by Linda Coles
Amanda furrowed her brow, thinking. “If you had access to the system in question, hypothetically again, could you see how they got in or who they were? Could you trace their steps back? Does it work like that?” She was hoping it really was that simple.
“I’d very much doubt it. If they were clever enough to hack in, they would have covered their steps. And it was also a while ago. Still worth a look, though. Does your cyber team have any hackers on board? Ideally, a kid who’s been done for hacking and given the option of working with a security team as their penance after a crime.”
“I’ll ask,” Amanda said. “But I doubt this case will be a priority for them. Unless there’s been a heinous crime like a murder, a bit of hair fetishism will go to the bottom of their pile in a flash. It could be months before the case sees the light of day again. Hence you.”
“Before you ask, Ms. Lacey, no. And you know it wouldn’t be admissible in court even if I found something. I’m not a detective, remember? I’m just the fiancée of one.”
Amanda knew she was right, and her heart missed a beat at the word ‘fiancée.’ Hell, she loved this woman. She started to reply, but her voice was cut off as the phone coverage dropped out. Ruth must have entered the tube station. With a heavy sigh, she stared at the blank phone, half expecting it to jump into life again. It didn’t. But at least she had some partial answers, a clue as to the direction the case might be heading, even if she had no idea how to find whoever was responsible.
The name Chris Smeeks would be the place to start.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The following day, Amanda arrived at the station earlier than usual. Having stopped at McDonald’s and grabbed an Egg McMuffin and fresh coffee, she’d sat in the small car park as early rush hour commuters sped past on their own way into work – if you could call two lanes of traffic on Purley Way heading north into London ‘speeding.’ At just gone seven in the morning, rush hour was in full flow and had been since about 6 am when the early shift headed in for the day. Amanda hadn’t slept too well. Jack had sent her a file on the man who’d been cautioned after harassing the modelling agency, and it had been disturbing. She had been fully awake by 4.30 and had seen no point in trying to doze off for another couple of hours, so she’d slipped out of bed and made coffee downstairs. The morning sun had been slow to rise, typical for the start of autumn, but as she sat in her car eating the greasy egg sandwich, it streamed through her windscreen, warming her. She smiled at the word ‘streaming’ as she thought it.
Jack was a good man but behind the times in so many things. His delight had been amusing as Rainbow had filled the car and she’d explained what streaming was. She wiped grease from her mouth with the napkin and scrunched the paper packaging up while she chewed the last mouthful thoughtfully. They needed to speak to the man who had been cautioned for harassing the modelling agency girls. Yes, she’d read the sheet about the incident and his warning, but it would be useful to meet him herself, see if anything came up that they could use. When he’d been interviewed at the time, there had been no reason to connect him to anything larger. Like fetishism on a grander scale.
The hot, dark coffee tasted good and strong, and was a welcome hit of caffeine on top of her first one earlier in the morning. Her stomach gurgled in satisfaction. She’d regret it later, she knew. The gurgling made her think of Jack again and the obvious discomfort he’d been in, though he’d tried to shrug it off. She knew that, living on his own, he didn’t eat as healthily as he should, and often she and Ruth would have him round for dinner and company. He needed someone to help take care of him, if only a decent housekeeper who cooked. A thought occurred to her that she put to one side to percolate and chat about with Ruth later. Her phone rang. It was Jack.
“Morning, handsome,” she said, bright and breezy. The second coffee had hit her bloodstream.
“What have you been smoking so early, Lacey?” She could hear him chuckling.
“Must have been the magic mushrooms in my omelette. Too early for smokes.” She loved their banter and so did he.
“Very funny. On to more serious stuff, I’ve fixed to go and see the kinky guy who was cautioned. You coming too?”
“Of course. But you can’t go calling him ‘kinky guy.’ What’s his name again, his real name?”
“Hadley Spinks. Who the hell would name their kid Hadley Spinks, for heaven’s sake? He’d be better off with ‘kinky guy.’ Did you read his file I sent you last night?”
