by Limey Lady
‘What . . .'
He broke off as two plates of mixed tikka were delivered to their table.
‘My guest's having one of these,' Heather said to the waiter's obvious surprise. 'He'd like to order a main course to arrive with mine. Plus double chapattis. And I'd like to order two more beers. No, make it three more beers.'
‘Sir?' the waiter enquired.
‘I'll have my usual.'
‘Sorry?'
‘Keema vindaloo,' Pat said, ignoring Heather's sniggers. Then, after the waiter had retreated: 'I have a few usuals. It's hard for them to keep track.'
‘Yes, McGuire; whatever you say, McGuire.'
They stared at each other, trying not to laugh.
‘All right,' she said eventually. 'Tell me about your busy day.'
‘I've been at the car auctions, trying to stop Joe buying everything in sight.'
‘Who's Joe?'
‘Joe Clarkson. He's the figurehead for Kings Cars. Sean actually owns the business. And I make all the important decisions, of course.'
‘Swoon,' said Heather.
‘I'm incredibly important, I know.' Pat grinned again. 'It must be an honour for you to be here in my company.'
‘It is. God only knows how I keep denying you sex.'
He paused with a chunk of lamb halfway to his mouth.
‘Really,' she went on, 'I've wanted it ever since I first set eyes on you. My self-restraint has been no less than exceptional.'
‘You're winding me up.'
‘Only a little; there's always an element of truth in everything I say.'
Pat chewed on his tikka, watching her watching him.
‘You're going to bring up your friend again, aren't you?'
‘Am I so predictable?' Heather chuckled. 'She's not the only problem now, is she? There's Blondie too.'
‘She's called Dee, not Blondie.'
‘No McGuire, she's called Debra or DeeDee. And you're head over heels with her, aren't you?'
That required consideration. Pat probably had it worse than DeeDee, and she'd left him in no doubt they were back together, big-time. She had, however, assured him she didn't want to be "old fashioned". They’d both been single for years. In her opinion there were bound to be lapses now and then.
‘It's a complication,' he agreed, 'her being Sean's sister, and that.'
‘Sean's very protective of you,' Heather said unexpectedly. 'He also says that you have an enormous willy.'
That cued a choking fit over a forkful of cucumber and tomato.
‘When did Sean say that?’
‘I think it was the night before last. He was being a bit derogatory about Blondie, if you must know. According to him, she only likes them if they’re enormous.'
‘If he said that he's a cad and a bounder.'
‘He’s also too self-centred to give my preferences any consideration.’ Heather rolled her eyes. ‘I was supposed to laugh and say how sad she was.'
‘I take it you didn't.'
‘You bet I didn't. I was speechless. But that’s enough about Sean. He's probably out dipping his quite petite wick elsewhere, isn't he? Why should I waste brain cells on him?'
‘Did you just say, "Quite petite"?'
‘No, I never said that. You must have misheard.'
‘Have I dropped him in it?'
‘By suggesting he’s out shagging some other tart? No. We haven't made any commitments . . . not least because I've plenty of irons of my own in the fire. And why are you grinning, McGuire?'
‘Because I sincerely hoped I had dropped him in it.’
‘No need,’ Heather laughed, ‘he can get himself into trouble well enough without your assistance.’
Pat gazed at her, liking the way she kept smiling at him. ‘Anything in the fire for tonight?’ he asked.
‘No, for once I’m free. That's why I lamented our circumstances.'
‘Go on, lament in more detail.'
‘Where shall I begin?’ She laughed again. ‘Put it this way, I've had a busy day too. I'd dearly like to eat my meal then go home and have someone massage me all over.'
‘But Sean's forsaken you.'
‘Not him; he’s a rubbish masseur.’
‘Who would you prefer, then?’
‘I don’t know. The closest I have to a skilled masseur is besotted with my number one girlfriend . . . and she’s my most skilled masseuse. It takes a bucket of water to separate them nowadays. Everyone else is either overseas or washing their hair.'
‘I'll massage you.'
‘Would you do it all over?'
‘I don't have a problem with all over.'
‘Well I'm afraid I do.' Heather leant across the table and lowered her voice. 'I simply can't believe you could pummel and knead my oiled body without putting that enormous willy of yours inside it.'
Neither could Pat. He could still lie, though.
‘I've amazing powers of self-control, me.'
‘I haven't. I'd be begging for it before you rolled me over to do my front.'
‘It may be best not to fight your desires. In the circumstances, that is.'
‘Ah, ah, McGuire, my allegiance to Joanna is not negotiable. I'm going home alone for ten rounds with a Rampant Rabbit. You'll hardly be spared a thought.'
