'There’s something I think you should be aware of.' She waited. 'I know you and Jamie are working together, but... Well, it’s just that he has a reputation for sometimes getting a bit, you know, involved in this sort of thing? You need to be careful.'
As shock joined with the surprise, Jess wondered where it was coming from. Jealousy or genuine concern? He seemed sincere. 'What are you trying to say?'
He attempted a warm smile. 'Just a friendly warning. This sort of enquiry, it can suck you in if you’re not careful. I wouldn’t want it to happen to you.'
'Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll bear it in mind.' She turned away.
But he wasn’t finished. 'A couple more things.’ Stopping again, she almost sighed in annoyance. ‘Firstly, we’ve worked together before, so let’s cut out the ‘Sir’ business, ok? My name’s Gary, right?' She inclined her head, anything you say, but stayed on alert. 'Second, I’ve still got a vacancy on my team. I’d like someone like you to fill it. I feel we could work well together. With your help I- we, could nail this guy. You know, this Cosworth link is stronger than some people are giving it credit for. You might want to give some thought to swapping horses.'
Jess let her face show both her disappointment, and lack of interest. It didn’t put him off.
‘We could talk about it over a bite at Henry’s if you like?’
The station’s closest eatery, Henry’s Wine Bar did good business out of being the most trouble-free venue in town.
Jess was so taken aback she struggled to reply. She’d learned long ago how to deflect advances with a smile and light remark. It was easy enough to make enemies in this job without having to worry about men - and women - with grudges. But she’d always imagined that people like Shepherd -on the fast track- would be careful about leaving themselves open to a harassment charge.
I’m sorry, Sir. I was under the impression you’re Duty SIO this evening? I'm not sure it would appropriate for you to be seen dining out with a junior officer? In any case, I think that any discussions about my future should take place with Mr Carver present.' She let him digest it and then turned to leave, searching for a way past. But he reached out and took her elbow, again, not too heavy, but enough to pause her.
'Listen Jess.' He gave her the sincere look again. 'Just because he’s had some media attention, don’t expect to ride the crest of any wave that comes along. Your boss isn’t as squeaky clean as you might think. Don’t be surprised if you find a skeleton rattling around his closet someday. When that day comes some may assume you’re tainted as well. It would be a shame to ruin a promising career.'
Jess had heard enough. Time to be out of here. She looked down at the fingers gripping her elbow. 'If you would like to give me my arm back, I’ll be on my way. Sir.'
With a final smirk he let go, and stepped aside.
As she crossed the room, Jess was conscious of a feeling similar to the one she’d had as she’d walked down Megan Crane’s drive that afternoon. She didn’t look back, and was relieved when she turned the corner, out of his gaze.
Chapter 10
Corinne Anderson turns sideways, admiring the way her most recent Kubu purchase disguises the stomach she’s never quite managed to restore to pre-Tom and Betsy condition. At forty-four, Corinne is proud of the figure many younger women would envy. Still, she is glad she decided on her shopping trip that morning.
Dragging herself away from the dressing mirror - she can still see herself in the one over the dressing table if needs be - she crosses to the bed where the tools of her trade are laid out. She runs her hands over them, thinking on how best she might use their different textures, the imagery associated with them, to get the most from her forthcoming engagement. Like an artiste preparing for a performance, she is aware of a feeling of excited anticipation. She knows that only those closest to her have an inkling of how seriously she takes her favourite pastime.
Corinne Anderson was thirteen when she first started to become aware that her interests lay in different directions to those of her celebrity-obsessed friends. In the years following she sought to understand the nature of the urges that grew strongly within her. In the years following her doomed marriage – Michael could never come to terms with his young wife’s emerging preferences – she read widely. Titles such as, ‘The Ties That Bind’ and ‘Different Loving’, striving to grasp the complex psychology that underpins the range of activities encompassed by the acronym, BDSM – Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism.
