by Limey Lady
And kicking the cunt hurt! Angel tried to do it in sync with the foghorn, cursing his trainers all the while. It felt like he was kicking him in bare feet.
Oh for steel toecaps!
It worked though. Pretty soon Carlos had had enough.
‘I've got money,’ he wailed. ‘Upstairs.’
‘Don't you recognize me?’ Angel growled.
‘Shit!’
‘Shit is right.’
Angel glanced at the girl. It was hard to tell, what with her head caved in, but she looked like a bit of a dog. Not that her body wasn’t one classy chassis. He could have done something with that.
‘I’ve got money,’ Carlos wailed again.
‘Yeah, you’ve also got one more hour to live . . . unluckily for you.’
*****
It seemed a longer trek returning to Penzance but, being seafront all the way, it wasn’t possible to get lost. That was a good do because that foghorn hadn’t frightened all the musty, misty stuff away. Anyhow, the going was slow. It was pushing midnight by the time Angel reached the Zafira and headed for the A30.
Keeping well within the speed limit, he approached a familiar roundabout with multiple exits. Acting on impulse, he left the dual carriageway, grinning as he neared the north coast and the air magically cleared. Before he knew it he was driving through Perranporth, which was closed for the night. Closed? Hell, the streets were rolled up and even the Green Parrot was in darkness.
Sticking to the coast road he pressed on, eventually pulling up in the middle of nowhere, next to the sea. The tide was right out. Aided by moonlight, he walked to the water’s edge and threw the DNA- and blood-stained ashtray as far as he could. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he threw away a sizeable collection of powders and pills.
There, job sorted. Carlos slaughtered with an ashtray, his place turned over, drugs and money all disappeared; obviously a deal gone wrong. Nobody would be sorry.
Angel breathed in deeply, enjoying the damp, salty air. His debt to Figgs had been settled . . . and to Mansell too. Mansell wouldn’t need telling, he’d put two and two together as soon as he read about it in the Express & Echo.
Adrenalin was still flowing. Angel would have given anything for a fuck just then.
Shame he'd wasted the girl. He could have put sheets over her face while he boned her . . . or maybe he could’ve just switched off the lights, like Carlos surely would have. Or taken her dead but still warm . . .
Could have got purple wings there, couldn’t I?
Back in the Zafira he checked the time: quarter to one. Never mind Perranporth, all of Cornwall would be locked down now, this time of the year.
Or rather: all of Cornwall apart from Newquay. The clubs there never shut.
Grinning again, he started the engine.
Chapter Three
(Wednesday 2nd April 2008)
Two plainclothes policemen took Sean to the scene in an unmarked Vectra, going the long way to avoid the necessary road closures. They drove slowly up the steep and winding Morton Lane and headed left, along Carr Lane, passing the golf course car park, stopping just beyond what he'd always known as The White House. For a moment they sat there without speaking, hearing the wind blowing outside, absorbing the gruesome view.
‘Shit,’ Sean said finally. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It might be best to call it quits,’ one of the coppers said.
Sean shook his head. He felt numb, absolutely drained. But not empty enough to be meekly led away.
‘No,’ he mumbled, feeling for the door handle, still staring fixedly through the windscreen. Still thinking this wasn’t real, even though it undeniably was.
Ahead of them, not twenty yards away, he could see a dark blue Discovery up on the right verge and, blocking the road, the remains of his mother's red Fiesta. The Disco didn’t seem scratched but the Fiesta had been totalled. Two uniformed coppers stood by their patrol car and watched them curiously.
‘I don't believe it,’ Sean said once more before getting out of the unmarked vehicle.
Neil called over one of the uniforms. ‘This is Mrs Dwyer's son. He has just been with her at Airedale, while she passed away. We've brought him to see where it happened.’
The first uniform didn't look enthused but by now his much older colleague had joined them. Although Sean couldn't remember the older guy’s name they recognized each other and exchanged nods.
‘By all accounts, the Discovery came up Swine Lane within the speed limit,’ the older officer began, pointing downhill to Sean's left. ‘The Fiesta came the way you’ve just come, behind a tractor pulling a full trailer. Apparently the tractor was in no hurry. It came crawling out of the village and kept on crawling. There was a woman walking her dog by the clubhouse, up over the brow of the hill. According to her, the Fiesta tried to get past as soon as they were through the traffic calming, had to tuck back in PDQ. She says it had another go almost immediately, just as it disappeared into the dip. She didn't actually see the collision. But she heard it all right.’
Sean frowned. ‘Was she the only witness?’
‘No, there were three other vehicles behind the Discovery. And another two women at that bus stop over there, under the trees. Everyone is saying the exactly same. The Fiesta came over the brow on the wrong side. No avoiding a head-on. The skid marks bear that out. We'll do all the tests on both vehicles, but I'm afraid this one isn't down to mechanical failure.’
