by Nick Oldham
Munrow said, ‘Good, let’s get it.’
It was a nice suit and fitted him perfectly. He liked it. At two hundred quid, he loved it.
‘Yes, let’s,’ she said gleefully, but grabbed another one from the display, ‘and try this one too. It’s lovely.’
She handed it over to him.
He turned the beginning of a scowl into a smile of acceptance and reluctantly took the suit. ‘Then we go - and fuck,’ he said. And you give me plenty money.
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, darling.’
Munrow went back into the fitting room and reversed into a cubicle, drawing the curtain behind him.
He tugged the jacket off and dropped it deliberately onto the floor in a little display of petulance. He unzipped his trousers and let them slither down his legs and kicked them off over his shoes.
The curtain was yanked back.
He was about to tell whoever it was to fuck off out of it and maybe give the bastard a push in the chest for invading his privacy, but he didn’t get the opportunity to do either.
‘No John,’ he gasped instead, terrified. He stepped backwards against the wall and raised his hands defensively. ‘No, don’t.’
They were the last words he spoke.
The gun in John Rider’s hand roared twice and deafeningly in the confined space of Debenhams men’s fitting rooms.
The first of the .357-calibre bullets left the barrel of the revolver and flashed its short way through the air, entering Munrow’s face by way of his top lip, blowing a huge hole below his nose, destroying the upper set of teeth, tearing through the back of his throat and exiting through the base of his skull.
The next one whacked into his cranium, above and to the right of his left eye. This one did not exit, but remained inside the skull, ripping his brain to shreds with the glee of an angry bull in Debenhams China shop.
Rider was gone before Munrow’s twitching body shimmied to the floor. A mass of blood, deep red, almost black blood, full of oxygen, and particles of bone were smeared down the cubicle wall. A fine haze of pink spray hung in the air, mixing with the smoke from the gun.
His new suits were ruined.
Chapter Eighteen
Henry was never completely sure how it started. He didn’t think he was responsible, nor did he think he did anything to further it. There was a blur, then he found himself almost at the point of no return before his senses clicked into gear.
Siobhan drove from Lancaster, all the way to the NWOCS offices in King Street. It was a fairly uncomfortable journey in the high-seated Transit but Henry, well strapped in, dozed off quickly. His head rolled and jerked with the motion of the van and his partly opened mouth allowed spittle to dribble down his chin and jacket. He was away with the fairies and would have been no use in an emergency.
Before he knew it, they were in Blackburn, pulling into the secure yard.
Siobhan parked in one corner whilst Henry shook himself into wakefulness and rubbed the dried saliva from his face with a sheepish glint at Siobhan to see if she had noticed. She had.
‘Ole sleepy head,’ she said with a soft chuckle.
He had a painful crick in his neck from his sleeping position and a heavy sensation behind his eyelids, as if grains of sand had been surgically implanted. His eyes were gritty and sore, his chest was throbbing and his ear screaming.
He was not in good shape.
Siobhan unbuckled her seat belt and dropped lightly out of the van. Henry duly followed suit. His movements were like an old man’s. His injuries had tightened him up and the pain in his chest on moving was initially like a heart attack until he straightened up. He was also beginning to appreciate how hard Anderson had punched him in the face during their fight.
A couple of minutes later, having negotiated the alarm system, they entered the deserted offices and signed their guns and equipment back in. Henry was switched on enough to see that Morton had not countersigned the firearms log-sheet. Siobhan told him not to worry. It was something that often happened. He would do it later.
Henry was holding his bulletproof vest in his hand. He proffered it to Siobhan, who was holding hers.
‘Come on, I’ll show you where we keep stuff like this.’
‘I thought the other team would be on duty,’ Henry remarked.
Siobhan just shrugged.
They went back downstairs and walked across the car park to a door to the right of the garage doors. She keyed in a number on the pad and opened it. They entered a small vestibule. The main garage was through a door to the left. A staircase was dead ahead. Siobhan went straight up in front of Henry. He glanced into the garage which housed three saloon cars. He assumed they belonged to the unit. Then he was right behind her, with her compact bum at his face level, her flesh packed into the tight jeans she’d been wearing all day. Henry attempted not to notice. And failed.
Upstairs there were two offices. The larger was a store-room-cum-equipment room with shelving and large metal cabinets lining the walls. An old settee and table were also in the room, probably remnants from previous occupants, Henry guessed.
Siobhan unlocked one of the cabinets and hung up the body armour. Henry stifled a yawn.
‘Am I boring you?’
‘Far from it.’
A wave of déjà vu skittered through him as once again he found himself within inches of her face. Inexplicably he became weak and open for offers.
‘Henry,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I was terrified today - when Anderson opened up and Dave got shot right next to me. I thought I’d be next.’ The words tumbled out, becoming increasingly shaky. ‘I’ve never experienced anything like that. It happened so fast, too. I mean, suddenly I was on the ground and Anderson was firing. It was all so unreal, yet so utterly frightening. I can’t find the words to describe it.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve been through it before.’
‘Doesn’t get any easier. I was frightened too. There’s nothing wrong admitting it. If you bottle it up, it’ll do your head in.’