But after many years, Corinne concluded that trying to explain why as many as eighty percent of people - some studies put it higher - and of both sexes, find the idea of dominating a partner, or being dominated, a turn-on, is as misguided as trying to explain why some prefer music to sport. It’s the way people are, has come to be Corinne’s philosophy on the subject. She gave up searching for any deeper meaning years ago.
This particular evening, her choices are informed by the contents of the letter resting on her bedside table. Thorough as always, she reaches for it to double check she hasn’t missed anything.
The typescript’s first page is headed, '(Respectful) Suggestions for Mistress’s Attire' and she has already checked that her outfit matches the specification.
Black collar. Red / Black corset, (Satin preferred). - Her new Kubu purchase is perfect. Seamed stockings, (black). Black stilettos, (four-inch heel, minimum). Opera/Evening gloves, (Black.)'
It is the classic, ‘Dom’ look. Corinne has worn it often, and is comfortable with it. She turns the letter over, skipping over the fawning, introduction in which the writer emphasises that the contents are only suggestions, and that, 'if Mistress chooses to ignore them, then that is, of course, Mistress’s prerogative'. She reads on.
'At our last meeting, Mistress demanded that her unworthy slave write, describing how the scene may progress…' She skipped further down. 'When unworthy slave arrives, Mistress may wish to be dressed as per’ Blah-blah-blah… ‘…may choose to invite slave into her beautiful home… Conversation will be polite, cordial…. Eventually… will find slave’s manner offensive… will become angry… will slap slave’s insolent face… will place a collar about slaves insulting throat …will then drag slave to her Playroom…. Punishment will begin…'
She reads it all again, making sure it is embedded within her memory. It is quite well written. More so than many such she has received over the years. And she knows how important it is that the scene be played out exactly as specified.
As well as her figure and expertise, Corinne prides herself on her ability to make sure that her relationships are based on mutual pleasure, unlike a professional whose only interest is in extracting her ‘tribute’. For that reason, she believes it important that the details agreed beforehand meet both their needs. And for all the letter’s submissive tone, its writer is as entitled to dictate how things are to proceed as she. Once the scene commences however, that is another matter.
That said, apart from one or two interesting and original little touches - the procedure with the electric toothbrush is one she hasn’t tried before - there is little within the first act that is new. She has all the necessary props, and where the letter isn’t specific- Well, she is certain her experience will see her through.
But it is the second part of the script that intrigues her. It’s a variation she hasn’t tried before and is interested to see if it can work. Her first thought was to reject it as altogether too contrived - not to mention contrary to her natural instincts. But curiosity has since taken over, and she has begun to think that, with a bit of imagination, it might just work.
It depends, of course, upon trust. Absolute trust. And she has thought long and hard on whether they know each other well enough. But the last couple of sessions have proceeded more smoothly than she anticipated. They both responded well to each other’s signals. In fact at this early stage, she feels more at ease with this particular ‘unworthy and undeserving slave’ than she has with any of the others. It would cert
ainly be different. And if it doesn’t work, well, it will be back to business as usual.
Satisfied with her preparations, she sits at her dressing table, pouting into the mirror, turning her head this way, then that, thinking about hair and makeup. Now, what sort of look for what is planned? Hair up, or down? Up, she decides. And make up? The usual, or something darker, more dramatic? Perhaps a darker look might actually sit better with the variation - if things happen to go that way.
Opening her expansive makeup box, she peers in, reminding herself of the many options available within its nooks and crannies. As she considers the myriad possibilities, the dampness between her legs reminds her of how the elaborate preparations are almost as enjoyable as the scene itself.
She closes her eyes, savouring the moment.
Chapter 11
The girl sniffed quick and hard and the line disappeared up the rolled-up twenty. Sitting up straight, she tossed her blond-streaked main back and tweaked her nose, sniffing again to make sure every grain was absorbed into the sensitive nasal tissues.