‘How's the other driver?’
‘Shaken but not hurt.’ The uniform checked his notebook. ‘Mrs Clapton was driving with her husband as passenger. She says she's been driving fifty years without an accident . . . before today.’
‘Not a young tearaway, then?’
‘No, it was just a retired couple off for a quiet nine holes. Another two hundred yards and they’d have been on the course instead of sitting in A&E, waiting for check-ups.’
Sean thanked him then, ignoring a couple of warnings, went over to his mum's Fiesta, feet crunching on diced glass. The roof on the driver's side had been cut and peeled up like the top of a tin of sardines, presumably by firemen as they rescued her dying body. The seats, dashboard and broken steering wheel were thickly coated with drying, clotting blood.
It was unbelievable. He'd only really seen her face when he'd been with her, and that hadn't seemed too bad. But all this gore . . .
She must have been well smashed up inside.
Checking both ways, even though all non-police traffic had been diverted, he crossed the road and leant on the wall, overlooking Fardew Golf Course. There were four golfers down the hill, by a par three green which so far only had one ball on it.
Ray, the other non-uniform, joined him and offered a cig, which he took.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Ray said. ‘I told you it was open and shut.’
‘Yeah,’ Sean let out a cloud of smoke that was whipped away on the wind. ‘I just had to see it for myself, you know?’
One of the golfers pitched onto the green and, just for a second, the ball looked to be going in the hole. Sean watched it narrowly miss and run on ten feet past, leaving a horrible putt; nowhere near a tap-in.
‘I know it sounds like the usual bullshit,’ Ray went on, ‘but she can't have suffered much; probably not at all. Everyone's saying she was calm and composed.’
‘She was calm and composed when I saw her.’ Sean sighed. ‘Here one minute, gone the next, and all that. I'm glad it didn't take weeks. She was never ill. It would have pissed her off lying there, waiting to go.’
Neil came across, rubbing his hands together. It was a beautifully sunny day but cold; that sneaky wind looked to be getting to him. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thanks.’ Sean stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. ‘Is there any chance of a lift down to the Kings? I need a big drink.’
*****
The handover had been long since completed and everyone at WYB should have relaxed . . . except financial bad news kept coming agai
n and again, like the Indians at Little Bighorn. Not that Heather was losing sleep over it. She rarely lost sleep over anything.
Well, apart from postponing it in favour of more physical activities.
Vic smiled as she poured herself a coffee. ‘Do you know what I like about you? You never let even the nastiest problems worry you.’
‘Oh, I wouldn't say that.’ Heather pushed her cup across for a refill. ‘I worry all the time about my sex starvation.’
‘Sex addiction, don't you mean?’
Heather chuckled. She’d been restrained for what seemed like decades now, particularly when it came to male lovers. ‘Whatever,’ she said lightly. ‘All I know is that I’m hardly getting any these days.’
‘That isn't counting the two nights I slept over last week? And the whole weekend we spent in bed not a fortnight ago? Or the very many times you’ll have been with Graham in-between?’
‘Graham had to fly to Mumbai again. He had another short-notice emergency. There's been nothing at all since Sunday evening.’
‘That’s hardly ages, is it?’
‘It seems like ages. I’m getting withdrawal symptoms.’
‘Poor Heather,’ Vic said, oozing insincerity. ‘Maybe it's time for you to try a few one-night stands . . . or to find yourself a reserve girlfriend.’
‘This is Bingley, not Leeds. You might have a wide variety of places to find girls, I don't.’
They looked at each other a while, both of them trying not to laugh.
‘What about a new bloke?’ Vic finally said.
‘I’m still undecided on blokes. I've only been with Graham since Australia, remember?’
‘No. I seem to remember several others.’
‘No more than brief flashes in the pan. They don’t count.’
‘Ah yes,’ Vic sipped coffee, looking sexy as ever behind her enormous, incredibly snazzy glasses, ‘your unique counting system. I remember that. I also remember all the good things you keep telling me about the male penis. And I remember how gushy you get describing the thrill of having one of those real, live penises inside you. Sometimes you even get me nostalgic enough to forget all the downsides.’
‘Do I?’
‘Calm down, girl. I’m only speaking hypothetically.’
‘I might have guessed.’ Heather sniffed. ‘You’ve still got a hang-up because all those lovely willies are attached to horrible men who only care about themselves.’
‘Yes. Although I do believe Graham is an exception. That is to say, I believe what you tell me about him.’
‘Graham’s fine. He’s just not available every time I need him. Rather like you, actually. You’re both far too busy to properly contribute to my needs.’ Heather eyed the latest batch of sandwiches before taking a slice of pork pie instead. ‘I suppose I really should make an effort to meet someone new . . . somehow.’
