Close to saying something she knew she may later regret, Jess grabbed her purse and slipped from her stool. ‘That’s it. If you’ve not found something else to talk about by the time I get back, then I’m out of here.’
But as she headed for the Ladies, the digs followed.
'I like it when she gets all dominant.’
'Get her another drink. That’ll whip her into shape.’
‘Feeling a bit ropey are we?’
‘Just joking Jess. Not.’
As always on a Saturday night in Jasper’s the Ladies was jammed. Jess had to queue for a cubicle. When one came free, she was in it like a rabbit down a hole. Locking the door, she leaned back and took a deep breath. Then she sat down and put her head in her hands.
When she’d arrived home that evening, following her creepy-but-revealing encounter with Shepherd, she had little time to reflect on her day. Already an hour late for her meeting with the girls, she’d been desperate to try Martin again. She showered, changed and saw to her hair and makeup in record time. Through it, she was conscious of questions lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to be dragged out and pulled apart. Mostly, they related to their failure to recruit Megan Crane to their cause. Jess didn’t do blame, but her sense was that if she did, she wouldn’t be pointing any fingers at herself. With an effort, she’d turned her thoughts away from the afternoon’s events, grabbed her mobile and tried Martin.
The 'unavailable' signal she'd been getting all week sounded again.
'Damn it Martin, Where the hell are you?'
Two weeks earlier, as he’d left for his trip to somewhere in Eastern Europe – Azerbaijan? – he’d warned that communication might be a problem. ‘The way things are out there right now there’s no guarantee there’ll be a decent signal so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while.’ He’d also spoken about spending, ‘a fair bit of time in the mountains, where the rebels are holding up.
Jess knew nothing about Azerbaijan. She wasn’t even clear as to what the television documentary he’d been commissioned to produce was about. Something to do with Human Rights abuses, she thought. But she could imagine mobile phone coverage being spasmodic, at best.
It wasn’t that she was missing him, exactly. Before Martin, she'd lived alone long enough it didn’t bother her. But this particular night, she’d have been interested to hear his take on Megan Crane. Instead, all she had were the three musketeers out there, who were no use at all. How can a grown woman not know what a dominatrix is, for God's sake?
Sitting there, Jess felt the day’s frustrations rising again, though who to focus her anger on she wasn't sure. Carver? Herself? Her piss-taking friends? It didn't matter. Whoever the rightful target, it fed her ruminations.
They should have persevered; she knew that now. If she'd been able to talk with the woman on her own, she was sure she’d have… Which is when the idea came
Her first thought was to reject it outright. He would never approve. But the thought stayed, and the more she considered it, the more certain she became. He couldn’t say anything if it worked. And it would show him what she was capable of.
Leaving the cubicle - too noisy - she returned to the bar but steered away from where her friends looked like they were still enjoying her absence and made her way outside. Slipping round the corner away from the bustle, she took out her mobile and brought up the number she'd got off the woman in the DOM office and which she’d added to her contacts, ‘just in case.’ It was late, but something told her she wasn't the early-to-bed sort.
After a few rings it picked up and an unmistakeable voice said, 'Yes?'
She took a deep breath. 'Ms Crane- Megan. This is Jess Greylake, the Detective-'
'Jess!' The gushing tone made it sound like she was hearing from a long-lost friend. 'So lovely to hear from you. I was wondering when you would call.'
Chapter 13
Carver entered at the back of the Royal Northern College of Music Concert Hall, just as the woman on stage hit the soaring highs of Povo Que Lavas No Rio. As he settled into his seat, the hairs on the back of his neck rubbed against his collar, just as they had the first time he heard it.
Rosanna Nogueira looked stunning in the glittering white dress that fitted her like a glove and which she’d anguished about buying for weeks before he’d finally told her ‘Buy the damn thing. I’ll pay. You know it’ll look great.’ And as he’d told her the several times she’d tried it on since, he was right.
