by Ashe Barker
She looks at me, controlled, poised, properly briefed and ready to take on PC Bragg. She smiles at me, nods briskly as she assembles her papers into a neat pile in front of her. “Now,” she announces, business-like, crisp, “now, we make this go away.”
Brisk and ready for the coming fight, she stands, goes to the door and knocks smartly on it. “We’re ready.”
Chapter Six
“PC Bragg, my client had neither motive nor opportunity to commit this offense. I insist that you release her immediately.”
PC Bragg’s response is to lean casually back in his chair, surveying the pair of us with a blend of arrogance and contempt. “Motive? Your client’s motive was greed. Money, pure and simple. She made sure she had the property insured then she set it alight to make a claim. She showed total disregard for her tenants sleeping inside. We’re heading for an attempted murder charge here, Mrs Montgomery. Your client’s going to be with us for a long time yet and she’d better get used to that fact and start telling me the truth.”
“PC Bragg, what do you know of cash flow forecasting, profit margins, commercial rate of return? And specifically, given the performance to date of Miss McAllister’s investment, how do you arrive at the conclusion that she would gain financially from such an act? On the contrary, would it not have constituted financial suicide?”
“Eh?”
She gives him no opportunity to regroup. “I thought you probably hadn’t considered the fiscal implications, or you wouldn’t be pursuing this ridiculous line of inquiry. Let me explain. Miss McAllister invested the sum of fifty thousand pounds one year ago to convert the property for student accommodation. She was particularly diligent with regard to fire safety, and that diligence has without doubt saved her tenants from serious injury or even death. She is an exemplary landlord and an astute business woman.”
Me? Does she mean me?
Not to be so easily thrown off the scent, PC Bragg indicates his interest in knowing where I acquired fifty grand from, just to be airily dismissed by Ms Montgomery, clearly not about to waste overmuch time on his fantasy world. “Miss McAllister inherited that sum, which is a matter of public record easily verified by reference to the Court of Probate. I’m sure you are perfectly familiar with the law in this regard, constable.”
The constable’s eyes narrow angrily as he bristles at the slur, but he can’t quite find a way to retaliate effectively. In any case, Julia Montgomery ignores him, pressing on with her annihilation of his so-called case.
“Miss McAllister calculated her rate of return based upon around sixty percent occupancy which will see her initial investment returned to her within four years. A more normal, and perfectly acceptable term would be ten years, so Miss McAllister’s investment was a particularly prudent one.”
Me? Prudent? I’m liking the sound of this.
“In fact, the performance of her investment has been well in excess of Miss McAllister’s initial business model. Her property has achieved occupancy rates of nearer to eighty percent, which would see her in profit within three years. Far from having a financial incentive to see the property go up in flames, she stands to lose money as a result of this unfortunate incident. Put those commercial realities alongside the fact that this house holds considerable sentimental value to my client. The house has been in her family for three generations. It was her grandparents’ home. Her mother grew up there, as did Miss McAllister herself. If she wanted to raise cash, she could have sold the property when it came into her possession a year ago, but she chose not to because she wanted to keep it. Instead, she invested her own funds in improving and converting her old home, turned it into a lucrative business venture. No, constable, you will have to look elsewhere for a motive.”
“She had plenty of opportunity…”
“No, she did not. Miss McAllister has accounted for her movements. No doubt you will have taken steps to verify her alibi for last night?”
Looking somewhat deflated now, PC Bragg’s surly expression suggests that he has indeed received word from the West Yorkshire police that my alibi is solid. Once more, I suspect I have Eva to thank, her impeccable credentials as a respected academic and doctor of just about everything no doubt doing no harm at all to my case. What it is to have powerful friends. Friends who’ll send you hot shot lawyers and speak up for you when it matters.
We’re on the downhill slope now—PC Bragg’s idiotic assertions crumbling before our eyes. Ms Montgomery again insists that I be released, and this time he offers no objections.