‘I keep asking you to come out with me in Leeds again. Failing that, there are half a dozen girls I could get you fixed up with.’
Heather sniffed again. Vic didn’t have a large circle of friends but she had got attached to a certain set in Headingley. Members of this set were exclusively female, good-looking, well-educated and very, very aggressively dykey. Vic kept mentioning parties she’d attended and Heather kept dodging invites.
They sound ten times worse than men! I mean good grief, Victoria, what are you like!
‘That wouldn't seem right, she said as diplomatically as she could (meaning not much). ‘I'd feel as if I was the country bumpkin cousin being thrown to your cast-offs.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting sacrificing yourself to all of them at once . . . although it’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll try it myself.’
They both grinned at that. Heather had a pretty good idea what went on at those girls-only parties. And, while Vic really got off on receiving, Heather was more of a doer. One-on-one, winner takes all was her idea of fun, not lying back and submitting to a drooling queue.
Well, not for party after party, anyway.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I'd like to score for myself.’
‘And you're determined to score in Bingley?’
‘Yes, even though it's tricky with everyone at WYB out of bounds. The local pubs don’t exactly cater for the girl-meets-girl experience.’
‘Then it’s going to have to be a bloke, isn’t it?’
‘Blokes are in short supply too.’
‘It can’t be that bad. Surely there are some halfway decent men out there.’
‘The town's full of rascals and gangsters, isn’t it? A girl has to be careful, however sex starved she may be . . . and especially when she’s practically a virgin where men are concerned.’
‘Ye gods Heather, I don’t believe you said that. Graham’s lost weight trying to keep up with you.’
Because he’s the only man who has been keeping up with me, Heather thought.
‘Perhaps so,’ she said aloud, ‘but he had it to lose in the first place. I’ve just got him down to his correct fighting weight.’
‘Don’t you mean his correct shagging weight?’
Vic allowed herself a rare giggle and Heather giggled along. It was good to see her friend not taking life too seriously for once.
Assuming they really were friends . . .
Not that there was really any doubt about that; it was just that the three distinct relationships Vic had proposed many moons ago hadn’t quite happened. Oh they were lovers all right. She’d had more sex with Vic than with everyone else put together. And theirs was the best sex ever. Even now it kept getting ever better and better, if perhaps a little rarer. Their working relationship was superb too. Vic shared everything with her, top secret or not. It was the seemingly easiest relationship of the three that hadn’t quite made it. Somehow basic friendship had been filtered in with the other two instead of evolving in its own right.
Heather had initially blamed herself before finally realizing it was Vic’s fault, not hers. The good old Ice Queen just didn’t do close, not in a friendship sort of a way, anyhow. She could be the kindest lover, the most considerate colleague, but struggled as an out and out friend. It was as though she had a shield that let through arrows of lust but bounced back shafts of true love. It had taken her months to appreciate that Vic had already got as close as she was ever going to get. That she had possibly even incorporated secret limits into her ten year plan. After a few days spent analysing her own feelings, she’d accepted the situation . . .
And she’d suspended her growing affection.
As best she could, anyway.
Ours is a true twenty-first century relationship, she’d decided, same-sex and jealousy-free. If Vic can hack it like that, so can I.
Besides, she could always admire covertly. And so what if she did love the other girl more than she should? She’d always been a warm and loving sort. Lots of her old lovers still had warm places in her heart. Graham did, of course, and he was a man, for God’s sake!
*****
The plainclothes cops drove Sean into Bingley, stopping on the double yellows outside The Kings Head to drop him off. He invited them in for a drink and some of Andy’s world famous sandwiches but they declined, saying they were still on duty.
Which was a relief really; their sympathy was starting to get to him. He preferred coppers when they were in the usual bitter and twisted mode.
The dinnertime rush was over, leaving the pub almost deserted. Andy Sullivan, Sean’s landlord, was sitting on a stool, sipping a pint of Tetley’s and reading an early edition of the T&A, ready to go behind the bar when needed. His expression instantly flicked from distraction to concern.
‘Mate,’ he said, ‘how was it?’
‘Pretty crap,’ Sean replied. He looked around, at a loose end and not sure what to do next. His hands suddenly felt clumsy and awkward so he stuffed them in his pockets to get them out of the way, jangling loose change.
‘Was it definitely an accident?’
‘It'll go down as o
ne. But it was my mum's fault, without a doubt.’
Andy nodded gravely. ‘I put some bottles in The Meeting Room, in case you fancy being on your own. And Marco said he'd hang around this afternoon, so he can do you one of his special steaks. Just let me know when you're ready. I'll bring it round for you.’
‘Cheers,’ Sean said. He walked aimlessly over to the bandit and put in a two-pound coin. On the very first spin he got a small win and the gamble of higher or lower on a 1. When he went higher the feature immediately lit up red, guaranteeing him a jackpot.
