by Nick Oldham
Colin Hodge was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. The fear gripped him like a beast, tearing at his intestines and his chest. He was literally shaking with it. He even held his hand up to confirm it; it vibrated visibly. He reached out and clicked the bedside light off, plunging the room into total darkness for a moment or two before his eyes adjusted.
He rolled off the bed and stood up. His legs were weak. He walked slowly towards the window and pulled the curtain back half an inch. Outside was the garden, big and well-tended. Beyond a line of lime trees was a high wall, illuminated by upward-facing lamps set into the ground. Several lines of razor wire ran along the top of the wall, keeping people in as well as out.
His eyes focused on the ornamental bars just outside his window. It was possible to open the window, but there was no way to climb out and drop the fifteen or so feet to the gravel path and escape.
A movement in the garden caused him to raise his eyes. He frowned as he caught sight of a dark shape moving slowly through the shrubs and trees. Hodge watched the figure carefully, then clocked another figure padding along close behind. A man and a very large dog. The man — Hodge recognised him as the driver of the Mercedes from earlier — clutched something across his chest. A gun of some sort.
Hodge winced. His heart surged and a pain shot across his shoulder, then was gone. Indigestion caused by stress. He let the curtain slip back into place.
He walked across the room, tried the door handle again.
Locked.
He returned to the bed and sat down, dropping his head into his hands.
A prisoner.
The booze and the atmosphere turned Danny into a flirt. She danced shamelessly with each of the men in her party, moving her butt and breasts provocatively to the rhythm of ‘Disco Inferno’ and other such classics. Often she draped her arms around the neck of her dancing partner. Often she ground her pelvis against their hips. In a fairly short time she got every one of them thinking they were in with a chance. The truth was, not one of them did anything for her.
And then she spotted Detective Rik Dean across the other side of the dance-floor. He was watching her antics with a wry smile on his face. Danny knew Rik had a mega-reputation as a seducer of policewomen and she knew why: he was charming, good-looking, with dark eyes which reminded her of Elvis Presley, a nicely toned body with a rear end she would have loved to dig her fingernails into, and (reportedly) he always let the lady come first.
Rik had only recently been transferred on to the CID and normally worked in Preston, though he lived in Blackpool. He had then been seconded temporarily to the Conference Planning Team at Headquarters, the team specifically dedicated to organising the policing operation of the Labour Party conference held later in the year in Blackpool. Rik was on the vetting team.
Drink, that wonderful stripper of inhibition, ensured that Danny weaved unsteadily across the dance-floor and presented herself in front of Rik like a debutante — but without the class. A naughty smile played on her lips. Rik’s wonderful eyes regarded her with a mixture of warmth and humour. They were definitely ‘come to bed’ eyes.
‘ Hi,’ she said, suppressing a hiccup.
Rik nodded.
Danny briefly cast her eyes back to the table around which the Murder Squad were huddled. They glared back, each one with a face like thunder as they saw their chance of a sexual conquest slip through their fingers like sand.
‘ You with anybody?’
‘ Only my mate,’ Rik replied.
‘ Good,’ said Danny firmly. She took a long drink and handed her empty glass to him. ‘White wine and soda.’
Henry lounged indolently at one of the bars in the night club. He surveyed the action taking place in front of him. In his hand was a pint of lager which he sipped very slowly because it had cost him?4.00. He was going to make it last, even if it had been bought on expenses.
‘ Angel’s Silver’ was a big club with several dance-floors dotted around the ground-floor level, accompanied by a number of themed bars. A huge light, sound and video system hung from the ceiling like a clinging insect, thumping out bass lines capable of mushing brain-matter into pulp. Several sets of stairs led up to the first-floor level where there were more bars, a separate dance-floor playing smoochy music, and a restaurant serving anything from burgers to a la carte; several places offered good vantage points down into the lower disco area.
Then there was another set of stairs which led up to the second-floor offices. Henry was positioned at a bar near to these.
On entering the club he had mooched around the place, unable to see Thompson or Elphick. It was simply a matter of waiting. They would show up sooner or later.