After the day he’d had, Carver was tempted to close his eyes and let the music transport him back to the smoky depths of Barco Negro, but he resisted. He rarely got to see her perform live. Barco Negro was the Lisbon nightclub where he and Gill had fetched up on the last night of their final, make-or-break holiday in Portugal - break as it turned out. The memory of the flame-haired fadista, as he later learned the term, singing a type of music he had never heard before but which sent shivers up his spine, was all that stayed of that abortive week. When he chanced across her again three years later, at a Liverpool music festival to which a lady Police Doctor friend dragged him in an effort to force him back into the real world, he was glad it had.
Checking around, he gauged the hall was two-thirds full. Not bad considering the limited audience for Fado in the North. At least it was enough she would feel it had been worthwhile. The past two weeks she had been checking the website’s ticket sales daily. For the thirty minutes remaining of her set, her voice did something he’d tried to do many times the past few weeks but failed – wipe away thoughts of murder, dominatrices, past misjudgements and, more recently, Megan Crane. After her closing number and the obligatory encore, she joined him in the basement Camerata Bar. He had a large Rioja waiting, alongside his pint. She was eager for his opinion.
‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘As always.’
And though she pressed him for detail – ‘How did it sound?’ ‘What did you think of the dress?’ ‘Was the volume right?’ his critiquing skills weren’t up to the job.
‘Fantastic.’ ‘Great.’ ‘Amazing.’
‘That’s all you ever say.’
‘That’s all you want to hear.’
She tossed her hair and laughed the throaty laugh that always did it for him.
Over the next half-hour they drank and talked through the concert – as much as he’d heard. She was surprised but glad he’d managed to get there at all, and teased him about, ‘showing her gratitude,’ later. He hoped he would be up to it, and tried to act like he knew what he was talking about when he mentioned the hall’s ‘great’ acoustics and the clarity of the guitars. ‘Guitarra,’ she corrected. In reality they were both aware that if he knew a tenth as much about music as he did football – like his father, he was die-hard Liverpool fan – he would sound more convincing. It didn’t matter. They both knew that the fact they were polar opposites – she a cultured artiste with a taste for fine wine, he a beer-swilling detective whose only real interest apart from her was football - was one of the reasons the relationship worked, so far at least. Eventually there was a lull. As she sipped her wine, she regarded him over the glass’s rim.
‘How did it go today?’ She tried to make it sound casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.
He gave her a long look, thinking on how much to tell. Right from that first night in Liverpool when he introduced himself and told her he’d seen her perform in Lisbon and talked her into dinner, Carver had resolved not to repeat the mistakes he’d made with Gill. It meant sharing more about his work than he was used to. Rosanna knew he hadn’t been looking forward to his meeting with the Crane woman. She even knew some of the reasons why.
‘Not too well. But we’re not giving up. We’ll try again next week.’
‘And your Jess? What did she think?’
He thought on it. ‘Difficult to say. I don’t think she’d met anyone like her before. She said she was, ‘interesting.’
‘What about you? Do you think she is ‘interesting’?
He che
cked her face. It was giving nothing away. ‘She’s a possible lead. Of course she’s interesting.’
Rosanna pulled her chair closer to his, cupped her hand to the back of his head. She stared deep into his eyes, as if searching for something. What?
‘You must be careful, Jamie Carver. Some women, they are bad for you.’ She paused then added, ‘You know this.’
He nodded, thought he could joke himself out of it. ‘Like you, you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’ But then she lightened. ‘I, on the other hand, am very good for you. This, you also know.’
As they held each other's gaze, he felt her other hand on his thigh. And as she leaned in to press her lips to his, he felt an unexpected stirring. Driving into Manchester, all he’d thought about was how he’d messed up, what he needed to do to make it right. He’d worried it would cast a shadow over their whole weekend. But as he returned the kiss, he thought, Maybe not.
Chapter 14
Corrine Anderson jerks as the flogger's stinging tails rake cross her back. Again, it is harder than she thinks necessary. It adds to her growing concerns.