On reflection it was not a fair fight. Not even close. Julia Montgomery wiped the floor with PC Tall and Stupid. I doubt he even knew what hit him. Every one of his inane suggestions had been obliterated by her cool, incisive arguments, her clipped tones making a mockery of his bullying swagger and half-baked innuendo. His face was a particular joy to watch as he tried to make sense of this force of nature now confronting him, challenging all his preconceived certainties and leaving him looking more than faintly ridiculous. I’d have laughed out loud if the whole matter was not so very serious for me. Still, I can appreciate a bit of sport as much as the next person, and Ms Montgomery certainly seemed to enjoy herself as she took his flimsy case apart.
His original assessment of me was that I’m some cheap little ex-con who must have done this because, as far as he could work out, nothing else made sense? So he never considered any other possibility. As Julia Montgomery made absolutely clear to him, that was a big mistake.
* * * *
Ten minutes later I’m walking down the front steps of the police station, the wonderful Ms Montgomery marching smugly beside me. I get the impression she’s thoroughly enjoyed herself, slumming in Gloucester. At the bottom of the steps I turn to shake her hand once more, to thank her.
“My pleasure, Miss McAllister. Can I drop you anywhere?”
I’m about to thank her, a lift back to my old house to pick up my car would be very helpful, when a voice behind me has me whirling.
“No need for that. Ashley has transport.”
I turn, and with a screech of welcome launch myself into Tom’s arms. He catches me, swings me around as I grab his wonderful, handsome, laughing face between my hands and kiss his lips. I was pleased to see Julia Montgomery, but I’m absolutely delighted to see Tom. I hug him, my arms around his neck as he turns to acknowledge my savior, still poised elegantly at the foot of the police station steps.
“Julia, how lovely to see you. And looking formidable as ever. Thanks for your help today. I owe you.”
“You’re welcome. It’s just fortunate I was down here today visiting my old school in Cheltenham when I received Miss Byrne’s call. And what you owe me is my fee, which will, of course, not be inconsiderable. I’ll send you an invoice.” She smiles at him, and I catch a glimmer of something intimate flash between them. These two obviously know each other.
“Of course, and worth every penny.” He leans forward, kisses her lightly on the cheek. “It’s good to know you’re not losing your touch.”
She smiles, her face now genuinely warm with real friendship. “I rather enjoyed myself, although I think the police case would have collapsed soon enough. The CPS would have thrown it out. I just speeded things up, and it was much more exciting than the usual stuff you two wheel me out for. Which reminds me, where is the delectable Nathan? Eva told me he was with you.”
“Parking the car. He’ll be along in a moment.”
“I see. Well, I really do need to get off, so just tell him I asked after him will you? Maybe I’ll run into him at the club. You too. Bye for now, and it was nice to meet you properly, Miss McAllister.” She bustles away, slipping confidently into a smart BMW parked in a reserved space. With a polite wave, she cruises past us and out into the stream of traffic.
“What did she mean, properly? I’ve never met her before. I’d have definitely remembered.”
“I expect it’s just that she looks different with her clothes on. Same as you do, my darling.
” He laughs softly at my incredulous expression, swings an arm across my shoulders as he starts to lead me away across the police station forecourt. “Jules was at The Hermitage that first night we went there. She found your, er—your performance in the dungeon particularly inspiring. I gather her sub got quite a working over after that…”
I stop, stare at him, astonished. No. Surely not! My mouth is hanging open, and Tom casually hooks his finger under my chin to close it.
“Small world, love. Jules is a Domme. A Mistress, if you like. And she’s a powerful one, very stern. Scary woman. Bloody good lawyer though.”
“Shit. No wonder she kicked that stupid policeman in the balls then, figuratively speaking, of course. Christ, she made mincemeat out of him.”
“Good. That’s what we wanted. Now, where’s Nathan?”
Right on cue the sleek black Porsche slides around the corner and pulls up on yellow lines outside the police station. Tom opens the door and ushers me into the back seat, sliding in alongside me. Nathan pulls away. “So, how’s our little jailbird then? I’m guessing the lovely Jules did her stuff and sprung you?” Nathan tosses the cheery greeting over his shoulder at me.
