by Rob Ashman
‘Can’t say that I did.’
‘Talk to my dad for more than two minutes and he’ll tell you.’
Malice gave Pietersen further directions as they drove along the back roads, his eyes raking the side streets.
‘This can’t be the fastest route to the motorway? Where are we?’ Pietersen asked, craning her neck, looking for road signs.
‘I smacked it on the turnbuckle in the ring,’ Malice said ignoring the question.
‘What?’
‘You asked me how I cut my eye. I caught it on the turnbuckle.’
‘You box?’
‘Yeah, since I was a kid.’
‘Which gym do you use?’
‘A place called Jim’s Gym.’
‘Not that shithole. Wouldn’t catch me in there.’
‘Hey, that’s my mate’s place,’ Malice said.
‘Sorry.’
Malice flashed a sideways glance.
‘Do you box?’
‘Yeah, since I was a kid.’ She mimicked his response. ‘My dad had a bee in his bonnet about girls needing to be able to look after themselves. I did karate and taekwondo but enjoyed boxing the most, so I stuck with it.’
‘Which gym do you use?’
‘Crosley’s.’
‘That’s more like a dance class than a proper gym,’ Malice laughed.
‘Hey, I like it.’
‘It’s still a dance class… but you’re right, Jim’s place is a right shithole.’
Pietersen pulled up at a set of traffic lights.
‘We have more in common than you thought.’
‘Maybe. Though I’m not sure I can compete in the fine arts department.’
Malice flicked his head to the left, something catching his eye.
‘I’ll be back in a mo,’ he said, before leaping from the car and running across the road, leaving the passenger door open.
‘Where are you going?’ Pietersen called after him, but he’d legged it. The lights turned green and the driver in the car behind honked. ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath while leaning across the front seat to pull the door shut. The guy behind hit his horn again. She held her hand up and shot across the junction, parking against the kerb on the other side.
Pietersen could see Malice chasing a man dressed in a yellow bomber jacket about fifty yards away. They darted down an alleyway out of view.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ She shook her head.
In the alleyway the man with the yellow bomber jacket was tiring. Malice grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into a roller shutter door. The man’s slight frame bounced off the metalwork with a clang.
‘Fucking hell, Swivel, don’t do that,’ Malice panted.
‘I didn’t know it was you Mr Malice, honest.’
‘You sure about that, cos I reckon you’ve been avoiding me.’
‘Honest Mr Malice. I’ve been busy that’s all. New territories and all that.’
Malice forced his forearm under Swivel’s chin. ‘If I thought you were giving me the run around, you and I would fall out. You know that, right?’
Swivel’s head was forced back into the corrugated metal. His eyes rotated wildly in their sockets. ‘I know that, Mr Malice. I know that.’
‘I’ve been meaning to bump into you because I have information that might be of interest.’ Malice released his grip. Swivel’s facial tick was going berserk, an affliction that made his eyes roll around in his head when he was under stress. Which, when Malice was within arm’s reach, happened most of the time.
Swivel dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of notes. He thumbed five twenties from the roll and handed it over. Malice put the money in the front trouser pocket.
‘It’s good to see you, Mr Malice,’ Swivel lied.
‘You might want to give Fitchmore Place a miss, it’s gonna get a little busy over the next week or so.’
‘Thank you, Mr Malice. I’ll do that.’ Swivel was calming down and so were his eyes.
‘If I thought for one minute you were pissing me about, Swivel.’ Malice grabbed a handful of the yellow jacket and pinned him against the door. Swivel’s eyes did a loop-the-loop. Malice released his grasp. ‘Be lucky.’ Malice slapped Swivel on the cheek and walked away. ‘And next time… don’t run.’
Malice made his way back to the car and slid into the passenger seat.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Are we heading for the M4 now?’
‘Head back the way we came.’
‘You going to tell me what that was about?’ Pietersen said, spinning the car around in the road.
‘A spot of business, that’s all.’
‘Do all your business associates run away from you?’
‘Only the ones who need to.’
Pietersen nosed the car into the tree-lined driveway of The Mexborough Hotel. It was a grand stone building located in its own grounds five miles outside of Maidenhead. The lawns had been manicured to death and a set of steps led from the car park to the entrance.
‘Belinda Garrett lives in a rented house-share. A bit different to this place,’ said Malice raising his eyebrows.
‘Do you think someone else was paying?’
‘I don’t know, let’s find out. Hey before we go…’ Malice opened the door then stopped. ‘I just wanted to say, I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot earlier?’
‘We? I’m pretty sure I didn’t,’ she replied, before getting out of the car and marching inside.
A huge crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling in reception and a red carpeted stairway curved majestically to the first floor. Lavish furnishings of polished oak and red push-button velvet gave the place the feel of an auction room before the sale. A young man was standing behind a desk sporting his best smile.
A sharply dressed couple walked by; the man with his arm around his partner’s waist, whispering in her ear. The woman reeled away, slapped him on the shoulder and giggled.
‘Bet they’re not married,’ Malice said as the couple skipped upstairs hand in hand.