To begin with, the scene had played out strictly as per the script. Her ‘dutiful slave’ had obeyed her every command, without question. But the last couple of lashes have been heavier than expected. It makes her wonder if it’s inexperience that is the problem, or something else. Either way, she decides, if her next instruction isn’t obeyed, precisely, she will issue the safe-word, and bring this part of the encounter to a close. Time for a stern reminder.
'That was too much,' she says. 'I told you, I am not to be marked.' She waits for the whimpering apology the rebuke demands. Silence.
'Do you hear me?' She lifts her voice to signal her anger and tries to twist round. But the ropes securing her to the post are tight and the way her wrists and arms are secured in front and above her, restricts her movement. She waits, unsure whether her slave’s lack of response is due to fear at having upset, ‘Mistress’, or the need to indulge in some strictly-forbidden self-relief - which will itself require punishment. Whatever the reason, the lack of response means it is time to re-assert herself.
'Red.'
Nothing. She tries again.
'Red. Do you hear me? I’ve given the safe word. Release me at once.'
Still no response. Corinne is shocked. It is unheard of.
For experienced players such as Corrine, the safe-word is sacrosanct. In all her years as a Dom, she has only ever known it be ignored once. She never saw that person again. For the first time, she feels the stirrings of unease.
Just a few minutes before, her slave had seemed the same, natural submissive she had come to know during their previous meetings. And it was her co-player’s compliance with her commands during those meetings that had convinced her she could play out this element of the scene safely. That her slave will bend to her will on command. She hopes she hasn’t miscalculated.
The answer comes in the form of another blow, the hardest yet - across her buttocks this time.
'OOOWWWWW. Red. RED!' The stinging pain ripples through her body. But before she can remonstrate further, she feels a hand balling in her hair and her head is yanked back, hard.
A voice, breathless and menacing, whispers in her ear. 'You can shout, ‘Red’ as much as you like, BITCH. I’M in control here now, not you.'
The vicious tone and the threat implicit in the words are enough for Corinne to realise. This is no momentary aberration. I’ve been set up.
Icicles of fear radiate through her as she realises her vulnerability. If the whole thing has been a contrivance, then what else lies in store for her? Feelings of panic begin to well up. But she doesn’t say anything. Her instincts tell her she is no longer, 'Mistress,' and it will do her no good to try to act the part. Too late, she admonishes herself for being so gullible.
But she isn’t allowed to ponder on it long. A red ball-gag appears in front of her. Before she can react, it pushes hard into her mouth, behind her teeth, making it impossible to spit it out. She shakes her head, violently, to no avail. She feels the strap being buckled behind, tight. Her former sub is making sure their roles are well and truly reversed. More rope is wound about her legs, lashing them to the post. To her horror, she feels something soft about her neck. She tries to call out through the gag, but her cries are cut off as whatever it is tightens, choking off her efforts.
The combined effect of fear, the gag, and whatever is now about her throat, forces Corinne to gasp for breath. She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she finds herself gazing into two dark pools. Earlier, the eyes had been respectful, compliant, underpinned with the submissive’s desire to obey. She had put her trust in those eyes. Absolute trust. Now they are cold, clinical, reflecting nothing but … what? Hate? Her fear spreads. It is the sort of fear a mother experiences when her child is away from her care and she sees a policeman walking up the path. She knows something bad has happened, but doesn’t yet know what.
She tries to ask, 'What are you going to do?' But the words come out a meaningless jumble of 'Wha’'s and 'oo's.
In response, her captor’s face closes in on hers and she feels hot breath on her cheeks. The chilling voice rings in her ears once more.
'You’re under my control now, Mistress! And we are going to play the game the way I want to play it. Understand, Mistress?'
Terrified, Corrine Anderson can only nod. Whatever the game is, she hopes it won’t last too long, or be too painful. She dare not even think of another possibility, which is even worse. Far worse.
