by J Paton
“Yes.”
That one word was like a nail in my coffin. “This changes things, Mr. Robertson. These are serious allegations and will require further investigation to confirm what you’re saying—”
“It’s the bloody truth. You only have to listen to him to see that! He has the scars to prove it, the hospital admissions, the attack yesterday, the attempt to grab him off the street,” Mr. Corrigan ground out, getting in my face with an intimidating glare. He seemed to grow in size, his plain grey T-shirt looking as if it was going to burst at the seams.
Not easily frightened, I held Mr. Corrigan’s stare as Mr. Robertson interjected. “He’s not saying that he doesn’t believe me.”
“No, I’m not saying that. But, as with everything, we have to confirm the information we’ve been given. These are serious allegations and require hard evidence.” I kept my voice low and even.
“See, he’s just saying he needs all the information so they can get Devon.”
“Alright, little man, alright.” Mr. Corrigan sat back in his chair, although I wasn’t convinced that he’d stay there given the way he was still glaring at me.
“Where do you want me to start?” Mr. Robertson asked as he met my gaze.
“It’s difficult to say, but if there has been sexual assault then that changes things in terms of the support that we offer. It might help me to determine what needs to happen next if you can give me a brief outline of what happened to you. You won’t need to go into great detail right now, that can wait until you come to the station. We do video interviews for this kind of case to record the information. It enables us to go back over everything that was discussed and assists with compiling a case.”
“Is that really necessary?” Mr. Robertson choked out, sounding panicked.
I struggled to maintain my professionalism, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as distress poured off him in waves.
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s not as scary as you might think. This takes away any ambiguity and speeds up the process for the victim.” It only took a second to realise my mistake as Mr. Robertson blanched at the word “victim.”
“If I didn’t make any effort to leave, does that mean you’d think I’d consented to what happened?”
Ignoring Mr. Corrigan’s sharp exhale, I answered truthfully, hating the fact that it might cause more trauma. My instincts told me that what Mr. Robertson had shared was the truth, and possibly only the tip of the iceberg. “Maybe I would be able to answer that better if you give me a little more information.”
Mr. Corrigan growled.
“Isaac…” Mr. Robertson trailed off as he glanced between us.
I showed no outward reaction to how Mr. Robertson had attracted Mr. Corrigan’s attention, or when he moved to sit in his partner’s lap in what looked like a practiced move.
Mr. Robertson stared at Mr. Corrigan. “I have to do this. For me, for you, and for anyone else there might be out there going through the same thing as I did.”
I couldn’t stop a frown from forming. “Anyone else out there going through the same thing as I did.” The words ran through my mind and caused my heart to stutter. What was Mr. Robertson talking about? Did I really want to know?
It was too late now.
“I’ve been a part of the BDSM lifestyle for over three and a half years. I joined The Playroom around that same time and I’m a submissive… or I was. Eighteen months ago, I embarrassed myself in the club in front of a few members. I acted rashly, stupidly going off to find another club without doing proper research.”
As he continued to talk, the stoic mask of indifference I usually prided myself on, failed me. What in the ever-loving fuck? Could this really be happening again? The similarities between Mr. Robertson’s story and another all too familiar one left me in a world of pain, one I didn’t want or need.
Once Mr. Robertson had finished speaking, his face was pale but he appeared calmer.
I was about to combust, though, as I struggled to keep an outward appearance of composure. It would be too damn difficult to have to explain a breakdown in this man’s kitchen.
I licked at my too dry lips. “Mr. Robertson, that’s a lot of information, and there are several aspects that will require further discussion and investigation. I have concerns about both yesterday’s attack and the one several weeks ago that you mentioned. Am I correct in thinking that you feel that both of these episodes are related to what happened to you in Dom’s Haven?” My brows met in the middle and I could hear the strain in my own voice.
“Yes,” Mr. Corrigan answered.
Mr. Robertson released a sigh. “Yes, I do. The guy that grabbed me in the middle of London was called Riley. I think he's also the manager of the club, or possibly the owner.”
There was a crackling noise, followed by a tinny voice coming from the radio attached to my black armoured jacket. “Sorry, I’ll need to answer this.” I stood and walked out of the room grateful for five minutes to get my head on straight.
Was that ever going to be possible?
Who the fuck knows?
Dom’s Haven
The grip of icy terror clung on like some fucking infectious disease that would not let go, the memory of the warning I’d received months earlier coming back to haunt me. The second I’d received the call from Beck, my heart had sunk like a fucking lead weight. There was no way I was taking the hit for Vic and Beck’s error of judgement. They’d been confident that they’d be able to snatch Ferron in the underground car park without any difficulty.