*****
‘It’s a message.’
Carlisle didn’t need telling. He knew a fucking message when he saw one.
‘The bastard,’ Wilkes went on, ‘the nerve of him. It’s not even ten o’clock.’
Carlisle didn’t need telling that either. Leaving his colleague chuntering indignantly, he turned away and lit a fresh cig. It was probably his twentieth of the day. He was supposed to be giving up but the way things were going he’d have done another ten by midnight.
Trevor Lockwood was still under arrest and still subject to Wilfred’s ongoing questioning. And he was, sticking to his story so closely that they couldn’t get a Rizla paper between him and the basics. In fact he was even starting to sound believable.
According to Lockwood, he wasn’t worried about the nearly half million he owed to the likes of Access and Barclaycard; it was the twelve grand he owed to a local loan shark that terrified him. He flatly refused to name names, so they could only assume he was up to his neck with the Williamsons or the Dwyers or, just maybe, Danny Painter. Unless he’d found some scary independent or gone further afield.
Lockwood’s problem was with repayments. For reasons he wouldn’t disclose, he was obliged to keep paying £500 a week. He’d managed this for a while by not paying anyone else’s monthly instalments and slashing household expenses . . . and by maxing out all his already creaking and groaning cards while he was at it. This week was, however, the week when everything came crashing down. When he failed to go make the payment due today, incredibly bad things were going to happen to his wife and daughter.
He’d seen it coming, naturally, but not clearly enough. Like a fool, he’d started off paying more than he had to. By the time he’d realized how quickly both ends of the candle were burning, it was too late to go back. His overpayments had been gladly received but stood him no credit. Last week’s £500 had as good as dried him out, leaving him barely three hundred for this week. And his pay day wasn’t until next week; perfect for next Thursday, useless for this.
The £300 had bought the gun and a handful of ammunition. Lockwood swore he had had weird and wonderful ideas of how to use it, but none involving tramps. Plan A had been to shoot Judith then himself, in the hope the loan sharks would leave his daughter alone. Plan B was to shoot Judith and then take on the loan sharks single-handed, thereby saving her from their vengeance when he failed. Plan C had been to just take on the loan sharks single-handed and make sure he didn’t fail.
And on they went. Something like Plan H or Plan J involved sticking up WYB. Plan M was to win the Wednesday night Lotto and chuck the gun into the river . . . following the failure of Plan L and Saturday’s Lottery, of course.
As the
profiler kept pointing out, the guy was a dreamer, about as far from organized and methodical as you could possible get. As for being in control . . . Lockwood was so out of control he’d needed to get pissed before going to collect his shooter. That was the act that had brought down his house of cards; not playing mind games with his nemesis, but eight pints of Carling.
There had been little gained out of the hours and hours of interrogation. The subject wasn’t for telling who’d sold him the gun any more than he was identifying the loan sharks. Carlisle supposed that, judging by where he’d been nicked for kerb-crawling, he had almost certainly got it from the Williamsons, which in turn implied that the loan sharks were Dwyers or Painters.
That helped find the serial killer not one bit.
The profiler had been expressing serious doubts about Lockwood all along. Most of the bread-and-butter coppers didn’t want to listen to such defeatist crap. Maybe not all, but easily a majority wanted to make the media’s speculation official as soon as possible. Carlisle had been fighting the impulse. And was he glad he had?
Was he?
He stubbed out smoke number twenty-three and strode back to Wilkes.
‘Okay,’ he snapped. ‘So how do you read this message?’
Wilkes pointed at the dead dog.
‘That stake through the head. To me it looks authentic. I can’t see how a copycat could have got it so close.’
‘It looks authentic to me too,’ Carlisle admitted. ‘We’ll soon verify if it is or it isn’t. What else?’
‘The headline on the paper it’s lying on.’
Carlisle read it yet again.
‘”SHIPLEY SERIAL KILLER CAUGHT AT LAST” . . . without a question mark. It sort of speaks for itself, doesn’t it; have you seen anything more?’
‘There are no gun wounds, but there are the usual carvings on the chest.’
‘That’s its belly, not its chest.’
‘Sir, it’s a dog. It doesn’t have a chest you can easily carve on . . . or a forehead.’
‘So you’re convinced this is the real deal? Not a timewaster?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And it obviously hasn’t been done by Lockwood.’
‘Not unless you let him out earlier and didn’t tell anyone.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘In that case I’m convinced. The real killer is still out there. He’s slaughtered this dog and dumped it here deliberately, right on our doorstep, to taunt us.’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Carlisle, ‘except the taunting’s even worse than you think.’