‘They’re both wearing wedding rings.’
‘Not married to each other, then.’
‘Can I help you?’ the lad behind the desk asked, still beaming. His name badge read David Merchant.
Malice flashed his warrant card.
‘DS Malice and DC Pietersen, I wonder if you could answer a few questions.’
‘Oh, err, I’ll try.’
It was obviously not the response he was expecting.
‘We believe this woman may have stayed here about three weeks ago. Do you recognise her?’ Malice slid the photograph of Belinda Garrett across the counter. Merchant looked at the picture and screwed his face up.
‘No, I’ve not seen her. I can ask my manager if you’d like?’
Malice nodded and Merchant disappeared through a door to the side. Pietersen pointed to the list of room tariffs displayed on the wall behind the desk. The top one read: Standard Double £250 — excluding breakfast. The remaining rooms progressively more expensive.
‘Bloody hell,’ Malice said.
There was the sound of a muted conversation taking place in the other room, then a woman came out.
‘I’m Anna Robbins, the duty manager. David said you had a question?’
‘Do you recognise this woman, she might have stayed with you three weeks ago?’
‘Yes, that’s Chelsea Campbell. She and her parents stay with us from time to time, they’re a lovely family.’
Chapter 18
It was the day I asked a stranger to screw my wife …
‘S ounds like fun.’ Elsa had said. Three words that brought music to my ears and set my heart racing.
We spent the next hour sitting at our kitchen table and drinking red wine while I poured out the dark recesses of my soul. I told her about my dad and the body parts hidden in the house; about my pathological hatred of Pretties and how I’d killed Antonio while on the lecture tour. I told her about my nee
d to kill others and how I was struggling to keep it under control. It was bubbling to the top.
She listened, her eyes burning with excitement. When I finished, I waited for the howls of sickening protest. None came.
Elsa squeezed my hand and said, ‘It’s alright, you’re mine now. We can fix this.’ I nodded but had no idea what that meant.
Then it was her turn.
In typical Elsa style, she described her hierarchy of needs in clinical fashion. It was a starkly different list to the one developed by Maslow and a damned sight shorter: at the number one spot was wealth followed in close second by power. Her rationale being if you have those two in place, the rest would follow. I asked her how she satisfied her need for power when she had no job. Her answer was simple: ‘I have power over you.’
I was expecting her to say that her third driving force was sex. ‘It isn’t,’ she said shaking her head. ‘Sex is an enabler. It enables me to get what I want — though I have to admit, it feeds my soul. That’s what’s lacking in our relationship and I need to get that back. I need to fuck other people.’
‘I’m not enough for you?’
‘Oh, honey, you never were. But the question you need to ask yourself is ‘Am I enough for you?’’
‘Of course you are, in every way.’
‘And you want to make me happy, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let me sort this out.’
‘But how?’
Elsa got up, came around to my side of the table and kissed me hard.
‘As you Brits are fond of saying – we can eat our cake and have it.’
It was almost right – I knew what she meant.
The first guy’s name was Patrick — a thirty something ex-rugby player who worked as a marketing manager for a soft drinks company. Elsa had chosen well. He had a beautiful smile, a well-honed physique and a wicked twinkle in his eye.
I arrived home one day from a pottery exhibition to be greeted by Elsa on the doorstep and an unknown car parked in the drive. She was dressed in a short summer dress, stockings and high heels. The lace around her stocking tops flashed when she walked.
A cascade of thoughts rattled around in my brain.
Had I missed something? Was I to be treated to Elsa’s latest bedroom fantasy. And what the hell is that car doing there?
‘I’ve been waiting for you to get home.’ She tottered over and kissed me. The smell of her perfume set my head in a spin.
‘Sorry, we finished later than expected.’
‘Come inside, I have a treat for you.’ Elsa took me by the hand and led me into the house. She paused in the hallway and planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘I hope you like it,’ she said, ushering me into the lounge.
‘This is Patrick,’ she announced.
‘Oh, hi Patrick,’ the look on my face must have said it all.
He rose from the sofa and shook my hand.
‘Hello Damien, Elsa has told me so much about you.’
‘She has?’ I asked.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Elsa wrapped her arm around Patrick’s waist. ‘Don’t you think he’s pretty?’
‘I’d prefer the word handsome,’ Patrick said, giving us the benefit of his pearl white teeth.
I looked at Elsa’s beaming face. The penny dropped.
Patrick was indeed handsome. He was a glorious specimen but he was not a true Pretty. He carried the air of a man who was blessed with good looks but one who had worked hard for his position in life. His gold wedding ring suggested Patrick was an upstanding family man who just happened to enjoy screwing other men’s wives. Well… I couldn’t hold that against him. Nobody’s perfect.
I had to give my wife ten out of ten for effort, but a Pretty he was not.
Elsa coiled herself around him as they sat together on the sofa. Her stocking tops were now generously on display and, with me still in the room, it was obvious Patrick wasn’t sure what to do next.
Elsa peeled herself off him and came over to me. She whispered in my ear.
I baulked.
