Last Gasp

by Robert F Barker

  Carver motioned to Jess. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Greylake.’

  For the first time, the woman turned to her.

  ‘Would you like to see my identification as well?’ Jess said.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. But thank you for offering.’

  Carver sensed that the polite smile that came with it could as easily have been a smirk. And the way the two women stayed, staring at each other for longer than the brief exchange merited, he wondered what he was missing. Eventually, the gaze transferred back to him.

  ‘Well-well. The Police no less. And what, exactly, is the nature of your business?'

  Carver didn't hesitate. 'We’d like to talk to you about your listing in a journal called, DOM.'

  Beside him, he heard Jess’s intake of breath. What the hell. After two weeks trying to flesh out the little they'd been able to discover about her, he’d grown tired of pussy-footing. But the woman remained as impassive as if she had never heard of the magazine. Her head tilted back, until she was almost looking at them down her nose.

  'And just how is an entry in a journal relevant to your enquiries? I wasn’t aware such publications break any laws?'

  Carver stifled his impatience. But her reaction was only what he’d anticipated. He stuck to the script. 'If you’d care to invite us in Mrs Crane, we can explain. Unless you’d rather we discuss the matter here on the doorstep?'

  It was an old ploy, one that works well with those who like to maintain at least a show of respectability. But the woman in white wasn’t about to be rushed. She continued to look at him as if she were weighing her options.

  Eventually, in a voice dripping boredom, she said, 'I’m not sure I want policemen and policewomen traipsing through my house. But I suppose if I stand here like this, I’ll catch my death of cold. You’d better come in.' Taking a step back, she swung the door open, but stayed mostly behind it.

  As Carver stepped through she caught his eye. 'And it’s Ms Crane, Detective Chief Inspector. Not Mrs. The kitchen’s straight through. Make yourself a drink while I finish dressing.'

  Carver paused long enough to meet her gaze, before passing down the hall. And so it begins.

  As Jess followed after, he heard her say, ‘And may I remind you we’re all Police Officers these days, Ms Crane. We don’t refer to Police Women anymore.’

  Inside, Carver grimaced. Jess had six years under her belt. She’d have met plenty who would fit the term, ‘different’. But he doubted any would match Megan Crane. She would learn. As he reached the kitchen, he heard the front door close. Soft footfalls signalled her mounting the stairs. Somewhere above, a door banged.

  The kitchen was large, gleaming and modern. The only item disrupting the sweep of black work-top was a coffee pot, warming on its plate. An oak table rested close to one wall. He crossed to it, pulled out a chair and sat down. He checked around. Three doors led off the kitchen, four counting the one they’d just come through. One, half open, down left led through to what looked like a living area. A back door in the far right corner gave onto the garden. Halfway down the right-hand wall was a third door, which was closed. He turned to see Jess leaning against the worktop, arms folded, glaring at him. She opened her mouth to say something but he got in first.

  'First impressions, Ms Greylake?'

  She paused. 'Um, I think you would have to say she’s... interesting.'

  He nodded. 'Interesting. Good word.' He stood up. 'Are you sorting coffee?' She raised an eyebrow, gave a pointed look. With a shrug, he pleaded guilty, and headed through the door into the living area.

  As he came through into a room that was spacious and square, he felt his shoes sink into the cream carpet’s deep pile. It was furnished comfortably, but simply. A bright red sofa and matching chair were arranged in front of the biggest TV screen he'd seen outside of a sports bar. French windows looked out onto the garden. Shelves on the wall opposite contained some books, a few vaguely-oriental ornaments, a photograph in a silver frame. As he crossed for a closer look, he checked to make sure his shoes weren’t trailing dirt from his walk up the drive.

  The books were innocuous. A couple of travel guides – France and Italy; a clutch of crime-thrillers; some celebrity-chef cookbooks. Nothing that gave anything away. He studied the photograph. Against a blue-sea-and-sky back-drop, the woman they’d just met was standing with her arm around the waist of a tall, bearded man. Both were dressed in sunglasses, shorts and singlets and sported deep tans. Something about the man sparked Carver’s interest. He leaned in. Taken from about twenty feet away, the face lacked the detail needed to make it out clearly. Nevertheless…

  'COFFEE.’