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘That dog. It’s got a chip in it. When we check it out we’ll find it belongs to Lockwood.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No I’m not. It was licking my hand on Tuesday. And guess what? It’s called “Micky”. Just like the first victim. Couldn’t make it up, could you?’
*****
Heather insisted she paid for everything, getting ratty when Pat tried to go Dutch. That small spat aside, it was enjoyable dining with her. Her conversation was less combative than usual and hearing her describe her favourite massage techniques had been particularly entertaining. The drinks had flowed and time had flown. As they emerged from the curry house full darkness had fallen.
‘Are you driving?' she wondered.
‘Yeah, I've only had a few beers. And I'm well built.'
‘Spreading, you mean?'
‘No, just well built.'
Heather had her laptop case hooked over her shoulder and was clutching a large, very professional-looking bag. She looped her free arm through his. 'Then you'll be going this way,' she said, tugging him to the left, away from the lights of Main Street.
That incarnation of the Shama was on the roof of Bingley's dilapidated shopping arcade. In fact it was one of the few remaining going concerns in the whole arcade, and the only one left on the rooftop. There were two main ways up and down from there. At first Pat thought she was taking the route to the pay and display, intending to use the steps in the back corner, but she veered off course, into the dark shadows, towards an uneven area only ever used by skateboarders. Tonight it was deserted.
In spite of her never-ending carping about why they couldn't have sex, he felt the inevitable flutter in his stomach. Something was going to happen.
Yes, something was going to happen right there and then.
‘Hey,' he said mildly (as mildly as he reasonably could, anyway), 'this isn’t the way.'
‘Yes it is,’ she replied. I need privacy to inspect your spreading middle. I want to find out exactly how flabby you are.'
Her fingers were nipping at his waist.
‘Hey,' he said, less mildly.
‘Not as bad as I thought,' said Heather, 'now for your tummy.'
The girl wasn't backwards in coming forwards. Dumping her luggage, she boldly pulled up the front of his shirt and had a thorough inspection.
‘Don't flex,' she commanded, 'relax.'
Pat semi-relaxed, not wanting to seem too badly out of shape.
‘Not too bad,' she said. 'Now flex . . . hmmm, not bad at all. Want to feel mine?'
Talking about an offer he couldn’t refuse! ‘If you insist,' Pat said generously.
Heather unfastened the bottom few buttons of her blouse and led his hand onto smooth, warm flesh.
‘That's relaxed. This is flexed.'
Flexed was astounding. From decidedly firm she was suddenly like rock. And ridged with it; it was like touching a washboard. A professional bodybuilder would have killed for such definition.
‘Feel it properly,' she said. 'Don't be so tentative, I'm not likely to break.'
Being with her like this was the most erotic experience Pat had ever had. What with the lack of light, the scent of her . . . and those muscles! He had never been intimate with a stomach like that before, had never previously considered a six-pack attractive . . .
Letting his fingers do the walking he traced her hard contours, descending towards her navel, slowly examining it. Heather was heavy-breathing now, panting almost.
‘I've got condoms,' he whispered.
‘We can't,' she whispered back.
‘Don't you want to?'
‘Of course I want to. But we can't.'
‘Didn't expect you to be a cock-tease,' he countered, sliding his hand under her very sexy business skirt, into her skimpy knickers, not encountering any hair at all.
‘Oh,' she gasped.
Pat kept going over her continuous smoothness, finding her clit almost at once.
‘No,' she said, pulling his hand back to her stomach. 'This is as low as you go.'
He responded by bringing both hands upwards, onto her tits. She laughed at that and didn't protest, letting him maul her, breathing even heavier.
‘Good grief,' she gasped finally, writhing and squirming against him.
Her eyes were noticeably shining as she knocked his hands away and inclined her face. Expecting a kiss, he stooped.
‘No,' she said, grabbing hold of his shoulders, 'stand tall.'
He did and she swarmed up his body like a sailor going up a mast. Next he knew she had attached herself to him, her hands locked behind his neck, her legs anchored around him.
‘Now kissy-kissy,' she said, and started devouring his mouth.
What had he been thinking about unique erotic experiences? This was something else. Heather was making him swallow her tongue and simultaneously rubbing herself along his painfully hard cock.
Somehow her skirt had come undone and the contact down there was tantalizingly close.
Christ, I want to be inside her!
This was Heather's show though. Her tongue was thrusting in time with her rubs. Thrusting faster and faster until she was suddenly juddering against him.
‘Yes!’ she cried.
Then she juddered even harder.
It was a miracle he didn't cum with her.
Back in heavy breathing m
ode she slid off him, landing a little unsteadily on her feet.
‘Now it’s your turn.'
‘Heather . . .'