He sipped his drink. It tasted as if it had been diluted by tap water, warm tap water at that. Not that he was a beer connoisseur, but Henry knew enough about the stuff to realise when he was drinking shite.
He was desperately trying to keep on track in the role of Jagger, but he was struggling because of the turmoil he had experienced at home over the last couple of days.
To say that his wife, Kate, had been unresponsive to his flowers and sexual advances as a form of appeasement was an understatement. She had not even been at home for him to try initially and he had waited in all that first afternoon wondering where the hell she was on her day off. He learned when his daughters came home from school.
‘ Mummy has gone into full-time work,’ Leanne, his younger daughter, announced to him. ‘She said she might as well because you’re never home’.
‘ And,’ said Jenny, the elder, now in her first year of A-levels, ‘she’s really pissed off at you, Dad.’
That evening, when Kate landed home, tired and irritated, a major row erupted which Henry did not handle well at all. ‘What about the kids?’ he had demanded at one point. ‘You should be at home when they get in from school.’
‘ Should I?’ Kate said. ‘You never have been.’
‘ And what’s all this about full-time work? We don’t need the money. It’s stupid.’
‘ Stupid?’ Kate picked up on the inadvisable word. ‘You’re telling me I’m stupid, are you?’
‘ No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just not necessary for you to work full-time, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘ I wouldn’t work full-time, if you were at home when you should be. I’ve had enough of this. I’m off out to my dance-class.’
‘ Dance-class?’ Henry had exploded. ‘When did you start that?’
She didn’t even bother to reply and did not come home until gone eleven, by which time Henry was in bed, fast asleep.
And that set the tone for his break at home.
A lump of bile rose in his throat. He took another drink of the weak beer, this time a long draught, and realised he should not be here. He should have been at home, sorting out his domestic problems. And yet, there was something inside him that kept him back from going home, and it wasn’t just the job…
At that moment Gunk Elphick came down the stairs which led up to the offices and beckoned Henry towards him.
Frank Jagger clicked into gear.
Elphick led Henry up the stairs, through a heavy door which closed automatically behind him, on to a landing. The sound of the club became muted. Henry was thankful for that. The reduction in volume assisted him to think more clearly. The landing led to a further set of steps which opened out into a wide, deeply carpeted hallway, off which were several doors.
Gunk signalled Henry with a hand gesture and walked down the hall, turning without knocking into the third door along. Henry followed nonchalantly.
There was a small office behind the door containing a desk and chair. Behind the desk was another door which Gunk shouldered his way through, Henry at his heels.
The inner office was much bigger. Henry’s eyes quickly circumnavigated the room. There was a large, leather-topped mahogany desk with executive swivel chair; on the desktop was a blotter and a laptop. Behind the desk was a large window which, if He
nry’s geography was correct, looked out over Cross Street. To one side of the desk were two massive Chesterfield settees in red leather — a style of furniture that never appealed to Henry, who was a G-plan man at heart. The Chesterfields faced each other square on, separated by a glass-topped coffee table. Up against another wall was a filing cabinet and on another were a couple of TV monitors, one which had a screen split into half a dozen images, showing scenes from within the night club below, transmitted from CCTV cameras dotted strategically around the club.
Henry’s eyes returned to the Chesterfields. On one sat Gary Thompson; on the other sat a mean, sleek-looking individual, but rather pasty-faced. He reminded Henry of the 1970’s version of Bryan Ferry.
‘ Hey, Frankie baby,’ Thompson boomed loudly, ‘how you doing?’
‘ I’m doing good,’ Henry nodded.
Less than a second later, Henry was not doing good at all.
Gunk Elphick, who had entered the room ahead of Henry — a good, psychological manoeuvre designed to put Henry subconsciously at ease — spun round unexpectedly, at a speed Henry could not have anticipated, and hit him hard on the side of the head. Henry flew across the carpet on to the sharp edge of a filing cabinet. For a moment he saw stars and moons, and it felt like his brain had become detached from its moorings. He did not have any time to consider this, because Gunk danced across the room after him and followed up the first punch with one to the pit of the stomach, and then another to the opposite side of Henry’s head.