  Giving up, he returned to the kitchen.

  Jess was holding the fridge door open for his inspection. 'She either lives on fresh air or takeaways. I’ll bet the mice get food parcels from the Red Cross.'

  Dipping to see, he noted the container of skimmed milk, tub of low-fat spread and three tomatoes resting on a plate. A couple of wines, a Sauvignon-Blanc and a Prosecco, rested in the door shelf.

  'Maybe she's on a diet.' He returned to the chair. 'It’s the same through there. Clean, but bare. Reminds me of a show-house. Looks great, but it’s not a home.'

  Jess handed him his coffee before taking hers over to the window. As he drank - it was scorched and bitter, but drinkable - he mused over what the house’s sparse contents said about the woman soon to join them. Something about order, he thought. And, presumably, control. Which figures. Rising, he went to join her.

  The early afternoon sun was high over the trees at the bottom of a garden which he was surprised to see badly neglected. The lawn needed a good mowing, and the sparsely-stocked borders looked like they hadn't been dug over for weeks. Not into gardening either. At that moment an image swooped in, from where he wasn’t sure. It was of a man, naked apart from leather briefs and a collar, pottering around, weeding and planting things. For the first time in weeks, Carver came close to breaking a smile.

  A noise behind made them turn.

  Megan Crane was framed in the doorway.

  As he took in the sight, Carver’s heart skipped several beats and he had to juggle his mug between finger and thumb to stop it slipping from his grasp.

  Chapter 2

  Corinne Anderson is in her seventh heaven. She loves Kubu like a second home and relishes the regular trips she makes to the famous Manchester corsetiere to replenish her already bursting wardrobe. Not that she really needs much more in the way of corsetry. Her collection of the exquisitely-handmade satin, velvet and leather garments is one of the finest in the country, or so Evelyn tells her.

  Evelyn Merryweather is Corinne's, 'Kubu Personal Shopper', and a real treasure. She seems, quite genuinely, to look forward to Corinne’s trips and Corinne always makes a point of ringing beforehand to make sure Evelyn is available. After enjoying the woman’s impeccably-mannered services over many years, she often wonders what she would do without her. Evelyn always seems to know her requirements even better than she does.

  Having worked in the family-business’s shop long before Corinne discovered it, Evelyn is an expert in the mysteries and mythology of corsetry. She can tell immediately, which type of garment best suits a customer’s body shape.

  Take Corinne for instance. According to Evelyn, Corinne is, 'pear-shaped'. Slim waist, wider hips. Not at all the classic, ‘hour-glass’ figure most women covet. Nevertheless, under Evelyn’s guidance Corinne has discovered the right types of garment to wear and, more importantly, the right way to wear them so as to achieve the effect she is looking for.

  But Corinne Anderson is not particularly interested in the amazingly detailed technicalities, or the often bizarre history of corsetry - despite the running commentary Evelyn maintains throughout her visits. She simply enjoys the experience of browsing through Kubu’s stock, leafing through the catalogues, running her hands over the items on display, and generally immersing herself in what she refers to as, ‘The Kubu Experience
’.

  It is such a pleasurable, not to mention sensuous, way of passing her time she always makes a point of allowing herself at least three - sometimes four - trips a year. Even if she chooses not to buy any of the more elaborate and expensive garments, the staff are always attentive and polite. They never seem to mind if, after a couple of hours browsing the shop’s three floors, she ends up spending only a few pounds on hosiery or other inexpensive items. Not that that happens often. More usually, with or even without Evelyn’s help, she manages to spot some new, exotic design, or something sufficiently different to attract her interest. As she has this very morning.

  Of course, she likes to try on her choices before buying. In fact she usually tries on several before settling for the one she’s had her eye on all the time. That is part of the fun. There is something uniquely satisfying about the process of trying on a new corset, especially in an environment such as Kubu. The Victorian décor and the old-world values the staff show towards their customers, respect, patience and courtesy, mixed with just the right amount of deference, combine to create an atmosphere which, on the face of it, is impeccably, 'correct'. But below the surface run frissons which Corinne finds intensely arousing.

