Thanks to him, we managed to save the estate. Perdition is his, but I live here.”
“Not short of space, are you?” Harding mocked.
“Exactly. Also, Caden and Fracas are taking another honeymoon.”
The inspector looked appalled. “Another? How many have they had?”
“Three. Fracas says it takes practice to be perfect. She’s putting in extra effort on the intimacy front.”
I’d thought it funny, but Harding was disapproving again. “Lust and idleness are a temptation and an evil.”
Great, his file had called him spiritual, but this man had a touch of the zealot. He wasn’t suitable for Bonnington.
“They’re not exactly lazing about on a beach. They’ve taken their kids sailing in the Caribbean. It sounds like quite an adventure.”
“You don’t advertise the fact that it’s your brother and not you who owns this place,” Harding said silkily.
For a moment I debated whether to soothe him or confront him. The sound of an electric guitar singing in from the long field decided me. Disciples from every chapter were gathering for a special pre-festival party. I wanted to get out there and double-check the arrangements one last time. This man was getting between my work and me.
“I don’t advertise that I own Bonnington high street, including the lease on your police station, either,” I told him crisply.
Harding was shocked. “You own the station?”
“Damn straight. I’m charging you a token rent, a pound a month.” I counted to three and let him have the second barrel. “That house that comes with the job? I own that too. Again, token rent, a pound a month.”
That didn’t sit well with him, at all. “I wasn’t informed. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Only a damn fool shows his hand, Inspector.” As he was still looking bolshie, I took the gloves off. “If you like, you can pay full market value for both the station and your home. By the time you do that, you’ll be fucking lucky if you can afford to keep on a traffic warden.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but my not owning Perdition rankled. I was grateful when Caden secured the estate, but subconsciously, part of me felt as if I’d let the Winslow name down. As time went on, that feeling had grown. Having a prissy little shit like Harding sneer at me had me steaming.
I did not kill him, but I did enjoy kicking his arse for him. “Now, can we get on with business?” I was feeling a bit snappy. “The country’s press corps will be watching tomorrow because Coldplay just phoned to say they’re putting in a surprise performance.”
That had him sitting up. “You’re shitting me!”
He’d pissed me off, so I rubbed his nose in it. “They don’t do events like mine, usually, but they owe me a favour. Emma Watson will be here as well, with her mates Keira and Kate.”
Harding’s eyes were popping. “Keira and Kate? You mean Keira Knightley and Kate Winslet?”
“Who else?” I said nastily. “They’re going to sing for us. It’s for charity, the Lucy Trust. Elton John is flying in to play the piano for them.”
Harding was looking appalled as he realised what he was up against. “So, you’re rich, connected, and as lord of the manor you’re running Bonnington - with the Disciples as your private army.”
“Nonsense!” I put the facts to him. “Two years ago Bonnington was in a terrible state. Businesses were on the verge of bankruptcy and unemployment was sky-high. Now it’s thriving because we brought in the Music Fest, the Biker’s Annual Party, Miss Bonnington, and a dozen other events. The Winslow Cup alone pumped more than two million into the local economy.”
“Yes, Chief Constable Nichols told me.”
There was another silence, but this time I wasn’t worried. The way his shoulders slumped, I knew that Harding was going to roll over. He was a practical man, and he knew he was outgunned.
“So,” he sighed, “what arrangements have you made for the festival?”
I showed him a map of the grounds, taking him over all the details from the two music stages to the first aid tent right beside a helipad in case we needed an emergency chopper to airlift a medical emergency.
“You’re organised,” Harding admitted grudgingly.
“With twelve thousand people turning up, we’d better be.”
“Ten,” Harding said quickly. “You sold ten thousand tickets.”
“Yes,” I explained patiently. “We sold out. However, the village tends to rock up late, hoping to snap up unsold tickets.”
“You won’t let them in,” Harding said.
“We will,” I contradicted him. “We don’t want unhappy punters roaming about outside causing trouble. We want them in here, lifting the economy.” When he looked bolshie, I added, “You’ll have your hands full keeping Bonnington together, and I believe Miss Pickles, the Girl Guides patrol leader, has very strict ideas about her girls being out after dark.”
