by Nick Oldham
Her partner came back into the room to find Trent smiling pleasantly at him, then at Danny for whom he added a salacious wink.
She had nearly wet herself there and then, because she believed him.
The lift arrived, the doors slid open, she stepped in and pressed the ground-floor button. The doors began to close.
At eighteen inches apart, Jack Sands contorted sideways through the gap and a second later the doors were shut. Only he and Danny were in the lift.
She cowered away from him in the confined space.
‘Danny, I need to talk to you.’ He held out his arms. His face had a look of total desperation and misery on it.
‘Get away from me, Jack,’ she warned him. ‘I’ll knee you in the balls again.’
‘Whoa, okay, honey. But we need to talk. You know I love you and I know you love me. You’re denying yourself. I need you and you need me, so let’s stop pretending and get back to what we were.’
‘It’s over,’ Danny stated through gritted teeth. ‘Now leave me alone.’
The lift clattered to a halt at the ground floor.
‘Please, God, let there be someone waiting to get in,’ Danny grovelled in her mind. Sands’s finger was pressed on the button for the fifth floor and he was standing across the doors. He wasn’t going to let her go anywhere.
Danny’s legs became wobbling strips of blubber when she thought that somehow Sands had succeeded in preventing the doors opening. An agonising couple of seconds passed. She eyed her ex-lover fearfully ... until, thankfully, the doors opened. Several people were in the corridor, waiting to get in. A gush of relief flushed through her system.
Sands glanced over his shoulder, a look of rage on his face. Danny took advantage of the moment to duck past him, shove her way through the waiting people with a strained, ‘Excuse me,’ and head for the exit.
Her legs, having turned back from blubber into muscle, carried her swiftly down the corridor, past the entrance to the custody office, out of the back door and into the rear yard.
Head high, vision tunnelled, she commenced what had become a very long walk to her car.
She sensed, rather than saw, felt or heard, Sands by her shoulders. Walking with her. Slightly behind.
‘Fuck off, Jack,’ she hissed without turning her head.
‘We haven’t finished.’ He sounded breathless. ‘You can’t cut me out like this, Dan. It’s not on. You owe me more.’ His voice was pleading and threatening at the same time.
She refused to rise and make a reply, and carried on walking. As she wheeled into the parking area where her car was parked, she saw it was dark, badly lit. Making a quick decision, she stopped abruptly and spun to face Jack.
‘Don’t come to my car, Jack. I’ve let what happened pass, but I’m not prepared to do that again. Next time you touch me, you’ll get locked up. I won’t have any hesitation whatsoever - and if you want the hassle of our affair finding its way to your wife’s ears, then so be it.’
Sands said nothing, simply stared unemotionally at her.
She nodded quickly and made towards her car. The walk seemed to take an hour. Each footfall reverberated around her skull. All the time expecting Sands to pounce and drag her to the floor.
Nothing happened. She reached the car unmolested, but her hands were trembling wickedly.
Next thing she was reversing out of her spot, engaging ‘D’ and driving out of the car park.
Sands lounged against a wall near to the exit. He was holding his right fist out towards her. The consideration of running the bastard down quickly entered her head. As she drew alongside him, he opened the fingers of his fist, showing Danny the palm of his hand ... in which was a Mercedes three-pointed star.
Danny’s foot rammed down on the gas. The car surged ahead with a squeal of tyres. She gunned out of the yard, glancing fleetingly in her rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Sands’s face. He was laughing uproariously.
Danny yelled something incomprehensible as the implication of what she had seen smacked her with the force of a slab of concrete coming through her windscreen.
It was now confirmed. Jack Sands was the person responsible for smashing her bedroom window, nearly causing her serious injury and damaging her beloved car.
Sands turned on his heels and slid the badge into his pocket. He walked back into the police station, a smirk of superiority on his face.
He failed to notice the lurking figure of Henry Christie in the dark shadow next to the police van.