  In fact, as she discovered during her early visits, the act of being laced into a corset by a relative stranger but an expert in the technique, while she holds onto the brass grab-handles provided for the purpose in Kubu’s plush, velvet and leather dressing suites, is not too dissimilar to some of the scenarios she occasionally plays out. Though at home of course, the erotic element is rather more to the fore.

  It is a strange paradox. For while she is the customer, and therefore the person being ‘served’, either by Evelyn or one of Kubu’s expert ‘dressers’, it is the dresser who is in charge of the situation. It is she who places the customer’s body in this position or that; gives the commands, 'Hold tight Madam,' 'Stand up straight Madam,', and pulls the lacing tight, winding the loose ends round the customer's waist several times before tying them off in the regulation bow. It is, Corinne thinks, symbolic. And more than a little suggestive.

  But Corinne doesn’t allow herself to dwell long on such things. She just enjoys the experience for what it is. As she has been doing for most of the morning.

  As always, Evelyn is right. The black and scarlet satin over-bust with the black lace trim - a recent addition to the, ‘Belladonna’, range - does indeed look wonderful on her. Just what she has been looking for in fact. Something special for her forthcoming rendezvous. Something to mark the occasion as the new departure she hopes it may be. An opportunity to expand her horizons, for the relationship to take on a new significance perhaps. Something that has been missing from her life for too long now.

  But even as her thoughts turn to the evening to come, she cautions herself. She shouldn’t let herself get too carried away. Things must be allowed to take their natural course. Nevertheless, she is hopeful.

  'Will this be all Mrs Anderson?' Evelyn says as she lovingly places the garment, wrapped in swathes of tissue, into one of the black and gold boxes that are reserved for Kubu's most valued customers.

  'I think so Evelyn.'

  As always, Corinne savours the woman’s reverential attentions. She has often wondered how she might react if Evelyn ever slipped up and referred to her, not as, ‘Mrs Anderson’, but as, ‘Mistress’, - as she knows she has come close to doing a couple of times.

  Of course, Evelyn would have guessed her secret long ago. But she is sure she is far from the only one of her kind Kubu counts amongst its regulars. How many, she has often wondered? Perhaps one day she will ask Evelyn outright. It would be interesting to hear what she has to say on the subject.

  'I take it you would like me to update your account Mrs Anderson?' Evelyn says.

  'If you would Evelyn, thank you.'

  That is the other nice thing about Kubu. The words, ‘money’ and ‘payment’ seem to be regarded as being somehow vulgar; insulting even. As though the business of monetary exchange is of secondary importance to the shop’s main purpose, which of course is to give pleasure to their customers. Something at which they excel.

  Evelyn picks up the bags containing her charge’s morning purchases and steps from around the counter. But before handing them over she remembers to ask, 'Would you like some assistance to where you are parked?'

  'No thank you Evelyn, that won’t be necessary.' Corinne isn’t done shopping yet, and the bags aren’t too heavy. Besides, she enjoys walking around the city bearing the evidence proclaiming she only shops at the most exclusive outlets. She wouldn’t be seen dead carrying Marks and Spencer.

  Evelyn hands her the bags. As the exchange takes place a small, plain-white envelope finds its way, discreetly, from Corinne’s hand to Evelyn’s from where it disappears, as if by magic, into her suit jacket pocket. 'Thank you Mrs Anderson.'

  'Thank you, Evelyn, you’ve been a great help, as always.'

  Evelyn accepts the brief but no-less genuine compliment with the slightest of nods. She knows that the contents of the envelope - which she won’t open until she gets home that evening - will speak louder than words. 'I hope your evening goes well,' she says.

  Evelyn speaks entirely without irony, and Corinne doesn’t need to check that she isn’t wearing a knowing look. The woman is the model of discretion, and even if she has an inkling of the sort of evening Corinne has planned, she would never show it. She could be referring to a dinner engagement. Nevertheless, she flashes Evelyn a brief, conspiratorial smile before turning away and heading for the door.