Before Henry could sink into disorientated oblivion, Gunk stepped in real close, head-butted the bridge of the detective’s nose and jabbed his right knee into Henry’s testicles. Henry pitched sideways and slithered down the wall, doubled up with the terrible shocking pain roasting up from his balls, yet with both hands cupped over his face, stemming the blood flow from his nostrils.
Gunk was ruthless.
If Henry thought that was the end of the matter, he was wrong. Gunk’s steel-toe-capped Doc Martens booted him several times in the ribs as he lay squirming in agony. Then he lifted Henry on to his back, grabbed the front of his bloodstained jumper and hauled him to his feet.
Henry reeled, uttering gibberish, swearwords and blasphemy.
Gunk dragged him across the room towards the desk, then forced him down on to his knees in a praying position and rammed the side of Henry’s face into the desktop. Gunk stood behind him, knees jammed into his shoulder-blades, pressing Henry’s chest against the desk and skewering his features whilst blood and snot flowed from his nose, mixing with saliva dribbling from his twisted mouth.
Gunk put his mouth to Henry’s ear. ‘Right, you cunt,’ he said. Then he reached down and pulled up Henry’s jumper, running his harsh hands over Henry’s chest, stomach and back.
‘ Nothing there, Gazzer,’ Gunk said to Thompson.
‘ Strip the fucker,’ Thompson shouted. He had been watching the beating from the comfort of the Chesterfield, legs crossed, relaxed.
‘ On your fucking feet,’ Gunk growled. He heaved Henry up. ‘Come on, get up.’
‘ What… Why…?’ Henry spluttered, hardly able to balance.
‘ Now you can do this hard or easy,’ Gunk explained. ‘Get your clothes off.’
‘ But… why?’
Gunk slammed an open hand across Henry’s head, lifting the detective off his feet, reeling him round full circle and depositing him in a heap on the floor. Henry regained his hands and knees, shaking his head, aware of blood dripping on the carpet.
Gunk leaned over. ‘Take your kit off, or I’ll kill you now.’
Henry rocked back on to his haunches and eased the V-neck jumper over his head, dropping it on to the floor. He wore nothing underneath it. He struggled to his feet, stage by stage, unbuckled his belt, waistband, and unzipped his chinos. He let them drop to his ankle. He swayed, only just able to remain standing.
‘ Skids, too,’ Gunk screamed.
Henry pulled his underpants down, left them at his ankles. Gunk circled him, his eyes focused on Henry’s genitals and backside.
Henry panted, racked with pain, one hand at his nose, thanking God he had decided to make this first meeting without a wire.
‘ He’s clean,’ Gunk announced, stepped into Henry and grabbed his sore balls, squeezing. ‘Aren’t you, babe?’
There was some conversation, but not a lot. Rik told Danny a few things about his job on Conference Planning which simply passed over her head. There was a considerable amount of alcohol imbibed between them a lot of dancing done, culminating in several slow numbers leading up to the 2 a.m. finish. It was during these songs that Danny made her intentions clearly and unequivocally known to Rik Dean, if not by word of mouth, by actions.
They actually started the first slow song standing slightly apart. Rik’s hands rested on Danny’s shapely hips. Her arms were snaked around his neck. By the end of that song, other than being completely naked, they could not have got closer together. They kissed greedily, wetly. Their hands slithered up and down each other’s spine and backside. Danny gasped hotly on the first occasion both her hands moulded themselves on to Rik’s bum. It was taut and hard, just as she had imagined, but not as solid as his erection which Danny moved against as they rotated with each other. She took a few less than discreet opportunities to sneak a hand around to the front of his trousers and squeeze, making him groan like a beast.
‘ Let’s go,’ Danny whispered hoarsely, sucking his ear. ‘My place.’
‘ Yeah, c’mon.’
He virtually dragged her off the dance-floor past a table of jeering, boorish and very irate Murder Squad detectives.
Danny was completely swept up by the moment. There was nothing on her mind but the prospect of screwing Rik Dean, the sooner the better. She needed the release of orgasm, multiple ones if possible.