‘That was a one-off - two-off, actually, I suppose - but having said that, it was definitely the nicest two-off I’ve ever experienced,’ Myrna Rosza admitted to Steve Kruger. ‘It can’t happen again. It’s just that we seem to have gone through so much together in such a short space of time that my head was spinning with it all. I needed some sorta relief ... but with someone who understood.’
Kruger uttered a kind of reply from deep in his throat.
He understood completely. It was one of the reasons why so many cop marriages failed. Non-cop partners didn’t fully comprehend some of the situations and emotions that only other cops could. Usually those of the opposite sex, although not necessarily so. Too often, when he’d been a cop, he’d found himself in similar situations, one of which was responsible for the demise of his first marriage.
Kruger and Myrna were lying askew his king-size bed. He was on his back, an arm thrown lazily around Myrna’s wonderfully soft-brown shoulders. She was tucked under his armpit, his fingers playfully curling the thick hairs on his chest.
Their legs were entwined, toes playing with each other’s toes. The heat of Myrna’s sex pumped against his thigh.
It had been incredible.
From the shallow end of the swimming pool, right through the house, taking a few moments to dry each other off before hitting the sack. Then an unbelievable fuck in the greatest tradition of the word.
Even though all the time he had been telling himself what a stupid fool he was being.
Firstly by breaking rule number one - never ever fraternise with the staff.
Secondly because he knew Ben Rosza, Myrna’s husband. A soft, gentle man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. A decent hardworking doctor who Kruger quite liked and whose wife had just mounted him from several directions.
But hell, it had been good, the second one even better. And good sex was something Kruger had been short of recently. Actually he had been short of sex, full stop.
She ran her long nails lightly down his stomach, making him quiver.
‘I love Ben,’ she said. ‘He’s a good man. I don’t want to do anything to harm him or hurt him, okay?’
Kruger caught her hand. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and gazed into her eyes, aware that in the periphery of his vision he could see her breasts and nipples pressed into his ribs and beyond that her legs wrapped around his.
Her eyes were serious. Kruger was suddenly aware he was looking at a vulnerable individual who had just taken a big step in her life. Gone was the facade of the sassy, cheeky woman.
‘No one will ever know about this,’ he reassured her. ‘No one. This is between me and you alone. What happened here happened for a reason and for a brief moment in time we needed each other. And that’s the end of it. When you walk out of this house, we’re back to square one, okay? End of story.’
He knew it was a lie. Even if they never jumped into bed again, their relationship would never be the same in the future. But he did not feel bad telling her what she wanted to hear.
She nodded, also knowing it was a lie.
Their eyes stayed in contact, holding onto the moment.
Kruger fought it, so did Myrna, but suddenly they both knew they needed each other again.
Kruger pulled her up towards him. Their lips mashed together, parted and tongues darted together. Kruger became short of breath as his manhood sprang back to life again. At the same moment, Myrna curled her long fingers around it.
She broke away from the kiss, he
r breathing heavy. She pushed herself down the bed, taking him into her hot mouth.
Kruger groaned and flopped back onto the bed luxuriating in the pleasure. When the bedside phone rang he nearly leapt out of his skin.
Myrna was not phased by the interruption. Her head rose and fell.
Kruger fumbled for the phone, answering it with a little squeak which came as the result of a flutter of Myrna’s tongue. ‘Yep?’ he managed to say.
He listened for a few moments, ‘Jeez, no . . . That can’t be right.’ He tapped Myrna on the shoulder and indicated for her to stop. Reluctantly she did. ‘This has got to be some kinda joke,’ he said, sat up, his mind nowhere near sex now.
‘Okay ... okay. I’ll be there soon ... yeah, no problems. Thanks for phoning.’
Slowly he replaced the receiver and looked at Myrna with an expression of deep shock.
‘What is it?’ she asked worriedly.
Kruger rubbed a hand down his face. It was many seconds before he found the words to tell her.