'WOO-HOO! FUCKing ayy-ONE,' she declared in her New York twang. Within seconds she felt her system beginning to respond. She lifted her voice. 'THAT’S FERKIN GOOD CANDYCAINE LOVER. Sure hope you got more o’ this somewhere.'
In the bedroom off the main living area, William Cosworth paused in his packing to poke his head round the door. Her face was already flushing. The good stuff works so quickly these days. He frowned. Petra’s cravings were definitely getting worse. She was becoming flaky, and that was a problem. Life was complicated enough. Her reliance on him – and what he provided - meant she served his purposes well. She actually seemed to enjoy the work and there was nothing she hadn’t been willing to try. But as her dependency increased, so did her tendency to talk. Twice recently he’d caught her just as she’d been about to describe some of their recent work to her friends. After the business a few years ago, he couldn’t afford more rumours, even if most people had forgotten all that by now. Amazing how these things blow over, eventually.
Time was coming he would need to do something about her. But he’d have to be careful. If she got wind of anything in her present state, she would blow. Probably run off to that faggot hairdresser of hers - wassisname, Damien? - and tell him everything. A normal person would assume she was making it all up, but not that cock-sucking idiot. He was stupid enough to believe her. And if he started talking - as he no doubt would - the proverbial-fucking-cat would be out of the proverbial-fucking-bag.
Returning to his packing, he stuffed straps, cameras and other items into the big leather holdall in which he kept everything he needed for his, ‘shoots.’ As he did so he considered his options. Apart from the obvious, there were a couple of possibilities that would be tidier and less risky. If he started now, made a couple of calls, he could be rid of her by the end of the week. She would never realise - until it was too late. The only thing she needed right now was to know where her next fix was coming from.
He’d have to remember not to get the next one hooked so quickly. Girls willing to do his kind of work were hard to come by. And while the money was good, he couldn’t afford to burn them out too soon. One in particular, Lisa, had been in his mind lately. The more he saw of her, the more he was certain she would be ideal. She’d been getting plenty of work recently and might be hard to convince, but there were ways. And a reliable supplier counts for a lot in this business.
Bag packed, he pulled the zips and carried it through to the living room. Petra was high now, in the active phase of her hit, picking up items of clothing and trying them against her reflection in the wall mirror. The old Prodigy hit, ‘Climbatise’ was booming from the B and O and she ducked and weaved to the heavy beat. Seeing the bag, she stopped.
'We goin’ out hon?'
Picking up the remote, he turned the volume down. He looked round for his car keys. 'I’m going out babe. You’re staying here'.
Disappointment crowded her features. 'You mean you’re leaving me here? Alone? Again?'
Her voice was a hurt whimper and he knew he had to be careful. He didn’t have the time to deal with her if she went off, and he was already late.
'It’s only a small job. Just got the call this afternoon,' he lied. 'Anyway, you’re out of it for the night. I told you to lay off that stuff. You’re no good to me in that state.'
The eruption was instantaneous. 'You BASTARD,' she screamed. 'You line me, then tell me I’m out of it? I’ll show you who’s FUCKING out of it.' The manic eyes searched about her. A heavy glass ashtray rested on the coffee table. But even as she bent for it he moved, fast. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulled her head back. At the same time his other hand took her wrist and twisted her arm up her back, forcing from her a scream of pain. He pulled her round so her face was inches from his and when he spoke his voice was full of menace.
'Don’t start Petra. I’m not in the mood. I’m going out and you’re stopping here. If you fuck me about, I swear, you’ll regret it.'
But she was angry to. Despite the pain she was about to start struggling when she saw his eyes. The drug hadn’t fully dulled her senses yet. There was something in them she’d seen more and more recently during their fights and spats. A chill ran through her, and the fear she’d felt coming on the past weeks – and which she kept telling herself was groundless – surfaced again. She stopped struggling and waited, bearing the pain rather than risk angering him more. He looked deep into her eyes, then pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her, hard and rough so her bottom lip caught against her teeth, before pulling away, sneering.