‘You want me to say what?’ I asked.
‘You heard me.’ Elsa returned to the sofa, squeezing herself against our guest. I cleared my throat.
‘Patrick,’ I said. ‘I want you to fuck my wife.’
He looked at me, then at Elsa, and then back at me. Elsa took his hand and slid it up her leg until it was buried beneath the hem of her dress.
‘Off you go,’ she said to me, making a shooing motion with her hand.
Patrick was our first, a good start but he was a long way short of being a Pretty.
That heralded a procession of men eager to screw my wife. Elsa had enrolled in a Swingers website designed to facilitate introductions between likeminded people. It was an exclusive club which prided itself on quality of service and ultimate discretion. I had to admit the blokes who walked through our door were indeed top quality, but then the fifteen hundred pounds a year subscription fee did have the effect of keeping the riff-raff at bay.
Elsa threw herself into her new hobby with a passion. Her infidelity had been re-awakened and she was making up for lost time. She had created a profile on the site which showed her in all her glory and under the section titled: ‘Things I enjoy’, was every item in the drop-down menu plus a number of things that weren’t. We were listed in the couple’s section and under my profile, all it said was ‘Successful professional, does not participate.’ Which summed up my position perfectly.
We met men and women in hotels as well as at our house. We never visited their homes because these were ‘clients’ who preferred to fly solo rather than get their other halves involved.
This immediately had the advantage that the ‘clients’ were screwing Elsa in secret. A perfect cover for what was to come next. The problem was, while she was happily getting laid every which way, none of them qualified as Pretties.
That was until Christian came along … by accident.
I was working in London and Elsa had decided to join me to update her wardrobe along Oxford Street. A complex case was coming to an end and I’d chosen to stay over rather than face the tedious commute.
The hotel where we were staying was hosting an event — for the life of me I still can’t remember what it was — all I know was the place was rammed with well-heeled people of both sexes, each one trying to outdo the other on the glamour scale. I’d arranged to meet Elsa for a drink in the hotel bar after work. As usual I over-ran and by the time I arrived, she was half way down a bottle of Chablis.
The bar was more like a speak-easy with high winged back chairs and comfy sofas arranged in intimate clusters around the room. The bar was decked out in oak panelling and Tiffany lamps, and the heavy dark wood bar stools should have come with a portable step to allow people to take a seat. A man in a white shirt and bow tie patrolled the optics and the crystal glasses. The room smelled of furniture polish and cologne.
I joined Elsa who was perched on a bar stool sipping her wine. A man in his thirties was the only other guest in the bar, sitting on his own in a red leather armchair. He was dressed in a dinner suit, twirling his beer glass round and round on the table in front of him.
Elsa kissed me on the cheek and I helped myself to the bottle in the ice bucket.
‘Cheers,’ she said holding up her glass.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘That’s fine. I’ve been having fun.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think I’ve made a friend.’ Elsa stared past my shoulder at the young man in the dinner suit.
‘How come?’
‘We’ve been keeping each other amused.’
I glanced back and he held my gaze.
‘Really?’
‘His eyes have been all over me.’
‘Can’t blame him.’
Elsa leaned into me and said, ‘you’re blocking his view.’
It was then I noticed Elsa was sitting with one foot on her bar stool and the other on the stool next to
it. She was wearing her favourite ‘little black number’ which fitted where it touched, drop earrings and pearls. From his seated position the young man was being treated to a generous view up her skirt. I moved and sat on the stool to her left. We both stared at the young man and he shuffled in his seat. Elsa hitched her skirt a little higher. I sank my glass and refilled it.
The man downed his beer and smiled back. His floppy hair was swept casually across his forehead and his square jaw and dimpled chin gave him the look of a Hollywood leading man. He exuded the casual elegance of a man used to wearing expensive clothes and being admired for doing so.
I recognised the smile immediately. It was the smile of entitlement. The smile of self-satisfaction that said, ‘I don’t have to chase life, life comes to me.’ The smile that told me everything I needed to know.
Elsa slid from the stool, straightened her skirt and sashayed over to him. He sank back into his chair and puffed out his chest. She bent over, putting both her hands on the arm of the chair, and whispered in his ear. There was a brief exchange and they glanced over in my direction. I took my cue and picked the ice bucked and glasses from the bar and joined them.
‘Christian, let me introduce my husband, Damien,’ said Elsa, taking the seat next to him.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hi Damien.’
‘I asked Christian if he’s been enjoying the view,’ Elsa said.
‘What did you say, Christian?’ I asked.
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ he replied, straightening his jacket and raking his fingers through his hair.
‘I also asked him if he’d like to fuck me?’ Elsa said reclining back and crossing her legs. Christian flashed me a look, not too sure how to respond.
‘I… umm…’ he stuttered.
‘Oh,’ I said putting the ice bucket and glasses on the table. ‘Would you like some wine?’
‘Umm, yes, thank you,’ Christian seemed pleased with the distraction.
Elsa sipped her drink and turned to me.
‘He doesn’t look sure, why don’t you ask him, Damien?’
I handed Christian a glass.