“Yes, I did. That’s why I’ve been awake half the night. I look like shit.” She glanced into her rear-view mirror while she spoke and prodded at the bags under her swollen eyes. They looked more like overstuffed hold-alls after a bank raid. She could have done with a bit of Ruth’s make-up this morning.
“Well, any dude with a ponytail is dodgy if you ask me, and any dude with both a ponytail and a thing about feet is double dodgy. Nonetheless, he’s agreed to speak to us at four pm at his workshop. He’s at a trade show most of the day but will be back later. And as you know, he’s a footwear designer – how apt.”
Amanda thought for a moment, sending a ‘hmm’ back to Jack to let him know she was still there but thinking. “Well, I’m not a psychologist or whatever the correct ‘ologist’ is,” she said finally, “but I’d say that for someone with a fetish, which by the way usually means something sexual in its devotion and an abnormal degree of sexual gratification, working with feet all day would be absolute hell.”
“Eh? How do you work that out? He’d be in heaven, wouldn’t he?” asked Jack.
“Well, no, I don’t think he would. Imagine being surrounded all day every day by the very thing that arouses you the most. It would be quite stressful trying to hide your excitement, like an alcoholic working in a wine shop. Not to mention exhausting.” She let that sink in with Jack, then carried on after a moment of silence. “I’m wondering if he avoids beautiful feet completely to minimize his stress. Maybe he works as a shoe designer, for example, so he doesn’t need real feet at all.” She glanced down at her own feet, safely encased in her work boots. “In which case, his fetish would still need fulfilling and wouldn’t interfere with his everyday work – he could still keep the real thing ‘for best,’ as it were. Just like those into BDSM don’t do it every night just because they have a willing partner; it is something to enjoy on occasion, keeping it special.” She looked across at the McDonald’s wrapper in the well of the passenger’s side.
“Like when you have McDonald’s occasionally. It tastes really good but if you have it regularly, it loses that feeling of enjoyment. Of course, I’m no doctor. We’d have to double check all that, but it makes sense, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. Well, we’ll find out a bit more later on. In the meantime, I’m going to do a bit of research and have a chat to the doc, see if she can recommend someone who really does know about fetishism. But you know what, Lacey?”
“What’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter what he does for a day job, or with whom, because I can’t see how it helps our case. And just because he was cautioned for being a bit of a prick with the models doesn’t mean he’s a hair snatcher. He could be nothing to do with this, merely a coincidence.” As soon as he said the word he knew what he’d done. “And yeah, I know what you’re going to say.”
Amanda heard the deflation in his voice. No, neither one of them believed in coincidence.
Chapter Fifty-Four
His eyes rarely rose to the horizon. What could possibly be more interesting out there than the array of beauty at ground level, right there below him for the taking like jewels scattered on a forest floor? Such elegance, such poise, such visions of wonder. Made by nature itself. And all there in the same room as he.
Hadley Spinks allowed himself the luxury to look in detail only a few times per month, and at today’s tradeshow he was in his element. Forget kid-in-a-candy-store. He was sex-addict-in-a-whorehouse, the adult version of the cliché. Hadley chuckled to hims
elf at the analogy, though he’d prefer the whorehouse to be a high-end shoe store.
Or a pedicure spa.
But never a chiropodist. No, beautiful feet were what turned him on, not the calloused feet of old spinsters or the verruca-encrusted feet of teenage swimmers. His passion, his intense interest, had a name – podophilia – but the ‘philia’ part sounded dirty to him, and dirty was far from what he desired. He desired the beautiful, the cared for, the well-shaped, the elegant. . . His mind wandered as he walked towards the coffee cart, navigating himself via the blue swirly-patterned carpet in the large hall. As long as he kept the bright orange outer circles of the pattern to the top he’d be heading in the right direction. It was one of the gaudiest carpets he’d had the displeasure of navigating in some time.
He’d long ago got used to walking this way – head down, eyes averted – and he knew onlookers might find it, and him, a little odd. They’d assume he lacked confidence, perhaps. That’s what it usually meant, didn’t it? But he didn’t care what the strangers who bustled about him thought, on their own mission to wherever for whatever was important at the time.