‘Henry.’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you hold me? I need some ... comfort. I feel all dithery.’
He nodded.
She fell into him, crushing herself against his chest. Very painful for him, actually. He steeled himself and took it like a man, without complaint. Her breasts pushed up against him and her warm body clung desperately to him, wanting to find some reassurance from him that she was safe now. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and gently squeezing.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Probably only seconds. Then he became aware that she was looking up at him. She drew back slightly and said, ‘That was nice, Henry. I needed that.’
‘So did I.’
‘And I still want to kiss you.’
There was a pause between them when time stood still. And from that moment on, things became very mixed-up and confused for Henry.
He lowered his head, she went up onto her toes, and their lips came into soft contact. An electric shock pulsated through him. Initially they tentatively explored each other’s lips. Then their mouths forced themselves hard onto each other. Hard and passionate. A whimper of pleasure escaped from somewhere deep inside Siobhan’s throat. Her tongue slithered into his mouth. He took it. Bit it. Bit her lips. Sinking his teeth firmly into the soft wet flesh, driving her into a frenzy.
Her fingers gripped his hair. He grew hard quickly. She felt it and responded by spreading her legs around his thighs and grinding herself urgently against him. Her breath came in short pants. Through the denim of her jeans Henry could feel the pulsating heat of her sex.
She threw her head back and Henry’s mouth moved down to her beautiful throat, where he could see her jugular throbbing wildly.
She forced his jacket off his shoulders. He drew his arms out of the sleeves. The garment dropped to the floor with a sigh of air. Her fingers went to his shirt, fumbling impatiently with t
he buttons, eventually ripping the last one off. She tugged the shirt out of his jeans and her face went to his injured chest. She softly licked the deep purple bruising over his breastbone and she unbuckled his belt.
The pain ebbed away from Henry’s damaged body, replaced by a wave of energy.
‘Oh God, Henry, we need to do it,’ she said.
No. Say no, Henry, you complete fucking imbecile. Think of Kate. The girls. Think about what happened last time.
‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely.
He eased her out of her zip-up jacket and pulled her tracksuit top over her head. She released her grip on his fly and lifted up her arms obligingly to facilitate the movement. He tossed the top to one side and his arms quickly carried out a pincer movement to her back, his fingers meeting in the middle at her bra strap. It was a smooth manoeuvre and the clasp was breached in a second and the bra dropped to the floor.
He could feel her easing his jeans off, which ended up around his ankles, then she pulled down the front of his Y-fronts.
Another of those deep throaty groans broke from her lips when she grabbed his hard, swaying cock and slid back the foreskin.
‘Aaah,’ he heard himself say. His hands went to her breasts, her nipples erect against the palms. He looked down at them. They were sweet, deep pink, long and excited.
‘Come over here,’ she urged him.
They shifted to the settee like practising dance partners, allowing Henry the chance to step out of his jeans and trainers. He sat down quickly, removing his underpants and socks as he did so. Siobhan stood over him, bending forwards, those beautiful breasts hanging near his face. In a second she was out of her jeans and knickers. Both of them were completely naked.
He had only a few seconds to appreciate her body before she pushed him back onto the settee. He lay there without a fight. She went on him immediately, devouring him in her mouth and he surprised himself by not ejaculating there and then. She worked on him with wonderful lips and a wet, wet tongue, constantly looking up at him, judging his pleasure, until he could stand it no longer - at which juncture he took hold of her and drew her up.
He sat up. She sat next to him. He dropped to his knees and twisted round between her legs.
God, she smelled intoxicating.
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Her mouth was open and wet and hot as he clamped his over it and kissed her fiercely. His fingers slid from her breasts and down between her legs, searching for and finding her. She was soaking.
‘I get very wet,’ she said.
‘Apparently.’
She lay back, opening herself to him. His head went down, his mouth working over her, tongue probing deftly, darting in, out, around. She squirmed and moaned, rotating her hips as everything built inside her. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘Henry, come on, do it, fuck me. Come on; let’s fuck now.’
What? Maybe he was an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, but somehow the word seemed so ... inappropriate. OK, it is what they were about to do. But fuck? This wasn’t going to be a fuck, was it? Kate would never use such terminology ... yeah, Kate.
He shrugged off the brief unease and helped Siobhan to lie full-length on the settee. He clambered over her, holding himself aloft, his elbow joints locked. She drew up her knees and Henry, keeping his balance with one shaky hand, reached down and aimed his prick towards her, knowing that within a matter of seconds he would be in deep.
In deep ... all of a sudden he caught an image of himself in his mind.
He saw his jeans and underpants, socks and trainers, out of the corner of his eye.
Then he visualised Kate and remembered the look on her face the last time. The hurt, the pain. The despair, the tears. The anger. Kate, the only woman he had truly loved. Who he never wanted to hurt and who he had betrayed in the worst way imaginable. He had done it once, and every day since it had been with him. The guilt. Always ready to pop up at the most inappropriate moments and niggle away at him like a cancer.
Yet here he was again. Once more with a younger woman. His penis touching the fat wet lips of her vagina, ready to plunge in, and fuck the consequences.
But this time there would be no consequences.