'That’s better. Now you just wait, nice and quiet, and I’ll be back later. If you’ve been good, I might just have something for you.'
He pushed her down onto the couch were she lay, nursing the pain out of her arm, running her tongue over her bloody lip. Picking up the bag, he threw her one last look of disdain, then left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. As he headed down the corridor, a muffled sob echoed behind.
Ignoring the lift, he took the stairs, using the exercise to dissipate his anger. He’d laid it on a bit – so she’d get the message – but was surprised how close he’d come. As he reached the ground floor and headed for the lobby, he allowed himself a final, 'Fucking bitch,' then shook his head, purging himself of her.
By the time the tall man in the long, grey coat turned to see who was approaching from behind, William Cosworth, Fashion Photographer, was back in character; his normal, charming self.
'’Evening, Wilson,' he said.
With a deferential nod, the old concierge pressed the button that released the door lock and stepped forward to pull it open. As he did so, a gust of damp wind stirred the bottom of his greatcoat.
'And good evening to you, Mr Cosworth-Sir. Have a pleasant evening.'
'Oh I will, Wilson,' he said, merrily, as he stepped out. 'I will. Goodnight.'
'And goodnight to you to, Sir.'
As he reached the pavement, Cosworth paused and pressed the button on his key ring. Thirty yards away, the lights of the black Porsche flashed brightly and a loud double clunk echoed across the car park. He glanced back up at the lobby, checking to make sure that Wilson, boring, fuddy-duddy Wilson, was watching. Sure enough, he was staring through the glass, shaking his head in admiration. Satisfied, Cosworth turned and walked, briskly, towards the car, already looking forward to the pleasures the evening would bring.
Up in the lobby Wilson raised his bright eyes to the ceiling and shook his wise old head.
'What a pillock.'
Chapter 12
As Jess watched her three friends falling about laughing over the latest, awful pun on the subject they’d been doing to death the last ten minutes, she wished she had never mentioned the word, ‘dominatrix.’ Earlier, their incessant badgering – ‘Why so quiet tonight Jess?’ ‘Is something wrong?’ - had lured her to mention a meeting with someone a bit ‘unusual’, and that it had not gone well. It was a mistake. They all knew
of her involvement with Kerry. The media couldn’t get enough of it. Normally tight-lipped, Jess’s uncharacteristic reveal was enough for them to fall on it like wasps on jam.
‘What do you mean, ‘unusual’?’
‘Was it a suspect?’
‘You’ll have to tell us. Whoever it is, they’re obviously on your mind.’
She’d thought that if she could put the day’s events behind her, she might be able to get on with enjoying her night out with friends she saw less and less these days. She told how she’d met a ‘lifestyle’ dominatrix. But when she realised that was about all she could share, she recognised her error. It triggered a torrent of questions, the first from Abi, the youngest. ‘What’s a domin-itix?’ What followed was proof enough - were any needed - that when it comes to ‘laddish’ humour, women in drink are no different to men. She then spent the next twenty minutes denying she was holding back on some earth-shattering secret that her friends had every right to know - ‘Remember, it’s us who pay your wages.’ Eventually she called, ‘Enough’ and suggested they find another topic to fixate on. It didn’t work. Cut off from their source, they resorted to squeezing every drop of humour they could from the information they’d been given. The string of puns and double-entendres that followed covered everything from handcuffs to interview - read ‘interrogation’ - techniques, and looked set to continue. The last, from birthday-girl Lou herself, was typically inane. A telephone call from the woman in question apologising for not being able to help with Jess’s enquiries because, ‘I’m tied up today.’ It was the last straw. Jess was still smarting over the afternoon’s shambles, and her friends’ behaviour struck her as not just disproportionate - Charlotte looked like she was about to wet herself for God’s sake – but crass in the extreme. They’d obviously forgotten that the subject they were laughing about connected to a string of brutal murders.
Last Gasp Page 6