No, he was indulging quietly – on the outside, at least.
On the inside? Well, that was a different matter. Parts of him were screaming, wanting, desiring, and he knew he wasn’t far off his peak. That’s the main reason he was headed in search of the coffee cart.
A distraction.
For now.
But he’d need a proper fix soon, he knew, and that meant making a choice. Who was it going to be? And when? Could he wait, or did he need something now, before the main event, something to tide him over? Oh hell, why had he agreed to meet with the detective later? Why hadn’t he left himself some free time to savour his memories of the day, and find release with those? Now he’d have to wait until much later in the day. If he could.
He felt himself salivate involuntarily, and he swallowed hard, licking his lips to dispel the moisture before he ordered his coffee. Talking with lose spittle in one’s mouth was not attractive to anyone. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs to remove some of the clamminess he felt as his pulse picked up, like a greyhound noticing a rabbit.
A glimpse of chrome broke through the melee. The coffee cart was up ahead, and he prepared himself to place an order without making a fool of himself or disgusting anyone. He raised his head to look where he was going, like normal people did when they were about to order coffee. A smile creased his lips at the thought. Normal people. Was there such a thing? Who says what normal looks like? Who says humans should be monogamous, and who says some cultures can have multiple wives? And who says it’s wrong to drink alcohol at fourteen? And who says it’s okay to smoke tobacco but not weed? And who says it’s not normal to worship beautiful feet? Who? Who? Who? To Hadley Spinks, normal was what you made it. Did anyone get harmed by his personal desire, a desire he acted on in private? No, never. And while that was part of the rules, even if he didn’t do what he did the way he did, he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone anyway.
He only wanted to worship them.
He applied his most endearing smile and flashed it to the barista.
“A large capo to go, my darling. Thank you.”
Her gaze lingered a second longer than it did on anyone else, but Hadley didn’t look or speak like everyone else. He was used to, and indeed revelled in the extra glances and attention he often got.
“I love your neck scarf,” she said. “Such a pretty colour and design, and so unusual to see on a male. You wear it well.” The pretty young woman smiled her approval, assuring him that she had indeed meant it as a compliment.
Hadley bowed his head for a second, his eyes twinkling before they fell, in acceptance of her kind words. She blushed ever so slightly when he looked back up.
“That’s very kind of you, my dear. I try my best,” he said, and took two small steps to stand aside and wait for his order. There, he turned to view the room that he’d navigated only moments ago, only this time he kept his head raised, held high, even. His sun-tinged ponytail lay down his back, hanging dead centre of his shoulder blades. It was secured at the very end by a discreet band to keep it from flying out and becoming unkempt. He liked things to be neat and just so, particularly when it came to his own attire. If he demanded beauty, then he had to present the same. He pulled out his starched linen handkerchief and wiped his mouth as he surveyed the room. Such beauty filled it. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the heads of the foot models from the heads of the other women. Even though their special body parts, the ones that earned their keep, were at floor level, the women knew the clients demanded the whole package. Many of the women sold multiple body parts to the camera. It wasn’t unusual to find a foot model who also had the perfect chin, or nose or wrist. God gave beauty in gift-wrapped packages at creation time, and a very few women were lucky enough to receive one. Those who didn’t had to make the best of what they’d got. Some managed, and many didn’t.
A tall woman with blonde hair cut tight to her nape caught his eye. He didn’t discriminate when it came to type; there wasn’t one type of woman he enjoyed, and likewise, there wasn’t one type he disliked, either. They were all eligible to be the chosen one. The blonde’s head glided evenly along as she walked the length of the stand she was working on, and his eyes travelled down her body, taking her in: narrow shoulders, narrow hips, and long elegant legs. . . but he restrained himself from lowering his gaze any further. He would save that for later. Feeling sure he’d find something special there, he moved his attention to another woman, also obviously one of the models. Only this time, the shining brunette head was travelling towards the coffee cart as though she were walking down the red carpet at the Oscars – slow and steady, allowing the press time to snap her picture. This woman was practiced in her craft and, as she gained on him, he could see she was a little older than the other models, although still stunning visually. And extremely confident. He liked her instantly. Then she was almost next to him.