In that moment, when it could have gone either way, he made the decision, with a little whimper.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, kneeling up, his penis curved up out of his bush, touching his belly, swaying between them like an innocent bystander. He reversed off the settee like a crab, leaving Siobhan lying there stunned and unsatisfied, still wanting. ‘I can’t. It’s lovely. It’s been really lovely. And I really would like to do it.’ He gulped for air. ‘But I can’t. I’m sorry. Just won’t work.’ He scooped his clothes together and danced an impressive jig as he got into his Y’s. The bulge of his penis remained highly prominent.
Siobhan lay there for a few seconds in total, gobsmacked disbelief. This was replaced by a look of scorn and hatred which turned Henry’s soul cold. ‘You can’t do this, Henry. Starting something and then leaving me in mid- fucking air.’ It was as if another character had taken over her, someone slightly deranged. Or maybe just completely pissed off, Henry couldn’t be sure. ‘So, come on, fuck me. I want it. I want you. You can’t leave me in the air like this.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t go through with it.’ He was struggling to get into his shirt and fasten it, finding one of the buttons missing and a tear in the fabric where it had once been. ‘It was a silly thing to contemplate. We’re colleagues, I’m a supervisor and I’m married. It’d all go horribly wrong.’
She rolled off the settee and stood proudly before him, seething anger hissing from every pore. Henry wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t appreciate what a wonderful body she had and he was already regretting not completing the act.
‘Is it me?’ she demanded. ‘Am I not good enough for you?’
‘No, it’s not you. I mean - oh damn! You’re great, brilliant. I couldn’t think of anything better than making love to you. God, it’s me. Definitely me.’
He was slightly off-balance, hopping about on one foot whilst pulling a trainer on.
The hard, open-handed, perfectly-aimed slap which sent him winging across the room, crashing into the cabinets, caught him completely by surprise. It jarred everything that was hurting and made the punch Anderson had laid on him pale by comparison.’
‘Jesus,’ he yelped, in a pathetic heap on the floor. ‘There was no need for that.’
Still naked, quivering with resentment, she stood over him, her eyes ablaze.
‘I’ll tell you one thing you are right about, Henry fucking Christie, you out-and-out bastard. It has all gone horribly wrong. For you, that is.’
She stooped down, picked up her clothes and strutted into the other office to get dressed.
They met, as ever, at the Country Club, all arriving at different times. This, however, was purely a business meeting and no time was spent in the pool. They had use of a small conference room which had been swept for listening devices prior to their arrival.
Drinks and sandwiches were laid on. All very civilised.
Morton. McNamara. Conroy.
The three men who had met many years before, when each had been at the beginning of their chosen career, and since then their lives and fates had intertwined.
Morton and Conroy went back to 1960s Manchester. They had met when Morton had been a Salford city beat bobby and Conroy was running a couple of streetwalkers and a very iffy protection racket on a few Pakistani shopkeepers. Each assisted the other to mutual benefit. Morton made things easy for Conroy by feeding him information about police activities which might impinge on his business interests; in return Conroy offered up one or two sacrificial lambs by way of good quality prisoners which enhanced Morton’s professional standing.
Both had prospered.
Conroy grew as a criminal. Morton was promoted as a detective.
Now Morton was close to retirement. At fifty-four he had thirty-fi
ve years’ service, having been rotten for thirty-four of them. At his rank he could have stayed until he was sixty, but mid-fifties had always been his aim.
And fifty-five it would be.
When he said goodbye to the job next year he would step into a world of secretly acquired wealth, amassed cautiously over the years, in particular the last ten or so during the life of the NWOCS when he became virtually autonomous, being able to operate how he saw fit. And also Conroy had become much more profitable over these years, mainly due to Morton’s protection.
Now Morton owned a villa in Spain, an apartment in Barbados and a holiday cabin in Eire. The Spanish home came with a pool, Porsche and maid; the Caribbean one with a Mini-moke, the Irish one with a small lough, brimful of trout. All had been bought covertly through third parties.
When he retired he intended to split his time between the three, pretending they were rented if anyone should ask. His life would be financed - on the face of it - from his police pension and savings, and some legitimate stock-market dealings. This, in fact, would only be pin money, the icing on the cake of a career of corruption: his association with Conroy had placed £2.2 million in Channel Island and Cayman Island bank accounts. He reckoned this would provide him with about one hundred and fifty grand a year in interest.
Life would be very sweet.
All he needed to do was see the next twelve months through.
Multi-millionaire Sir Harry McNamara had come into the equation in the 1970s during a shady land deal associated with Conroy, which was fortunately being investigated by Morton who was then on the Fraud Squad. By some wily manoeuvring, Morton prosecuted some of the tiddlers and allowed the fat fish to swim away. Craftily Morton made this appear to be a successful operation through police eyes.
The land deal had been ratified by a certain local councillor called McNamara, as he then was. All three men benefited from the sale of the land which was purchased for an inflated fee by a national company who built a multi-storey car park on it. The spin-off in terms of building contracts were enormous. All from a piece of scrubland that Conroy had bought for next to nothing from an old bloke who needed to have a gun shoved into his mouth before he signed the contract.