I ran a shaky hand across my unshaven chin as I stared at the phone on my desk, knowing it wasn’t going to be long before I received a call. I’d heard from our lawyer that he and Master had managed to get Vic and Beck released. What that meant in terms of what happened next, I didn’t even want to contemplate. Both Vic and Beck knew the score for failing Master.
I’d known that the Master didn’t just give out verbal threats for no reason. I’d just never been sure whether it would be me or Vic and Beck that those threats would become a reality for. The longer we’d spent in business together, the less I’d wanted to know about what the other man got up to. When I’d first started Dom’s Haven, along with other various side ventures, I’d been happy to keep things low key. Somehow that had evolved to agreeing to a partnership with Master. Now the side venture was the main business, the club a front, and I was no longer the only one running the operation.
Master’s protection had ensured that things went from strength to strength. Only things weren’t the way I wanted it to be. It was out of control. Over the last ten years, the business had developed to where there were other men who owned their own clubs across England. Up until the last couple of years everyone had kept their noses clean, or clean enough that no one paid any attention to our goings on. Player’s Kingdom had changed that when it came under police scrutiny. They’d placed an undercover officer in the club, in an operation that had caused Macintosh’s business to topple like a stack of cards. I’d laughed at the stupidity of others for not having sniffed out the rat, but it seemed that karma had come to bitch slap me too. One slipperier-than-a-fucking-eel sub, who kept getting away from us was becoming my nightmare. My own attempt at plucking him off the street had failed, and now Beck and Vic had got themselves arrested while attempting to grab Ferron.
Beck had assured me it would be a piece of piss, that it was the perfect opportunity. Only it had been anything but. I was surrounded by imbeciles who couldn’t do anything fucking right.
A knock came at the door and I shouted out, “Come in.” I breathed easier when Vic and Beck appeared in the doorway.
Silently pointing at the chairs in front of me, I waited for them to sit. “What happened?”
Vic, the stupider of the two, launched right in. “The fucker has some sort of tactical training, he must have. He’sꟷ”
Unable to listen to the list of excuses sure to follow, I bellowed out, “There were two of you. There was no way Ferron w
as going to cause you an issue. All you needed to do was immobilise the boyfriend and grab Ferron.”
Vic slouched in his seat, his gaze on the wall. “Sorry Riley, we miscalculated.”
“You can fucking say that again. Master wants answers and I sure as fucking hell won’t be the one giving them to him.”
Vic was up and out of the chair, his gaze darting around the room. “No! Fuck, I can’t talk to him. Iꟷ”
“You’re both going to talk to him because I’ve covered for you enough. It fucking ends now. Get out of my sight, but don’t you fucking dare leave this building. He got you both out of the cells, so be fucking ready.”
Beck hadn’t said a word, remaining in his seat and staring at me with a thoughtful look on his bearded face. “You aren’t throwin’ us under no fucking bus. Master knows the risks. He’s the one who broke a sub that we had to get rid of, again. He needs to be reminded of that.” Beck slowly got up, looking over to Vic who had remained standing, the grim lines around his mouth not lessening.
They were both fucking fools. “You can remind him of that when he pays us a visit later,” I growled.
“Don’t think I won’t,” Beck said, his tone rivalling Master’s for menace.
“Stay downstairs, be useful and help out. I’ll ring down when he arrives.”
The door slammed shut behind them. I stared at the phone for a few seconds before reaching for it. I dialled the number no one else had and waited.
“What?”
“I need to secure a container for one, and possibly two vehicles that I’ll require disposal of.”
“How damaged will they be at pick up?”
“Expect the worst.” I ended the call, knowing there was nothing else to say. Pinny would know what to do and wouldn’t ask any questions. All that remained was to figure out how to avoid getting my arse involved in the fallout.
I sighed, putting the phone down and opening up the file that contained enough evidence to put us all in prison for the rest of our lives.
Was it time to reveal the cards I held?
Tucker
With every extra step I took, I had to work harder to keep the sense of dread that had stayed with me since leaving the house, at bay. What the fuck was I going to do?
There was going to be some arse kicking coming my way, no matter which way I looked at it. I should have followed procedure and passed Mr. Robertson to the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of his case. Had I done that? Had I fuck! I was sure that the regret would come later.
Even when I’d sensed months ago that there’d been something missing from the kidnapping case, I would never have believed it would take me right back to my past. It was just my fucking shitty luck! The satisfaction in my gut at being proved correct was cold comfort, given that it left me in the eye of a shitstorm. A shitstorm, that I was clueless about how to navigate without getting covered in crap.