It is years since Corinne has cried from fear. She does so now, tears running down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and onto the shelf the entwining ropes have formed from her jutting breasts, as her former sub goes to work.
Chapter 15
It took Carver’s mobile several rings before it penetrated the depths where he dreamed these days enough to register. As his hand groped over the bedside table, Rosanna stirred beside him.
'Wh- Who is it?'
'Shhh. S'alright. Go back to sleep.' Finding the source of the annoying buzz, he checked the screen. His eyes weren’t focusing yet. ‘Tch.’ He jabbed a finger at the green circle. First bloody weekend off in months...
'Yes?'
'Jamie. It's Rita.'
It took him a moment. 'Rita. Whassup?' He prised himself onto an elbow.
'I'm at Carnegie Avenue. You need to come.' Her dull tone told him it wasn't for debate.
He swung his legs out, sat on the edge of the bed, mind clearing, rapidly. 'What's happened?'
'Kayleigh's stabbed Stuart.'
‘WHAT?' Shit. 'Is he-?'
'Dead? No. But it’s a right mess. Your people are here. I need you.'
He checked the clock. 03:05. He stood up.
'Forty-five minutes.'
Carver saw the blue flashing lights reflecting the length of Carnegie Avenue long before he got anywhere near number twenty-five. Along the approach he counted two ambulances, several Police cars, a couple of plain, CID cars. Someone had hit the button hard on this one.
He parked behind the last police car and got out. As he headed for the house that was once a pair of semis until the project converted them into one, he was already working scenarios. Then he remembered where he was. Turning, he pointed his keys back at the car and waited while the lights flashed. Nearing the house, he saw every window was showing a light. Likewise the houses either side, and opposite. They’re used to it. The front door was open. There was shouting coming from inside. Several voices. A young policeman was on point at the garden gate. Beyond him, further down the street, dark figures roamed. Not all were in uniform. Carver hoped none were press. He needed to get a lid on, fast.
‘’Morning, Mr Carver.’ the officer said, as if it were a nice sunny one.
Carver nodded. ‘’Morning, Matt.’
As he turned up the path, the shouting got louder. Some from upstairs, some down. Stepping into the hallway, two th
ings struck him. First, there was carpet on the stairs. He’d only ever seen them bare. Nothing fancy, just a plain mid-brown. But it was an improvement. The second thing was the smell of fresh paint – another first. He remembered an email a couple of weeks back, something about a local decorating company offering sponsorship. To his left was the main living-room, directly in front, the stairs. He was about to go up when a voice he recognised came from his left.
'SIT DOWN RUSSELL.'
He turned to it, then realised something else. The door was back on its hinges. Checking up the stairs he confirmed what his sub-conscious had registered as he’d come in. The upstairs doors had been re-hung as well. When the project started, they’d found all the internal doors stacked in the back garden amidst all the stolen motorcycle parts. It had taken many weeks and much bridge-building before the older kids told how they’d taken them off so they would have early warning of their Dad’s approach. As he entered the room, Carver saw the night-CID DS, Paul Hill, nose to nose with Russell Lee. A uniformed PC stood off, watching, ready.
At seventeen, Russell was the oldest of the family’s nine siblings. With a history of showing violent aggression towards the police, he had been the hardest to bring on board. It wouldn’t have happened at all without Kayleigh. To Russell’s credit, the way his fists kept jerking up into the ‘ready’ position then dropping, Carver could see he was fighting against the instincts telling him to show the man in his face he was no longer a kid. On the couch behind him, Billy, fourteen, was watching wide-eyed, waiting to see which way things would go. The door into the kitchen was shut. Women’s voices drifted through.
Hill had his back to Carver, but must have seen the change in Russell’s face as he came in. Hill turned. When he saw his DCI he looked relieved.
Russell didn’t waste a second. ‘Mr Carver, this twat’s just assaulted me.’ He pointed to somewhere on his face. As long as Carver had known him, it had always been a patchwork of battle-scars.
Last Gasp Page 7