Danny reached home within the space of a few minutes. The Mercedes jarred to a springy halt in her driveway. She darted quickly, like a fugitive, to the front door of her house and wasted no time getting inside, slamming the door shut with such force that the frame rattled. She slid the security chain on, drew the bolt and fell against the back of the door. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to get hold of herself. She was shaking uncontrollably, but she fought it. In the end she lost, seemed to burst out of herself and dashed down the short hallway, ripping her outer jacket off and leaving it discarded in her wake, splayed on the carpet. She veered into the lounge and headed directly for the drinks cabinet in the sideboard.
With trembling fingers she unfastened a bottle of vodka, poured a large measure with a spit of tonic and drank it very quickly. It was the only drink capable of calming her shattered nerves.
She lit a ciggie and sank down into an armchair, gratefully feeling herself take control again. The drinks cabinet was now at her eye-level and she could see its contents. There were several bottles of whisky, a drink she detested. She snorted with contemptuous derision when she recalled the reason for its presence.
For Jack.
His favourite tipple. After about ten pints of Boddington’s Bitter, that is.
Anger washed over her.
She grabbed the bottles, stormed into the kitchen and emptied them down the sink. Four half-full bottles of good quality single malt guggled away. She wasn’t sorry to see it go, even though her money had purchased it. She tossed the empty bottles into the swing bin.
The bastard, she thought. The cheeky bastard.
She then descended on the house like a hurricane, whooshing through all the rooms, collecting every piece of anything Jack Sands had left behind. Twenty minutes later she placed a black plastic bin-liner in the middle of the kitchen floor and wiped her hands with satisfaction. Everything had gone into it. She had been surprised at how much the adulterous sod had accumulated in a house that wasn’t his home.
That sorted, she was still perplexed about what to do about Jack himself. It did not make a great deal of difference that she was a police officer with all that experience behind her. She was still a woman - a lone woman - with a problem, experiencing all the anxieties that lone women suffer.
She had to weigh up the odds.
By taking it further, and possibly getting nowhere due to lack of evidence (Jack would never be stupid enough to let anyone find the Mercedes star on him), all that would happen is that Jack would be further incensed.
She decided to leave it. Let it ride. Accept what had happened and hope Jack would see sense. He’d had his last laugh, made his point. Maybe that would be enough for him.
Maybe.
A long sigh cleared her lungs. She felt happier now.
From the fridge she took a swig of fresh orange to take away the lingering flavour of the vodka and poured herself a very cold glass of Chablis. The fresh, icy-sharp taste revitalised her senses. She came alive again.
In the hallway she picked up her jacket, turned to go upstairs for a shower. On the first step the phone rang.
‘Yep, Danny Furness.’
There was a hollow silence on the line.
Danny went as ice-old as the glass of wine in her hand. ‘Jack, I know it’s you. Stop messing around.’
Silence. Possibly some breathing.
‘Jack, just fuck off.’
‘Bitch.’ One word only. Growled. Frightening.
She slammed the phone down, immediately picked it up again and dialled 1471.
The electronic voice said, ‘You were called today at 2017. We do not have the caller’s number to return the call. Please hang up. Please hang up. Please hang. . .’
Mark Tapperman raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise when he saw Kruger and Myrna arrive together in the same car - her Lexus. Kruger ignored the reaction. ‘What’ve you got for us, Mark?’
‘Come on, I’ll show you, but I’m not sure Myrna will want to see.’
‘She wants,’ Kruger said with a tone that brooked no argument. ‘She used to be a Fed. She’s seen some shit in her time.’
Kruger and she had discussed it on the way over. He had not wanted her to come, let alone visit the actual crime scene. She insisted; he didn’t argue.
‘It ain’t nice,’ Tapperman warned her.
She sighed and looked at him like the dumb chauvinistic cop she imagined him to be. He got the message and acquiesced. ‘Your decision, lady.’