Harding wasn’t smiling. “I will send my men to patrol the estate.”
I gave up. “If you can spare them, great. Who do you want us to liaise with? Sergeant Fisher? Constable Keeble?”
His mouth was thinning as he realised I knew all his people - and probably better than him. “You deal with me,” he snapped.
“As you like,” I smiled nicely but decided I’d call him at midnight to rile him up. I might call him at four in the morning too, just to prove a point. I didn’t like this man, but I have no trouble hiding my feelings. “We kick off tomorrow at noon,” I told Harding. “But if you want to join the pre-party, you’re welcome.”
As every chapter of the Disciples in the country had pitched up for a private preview of some of the best bands, I knew the inspector would be off the premises before you could say outraged and appalled. Still, I escorted him to his car and saw him out of the gates before checking with my team.
“Rex, we’ve got the stages set up.” Mitch, my right-hand man, was checking his Tab. “But there’s a problem with the Portaloos.”
“There always is.” Instantly, I was missing Caden. He’d moaned about my filling up the grounds with my events, but as an army-trained engineer, he had kept Perdition’s antique systems running like clockwork.
Apart from the magic way he wielded a wrench, I missed him. Perdition didn’t feel right without family about. I shoved away that dark feeling, telling Mitch, “I’ll call the contractor. Anything else?”
Mitch shook his head. “A few snafus but all easily sorted.” Mitch was cool and smiling as always, but he didn’t have a lot of bounce. He’d been with me for years, knew the business backwards, and I’d sensed for some time that he was beginning to find being my right-hand man a little stale.
“Are Fred and Drew checking the gate crew?” While Mitch was devoted to food and beverage, they were security nuts. I managed them but like Mitch, Fred and Drew were experts, so it was very hands-off.
“Yes, we’re all set up and good to go.”
We’d done events like these a million times, so it wasn’t hard to know what to say. “Hey, Mitch, want to go solo for this one?”
“Yes!” That came straight from the heart. “Thanks, Rex.”
“You won’t be thanking me when you have to sort out a dozen drunken fights.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll deal with the Portaloos, and then it’s all yours.”
“Awesome! You won’t regret it.”
As h
e vanished, Brianne pitched up “We’re short twelve cases of tequila. They gave us Tia Maria instead. With complimentary packs of cream.”
“Hell, the MC are unlikely to swap their slammers for White Russians. Okay, call Wally at the Dog and Duck to see if he can lend us some stock.”
“I already did,” she was grinning with triumph. “He’s sending over six cases, and the Oak Leaf is sending six more.”
“You’re a gem.” Brianne Mountford had graduated top of her class at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and as she’d grown up in Bonnington, I’d known her all my life. I thought she’d be great at the job but as event management is a misnomer, it really should be called crisis prevention, it was nice to have it confirmed.
I decided Brianne was an asset. “Want to ditch that short-term gig contract and come on board full-time?”
“Really? Yes!” Brianne was jumping up and down. “Thanks, Rex.”
“Great. Mitch will be your boss. Go see him and make sure you set up a meet with him for Monday, okay? You’ll need to sign a contract.”
At that, she was a little crestfallen. “Can’t I work for you?” She put her hand on my arm, smiling meaningfully. “I was hoping to learn from the best.”
Hell, that came out of nowhere. But before I could respond, a redhead sashayed up, singing out, “Rex, hellooooo!” Then she was all over me. “It’s been forever. Did you miss me?”
“Absolutely.” I unwound her arms from around my neck. “Look, I’m working. Let’s catch up later, okay?”
The redhead turned sulky. “You could say you’re happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you. Primo positions are over by the fishpond. You can see both stages from there.”
But the woman smelt a rat. “You don’t remember me!”
I took in the skinny jeans, bright pink tee, and platform heels. She had a lean, predatory face and a fake tan that had streaked. The less than sleek appearance suggested she wasn’t a working girl and from the cheap jewellery, not wealthy enough to be a client, either. Experience told me she was a slapper I’d had at some point.
Events are best when everyone is happy, so I lied. “You know me. I’m always uptight when I’m working.” I tried to steer her away. “Look, love, I have a million things to do.”