“Yes. She was wonderful. She sends her regards, by the way.”
He just nods, his attention back on the traffic. “So, where to?”
I think for a moment, then, “Could we go to my mother’s house? My car’s there. And then I need to see Mr Miller. He’s my solicitor who handles my financial affairs here. But he’ll have gone home by now. I suppose I’ll need to find a hotel and go to his office tomorrow.”
Tom takes my hand, squeezes it. “Hotel’s sorted, love. We’ve got rooms booked at the Gloucester Marriott. For tonight at least. Tomorrow we’ll decide if we’re staying on or what. After we’ve spoken to your Mr Miller.”
I turn to him, my gratitude etched across my face. “You’re staying? With me?”
“Too right we’re staying.” This from Nathan, “You need some moral support.”
“And a decent fuck, but that’s my department.”
Tom’s whisper in my ear sends a wicked shiver down my spine, and I have to concentrate hard on giving Nathan directions back to my mother’s house.
My Clio’s still outside where I left it, but my heart sinks when I spot the broken driver’s window as we draw up in front of it.
“Shit. That’s all I need. Someone’s broken into my car.”
Tom’s equally disgusted, though for different reasons. “And in full view of half the bloody Gloucester constabulary too. What sort of a place is this?”
I’m close to tears as I stand helplessly on the pavement, viewing the pile of shattered glass on the driver’s seat, and the contents of my glove box scattered all over the passenger side. It’s a mess, and I’m going to need to get it fixed before I can go anywhere. But at least my car’s still here. They could have stolen it. In fact, I’m a bit puzzled about why they didn’t. Why bother going to the trouble of breaking in just to rummage through my glove box? They didn’t even nick my CDs—obviously not devotees of Coldplay and Amy Winehouse. But still, it seems odd.
Efficient as ever, Nathan’s on the phone sorting out a mobile windscreen repair firm offering a twenty-four hour service. It seems I’ll be good as new again within an hour or so. And Tom’s marching up the path to my wrecked front door, the twisted, scorched uPVC now just a melted tangle. PC Solemn is gone, but the police tape is still in place. They’ve also arranged a boarding up firm to secure a couple of stout wooden planks across the doorway, to keep out prying eyes and no doubt to preserve evidence for the investigators. None of whom are in evidence now. The place is deserted, lonely and abandoned. And that does it for me. I follow Tom to the door, powerfully reminded of another time I walked up this path, alone on that occasion. It was the day I was released from prison, and I came home looking for my mother even though I knew she wasn’t here anymore. I found Sadie then, and now she’s gone too, and someone even tried to destroy my house. On that thought I turn, sit on the step, put my head in my hands and weep.
And suddenly, Tom’s arms are around me. He’s sitting beside me, holding me. He doesn’t say anything, no useless soothing words, no attempt to stop my tears as the dam bursts and the grief and tension of this awful day flow from me. The shock and terror of this morning when I heard what had happened, and feared that people might have died because of me. Then the desperate rush to drive down here, the shock of actually seeing the damage to my lovely house then the sickening realization that some evil git did this on purpose, someone deliberately tried to burn my house to the ground. Then the horror of realizing the police believed that evil person was me, that I could do such a terrible thing. But then came Julia, sent by Eva. And Tom and Nathan actually followed me, came here to help me, because they knew I needed them. Like some sort of desperate limpet, I cling to Tom, his hands tracing circling caresses on my back as my sobs eventually subside. I sniff into his neck, trying not to leave nasty marks on his clean sports shirt.
“Here. Use this.”
I turn, to see Nathan crouching in front of us, a clean hanky in his hand. It’s one of those nice, fancy ones. Real fabric. Seems a pity to wipe my nose on it, but that doesn’t stop me. I dab at my eyes, blow my nose noisily. I consider offering him the handkerchief back but think better of it and shove it into my pocket to wash later. I look from one to the other, my gaze still watery. I’m fragile, but ready to start picking myself up. And I know that this time, it’ll be so much easier with people around to help me. This time, it’s not just me against the world. I start to smile, wobbly, but near enough.