They walked across the sidewalk from the car towards what was the front of a four-storey apartment building in Greenwood Heights, north-west of central Miami. A police crime-scene cordon tape was stretched across the front doors, supervised by a uniformed cop with clipboard. Tapperman approached the uniform and gave him a few details which he entered on the log which recorded persons in and out.
Tapperman lifted the tape with a forefinger, Kruger and Myrna ducked under, followed by the cop.
‘The whole building’s been sealed for the moment. When we’re satisfied we’ll draw the cordon in,’ Tapperman explained. ‘We’ll use the stairs,’ he said. A forensic team of three were crouched down in the elevator, dusting for prints and traces of anything.
‘Try not to touch too much,’ Tapperman said. ‘We ain’t had a chance to do the stairs yet.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Kruger. He slid his hands into his pockets and meekly followed Tapperman. Secretly he was dreading what he was about to see. His guts fell as though they’d been filled with a bucket of cement.
They passed a couple more uniformed cops guarding the stairs. On the third floor all three of them were required to don a pair of paper overalls and plastic shoes which would have to be bagged and tagged for evidential purposes when they left. Then they went up onto the top floor where they emerged on a carpeted landing. A hallway ran off to their left, doors on either side, entrances to apartments. There was a mass of police activity from the landing all the way down the corridor.
Tapperman turned to them. ‘We’ve managed to work out a way down the corridor without disturbing too much evidence, so can I ask you guys to follow exactly in my footsteps. It’s important.’
Numbly they both nodded.
Tapperman glanced at Myrna. Her horrified face sent a shiver down him, reminding him it was one of the worst crime scenes he had ever visited. He took a deep breath, began to lead the way.
Kruger steeled himself. Perspiration rolled down his forehead.
Before following Tapperman, he allowed himself a couple of moments to cast his eyes down the hallway ahead. He pursed his lips. He too had seen some awful things in his life, but this wasn’t far off taking the biscuit. Blood was everywhere.
Splats of it.
Gobs of it.
Swathes of it.
The carpet was saturated in it. Some parts of the floor looked deep enough to float a toy boat in it. The walls were covered, as though some would-be modern artist had opened a tin of red p
aint and gleefully thrown it everywhere with artistic abandon.
Tapperman walked a couple of yards before noticing he was alone. He stopped, looped his chin over his shoulder. ‘Coming?’
Kruger and Myrna caught up. He walked on, held up his hand to halt them and pointed down to his side at something on the carpet by the wall which both of them had seen already anyway.
A severed hand.
Cleanly cut off at the wrist. Lying there, palm up, like a gruesome ashtray. It was a right hand and there was a gold ring on the little finger.
Myrna touched Kruger. He reached back and squeezed her hand.
Tapperman moved on. Two yards further he stopped again, pointed down to his right. Was it a leg this time? Kruger wondered initially. Then, no. It was a forearm, cut from elbow to wrist. A hairy, muscled forearm.
Behind him, Myrna uttered a pitiful squeak.
‘You okay, honey?’ he asked gently.
Her hand was over her mouth. She nodded, wide-eyed.
Their journey progressed, avoiding pools of blood, stepping over them like a nightmarish game of hopscotch. Tapperman pointed out all the sights of interest along the way, like a tour guide taking a party around the Museum of Horrors.
Another severed hand - again a right one. Palm down, fingers spread wide looking like one of those huge bird-eating spiders but with three of its fat legs amputated; a pair of feet removed from the rest of the body at the ankles, standing there side by side. Could have been a pair of bookends. Obviously placed there with care by the offender.
All the while, the bile rose inside Kruger’s stomach as the journey down the corridor became increasingly akin to a ghoulish fantasy. His ears pounded, bass drums rattling his eardrums. He was light-headed and slightly ‘out of it’; he fully expected to wake up, bathed in a cold sweat.
There was no such luxury for him.
Tapperman reached one of the doors in the corridor which led to an apartment. It was open. He stood slightly to one side and indicated for Myrna and Kruger to have a looksee.
They did.
That was enough for Kruger.
Fuck the evidence.