  As she nears the front of the shop, a tall man in a dark suit, appears from a doorway to her right, as she’d been expecting he would. In his fifties with greying hair and a moustache that hides his upper lip, he is gushing in his manner and wears a broad smile as he takes the hand she proffers him.

  'Have you had a successful morning Mrs Anderson?' Always keen to demonstrate to his staff the standards he expects, he speaks a little louder than necessary. Bowing at the waist, he brings her hand to his lips, making ready to bestow on her his formal farewell.

  'I have indeed James, most successful. Please thank everyone for me.' The smile she sends him is one of her warmest.

  'I will indeed, Madam.' His lips brush the back of her hand. But he holds it there for a fraction longer than he needs to and, still bent over, raises his eyes to hers. In a voice that is barely more than a whisper and which he knows will not carry, he says, 'Mistress is most welcome,' and gives her a respectful look.

  'Thank you James.'

  She also speaks in a low voice, but her smile makes clear how much she appreciates his personal attention. It is a ritual that has become a feature of her visits. It makes her feel a little special. And she knows he enjoys it too.

  With a final bow, he opens the door for her and she steps out into the street.

  As she gives him one last nod of farewell, she thinks about where she has to go next. Ah, yes. Shoes. There’s a new shoe shop, so she has heard, just opened up in The Exchange Building. She sets off down Deansgate towards the Royal Exchange.

  As she heads away, James Ollerenshaw, Kubu's long-serving sales-manager, watches her, admiringly. It always fascinates him the way women such as her manage to walk so gracefully in their heels, and despite the pencil-skirt that in this case sheathes her fine legs. As she disappears round the corner, his wistful look begins to fade. But before turning from the window he allows himself one last self-satisfied smile. He relishes the luck that brought him to a position where he can spend a good part of his day serving women such as Corinne Anderson. If only he could do so more often, and on a more permanent basis.

  Still, you never know, he thinks as he finally turns away. If his plans work out, the dream may just come true, one day.

  Chapter 3

  Carver thought that if he tried hard enough, he could probably recognise the woman in the doorway as the one who had greeted them earlier - just. In the fifteen minutes since, an extraor
dinary transformation had occurred. While the woman in white had been striking, she wouldn't have particularly stood out in a crowd, especially if the crowd were well-to-do and fashionably dressed. But the woman now before them would have turned heads at a Hollywood reception.

  Slim about the waist, Megan Crane had a figure that would fit well within the covers of a men’s magazine. Her shining, coal-black hair was cut just above her shoulders in a bob that perfectly framed the oval of her face. Her makeup was sparse, but effective, highlighting her prominent cheekbones and the dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her lipstick was a shade of red which, on someone else this time of day, might have seemed out of place. Only on her it wasn’t. The black bodice with three-quarter length sleeves was tucked into shimmering-white leggings that emphasised the length and shapeliness of her legs. A gold belt with a round buckle encircled her waist. Standing tall in a pair of gold, strappy heels, the effect was what Carver could imagine certain members of his team describing as, ‘Sex On Legs’.

  And Megan Crane knew it.

  'There you both are.' The smile was the sort she might wear to greet old friends. As she came around the breakfast bar, her heels click-clacked on the tiled floor. 'I see you’ve found the coffee. Give me a moment, then you can tell me what you’ve come to talk to me about.'

  As he watched her move, gracefully and purposefully, around the kitchen, Carver wondered if this was Megan Crane’s normal daytime look, or if she’d dressed to reflect the credentials he'd alluded to, briefly, at the front door. Whichever, in the setting of a domestic kitchen on a bright sunny afternoon, the effect was unsettling. As he watched her frothing up a cappuccino with an electric hand-whisk she’d conjured from somewhere, he felt Jess's stare. Turning to his left, he caught something that reminded him of the look on his mother's face that day she chanced upon his stash of adolescent 'reading material'. About to throw her a, ‘What’? their hostess interrupted by purring, 'I’m ready for you now.' He sent Jess back as neutral a look as he could manage, mindful that if the woman was aiming to make an impact, it was working.