The smile dies at the sound of a voice, a sneering, coarse, cruel voice, a voice I’d hoped never to hear again.
“Well, isn’t this nice. Who’re your ponsy friends then, Shaz?”
Chapter Seven
Kenny’s leaning on my gatepost, his hands in his pockets. Or should I say, Tom’s pockets. He’s wearing Tom’s leather jacket, the one he stole on the river bank in Bristol, although to be fair it looks faintly ridiculous on him, at least three sizes too big. And he’s smiling, an unpleasant smirk signaling distinctly malicious intent. And he’s not alone. There’s a white Transit van parked on the other side of the street, and I count five other thugs pouring out of the open rear doors, coming across to arrange themselves around Kenny. One of them is even trying the doors of Nathan’s Porsche, the others just lounging arrogantly against our cars. A man I recognize as one of Kenny’s vicious mates from way back in Bristol—his broken nose and tattooed face particularly memorable—saunters up behind Kenny, swinging a bicycle chain, his intent obvious. He grins at us, clearly enjoying his day out in Gloucester and convinced it’s about to get a whole lot better.
I’m starting to get up, ready to try to reason with him even though I know it’s useless. Old habits do die hard, it seems.
“Kenny isn’t it? How nice. I’d been hoping to run into you again.” Tom has taken over, before I can say anything to Kenny. His voice is mocking, confident. This is my Dom, but more so. This is Tom looking for trouble, real trouble. And no doubt about to find it. Can’t he count? Six, for Christ sake!
“You have something of mine.” Tom makes no effort to stand up, and his arms around me hold me firmly in place. He fixes Kenny with a warning look, a look I know well but which seems to be lost on my ex-boyfriend. “I’d like my jacket back please.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Kenny takes a menacing step forward, his loyal troops coming to attention behind him, ready now to have their fun beating up two unarmed men and a weeping girl.
“We’ll sort this. Stay here,” Tom murmurs his instructions into my ear as he lazily comes to his feet. Nathan too, and they stroll casually down the path to meet Kenny head on.
“We met a couple of years ago. In Bristol as I recall. You—borrowed—my jacket, and I see you still have it. It definitely looks better on me—you don’t really fill it out. Prison food not especially good for the physiqu
e, I expect. And now I want it back.” Tom’s tone is low, hard, chilling. He’s angry, white-hot angry. I’ve heard that tone only once before, that first day in Smithy’s Forge. He means business. But he and Nathan are hopelessly outnumbered. Ever the optimist, I expect they’ll land a few decent punches before it’s all done with. I can’t see them winning this one though, then my immediate future looks distinctly grim. After all, it’s not Tom and Nathan that Kenny’s come here looking for—it’s me.
Kenny’s lips curls into a sneer. “Looks like you borrowed my shagbag.” He casts a contemptuous nod in my direction, turns back to Tom. “I reckon I got the best of the bargain, but now I’ll be needing the little slag back.”
He turns his attention to me, his eyes glinting with a mixture of cruelty and something akin to lust, but tinged with violence, greedy and assessing.
I don’t recall sensing such an aura of menace from him at any time in our previous relationship, but something fundamental has shifted and it’s unmistakable now. Scared, really scared, I shrink backwards. He obviously notices my reaction, and his sneer widens, becomes yet more malevolent as he senses my fear, feeds on it, enjoys it.
He turns his arrogant attention back to Nathan and Tom, dismissive as he warns them off. “You two can fuck off. Last chance. It’s her we want.” Then, his attention is back to me, “Yeah, you. You treacherous little bitch. You couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut could you? You grassed us up, I got three fucking years because of you, so you fucking know what’s coming to you…”
He starts to laugh, turning to his crew to share the joke. He very nearly makes it before Tom’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him spinning backwards into the loving arms of his friend with the bike chain. Then all hell breaks loose. Kenny’s not frankly much use for anything anymore. One decent punch and he’s floored. That leaves just five.