With Gunk’s willing assistance, the naked Henry Christie — trousers and shreddies around his ankle — had reassumed the kneeling position by the desk. Gunk’s knees were pressed into his back, Henry’s hands were jammed down in front of himself and his head was again being squashed into the desktop by Gunk.
Thompson sat on the office chair, reclining it. He swung his heels up on to the edge of the desk. Henry’s leather coat was in his hands and he was rooting through the pockets. He found a wallet which he turned upside down and emptied on his lap. He picked up and scrutinised everything. It all related to Frank Jagger. Henry had no concerns from that angle.
‘ OK, Frank,’ Thompson said, brushing the wallet contents off his legs on to the floor, and dropping the leather coat. ‘Bet you’re wondering what this is about?’
‘ You could thay thasht,’ Henry responded through his distorted mouth.
‘ As you are fully aware, our boss Jacky Lee got taken out the other day by a renegade gunman. Not a nice thing to happen at all. Problem is, that both me and Gunk got hauled in by the bizzies — which was only to be expected, I suppose. They’ve got to be seen to be doing something and I accept that. Reluctantly, of course,’ he said generously. ‘The fact is, though, they really, really, really thought we had something to do with the job. Like we set the whole thing up, or something.’ He tittered at Gunk, who chuckled back. ‘I can half understand their point of view… totally unfounded though it was.’
Henry dribbled on to the desk. Gunk pressed down harder.
‘ But they started asking us some really nooky questions which got me doing a bit of thinking. They were the kind of questions that come via a witness at the scene, who may have seen things happen in a certain way — and the only person or persons I can think of who fit the bill are you and your mate, Eric. You see, every other witness in that cafe was spoken to, discreetly, no pressure, nothing like that, and were told to say they either saw fuck-all, or very, very little. Gunk is my witness liaison officer. As you can see, he has a way with negotiations.’
‘ Yeah, I shee,’ Henry spat. His mind shot back to the briefing with Davison and the reassurance that neither his
nor Terry’s statements had been used in the investigation. As Henry half-suspected at the time, Davison had lied.
And now Henry’s life was in danger.
‘ I want to know what you have to say about this. Did you tell the cops what you saw? And if you did, did you finger me and Gunk? And also, if you did, what the hell are you doing here tonight, bold as brass and twice as thick? Answers, not on a postcard. ‘
Gunk released the pressure on Henry’s face, but grabbed his ears, one in each hand, holding Henry’s head between them, screwing his ears as though he were revving a motorbike.
Henry cried out. Gunk stopped twisting.
‘ I… we didn’t go to the cops.’ It was difficult trying to speak with a gushing bloody nose. ‘Think I’m fucking daft or something? I had ten thousand bottles of stolen whisky on that lorry park. I’m not going to go waltzing up to the cops, am I?’
‘ You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Thompson said.
‘ Only ‘cos it’s the truth. On my mother’s grave, I swear it. I have not been to the cops and nor has Eric. We don’t fucking intend doing so either, but in case they get hold of us, you’d better tell me what you want us to tell them. Help me get my story straight.’
Thompson nodded to Gunk, who released Henry’s ears. Henry dropped his head on to his chest and choked back a sob of fear. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘ Do we believe him?’ Thompson asked the room. There was no reply.
Thompson dropped his feet and leaned forwards, placing his chin on the desk, looking playfully across at Henry. ‘Benefit of the doubt, Frank. But make no mistake, we’ll be keeping a close eye on you until I’m one hundred per cent. If I find you have gone to the cops, you’re dead meat and so is your pal.’
They jumped into the first available taxi and Danny shouted her address to the driver. Then she and Rik fell greedily into each other’s arms on the back seat of the cab, kissing hard, both driven by lust. Danny could not wait to get Rik’s trousers off him, but for the sake of propriety in the cab, she limited herself to forcing her hand down the front of them and grabbing his pulsating penis. He, in turn, less than romantically, found his way straight up her skirt to the top of her tights and knickers, easing them down and sliding his hand between her legs, cupping her hot sex, inserting a finger which sent a wonderful shiver right up to her nipples.