“Green tea, please.”
No milky calories for this woman, he mused. His thoughts were interrupted by someone trying to attract his attention. He was being called.
“Sir? Your coffee, sir.”
Turning to the voice, he said, “Why, thank you, my dear.” He took the paper cup and took a small sip to test the temperature. He was playing for time, though he didn’t need to, really; nobody was likely to move him along, but he felt he needed to have an excuse of some sort to linger a moment longer.
While he browsed what he might have later.
Chapter Fifty-Five
She was in a world of her own. Her feet killed, her head hurt and her heart was hammering. Thank goodness for make-up, and lots of it. After another fitful night’s sleep, she was hanging on by her nerves and not much else. The skin on her face looked lacklustre and she felt haggard. Not ideal for a model, foot or otherwise, but what could she do? When the headmaster had phoned and asked for a meeting, she’d driven the two hours to the school where Danny boarded and sat in front of the man as he’d described her son’s latest sins. Possession of weed. Found in his room. And more fighting. Could it get much more serious than that? Probably not, and all three of them knew it. Dr. Badell had said he wasn’t going to involve the police – this time – but since Danny was now firmly on his last warning, he wouldn’t hesitate if it happened again, he said, and a note would stay on his file to that effect.
Ellen was grateful for another chance. Danny, though, couldn’t have cared less, sulky teenager that he was. She knew he hated the school, but without a father figure in his life at home, she’d hoped the boys-only school would help fill that gap and that he’d eventually settle down. But he hadn’t, and Ellen realized now he probably never would. If she took him out of the boarding school now and sent him to the local school, he’d think he’d won, and even he’d acknowledged he wasn’t keen on breaking into a new group of friends at the tender, awkward age of fifteen. He didn’t want to
leave the ‘friends’ he had at the boarding school, more likely. Better the devil you know and all that, even though she knew he hated them in reality; they were bullies who made him miserable. The headmaster had suggested his behaviour was something akin to Stockholm syndrome, that he didn’t want to leave their grasp even though he didn’t want to stay, either. He was a mixed-up young man and in truth, neither she nor the headmaster knew what to do. So, the status quo had prevailed. And she knew a good deal more headaches and heartaches would thunder her way.
She needed a drink. In public like this, green tea would have to do in place of vodka, but it was the kick she longed for, then the peace. She had a small bottle in her bag, but there was no way she’d drink whilst working. But it would be there, she knew, taunting her for now, and waiting for her later. On the way home, a couple of mouthfuls in the privacy of her car would be a different matter. She checked her wristwatch; there were still two hours to go.
“Green tea, please,” she told the woman at the cart, not really paying attention to anything but her thoughts, and her feet. If she could get through the next couple of hours with a smile stuck hard on her face, she’d make it through another working day without casualty. She didn’t notice the man stood to her right, the man with a silk scarf fastened around his neck in a feminine way and a long golden ponytail.
A man in a tailored suit.
A man who was watching her.
Her own world was too consuming to contemplate another being, so she didn’t. When her tea had been handed to her, she stopped to take a sip, in no real rush to get back to the trade stand. If only she could slip her shoes off for a moment, let her toes spread leisurely for a while, dip her feet in something cool, even. They throbbed like the pulse in her temple, and she reached up to touch her head absentmindedly, her pale vanilla manicured fingernails on show. She rubbed ever so gently, willing the pain to stop, before reaching into her bag for the paracetamol. It should be another hour before she was officially due another two tablets, but the pain, oh, the pain was distracting. Ellen checked her watch again, expecting an hour to have passed since she’d looked at it only five minutes ago, and wrinkled her nose up in disappointment. It was standing room only at the cart now. There was no point hanging around, so she made her way towards the edge of the hall in search of a chair to rest for a while.