There was a lack of evidence to confirm Mr. Robertson’s version of events. Yet, a part of me that couldn’t be ignored, had heard the ring of truth to his statement. The man had reeked of fear and anguish. Even the best actor in the world would have struggled to convey such realism.
Where did that leave me? Wanting to dive for cover and pass this on to the coppers managing the case. Yet I desperately wanted to make sure that those who had made Mr. Robertson suffer were brought to justice. Is this for him or for someone else?
There was no way I was opening that can of worms. I’d need to think about it later—much later.
I strode into the lift as it opened. Thankful it was empty and I didn’t have to try and make small talk, I pressed the button for the floor that housed my team. Leaning back against the wall, I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Are you really gonna do this?
The determination that spread through me was my answer. Only I wasn’t too sure I was ready for the battle needed to get what I wanted. The lift dinged to announce the floor, and without giving myself a chance to overthink what I was about to do, I headed straight for the boss’s office.
Ten minutes later I was struggling to contain the growl of frustration that wanted out as the stony-faced man stared me down.
“Can you explain to me why you went to Mr. Robertson’s home? This case has an SIO, it doesn’t need you interfering.” Hard eyes showed little emotion as the man behind the desk stared at me.
“I’m a part of this case, and will continue to be until I’ve given evidence in court—”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit line. You work as part of an armed response unit! The case was handed over, so what gives?”
I didn’t sag at being called out, but it was a close call. “Mr. Robertson rang yesterday to request a meeting. I had no idea what it pertained to.” I swallowed, keeping my gaze locked on the Detective Superintendent as I blatantly lied. “When I tried to extract the information, he refused to discuss it over the phone. As I had nothing to pass on, I decided to go and see what it was he wanted.”
Brows rising a fraction of an inch was the only outward sign that the DS was thinking about what I’d said. “Okay, that might work if the SIO involved asks questions.”
Fuck! I clearly needed to learn to lie better.
As if he’d read my mind, the DS offered a half smile. “We’ve worked together for what? Two years?” I nodded. “I know all the men in my team.” He left it at that as he sat forward and picked up the notepad he’d requested to see after I’d first come into his office, offering it back to me.
Going with my gut instinct, I voiced my concerns. “I don’t think this is a hoax or a payback type of situation. Mr. Robertson’s story didn’t appear rehearsed or feel disingenuous. My gut tells me that there is something bigger going on here, Boss. I got the distinct impression that Mr. Robertson’s partner, Mr. Corrigan, was holding something back. Though, I’m not sure what. When Mr. Robertson mentioned he didn’t want the same thing to happen to anyone else, I didn’t get the impression it was theoretical.”
“You seem awfully interested in this”—he waved an empty hand in the air, a habit he often had when he couldn’t find the word he wanted—“shitstorm.”
I swallowed a chuckle at the DS’s choice of words matching my own thoughts from earlier, and nodded. “You know about some of the undercover work I did in the past.” My mind raced as I worked out what I could share without disclosing anything that would identify what I’d been involved in. “I’ve been a part of the underground world of BDSM. What I witnessed, demonstrated that anything is possible in clubs where they don’t care if a person gives consent or not.”
Thick fingers drummed on the table. “That might be the case, but you’re overstepping and it’s not like you. When you transferred into this division, you knew what kind of work you’d be doing. Has something changed? Are you no longer happy here?”
My sigh of resignation was out before I could curtail it. “No, I’m happy here. But this needs follow up. Mr. Robertson trusts me, or at least trusts me enough to approach me and talk about what happened to him. The attack I mentioned that happened yesterday, and the incident from a few months ago, must all be on record, and could show he’s in real danger.”
“Stop! Again, this is not the remit of this team. Collate what you’ve found and hand it over.”
The finality in his voice was enough to keep me from saying anything else for fear of pissing him off even more. The DS threw the pad back at me that I hadn’t taken. I caught it and swallowed a sigh, the boss dropping his gaze to whatever file he’d been looking at before I’d interrupted and offering me a view of his dark, greying hair.
I left, silently shutting the door behind me. Was there a way to get around the order? I processed the information on my way back to my desk, considering what the boss had said and running through possibilities. He’d demanded that I hand over the information, but he hadn’t given a specific time frame in which to do that. Would that work as an argument?
I hummed as I sat down at my desk.
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The noise level used to be an annoyance, but I’d learnt to block it out. Depending on their shift pattern and the requirements for armed officers on the streets, men and women came and went.
Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I retrieved a can of Sprite. After opening it, I drank deeply from it, hoping it might wash away the bitter aftertaste of the meeting. Can in hand, I stared at the phone on the desk.
Was there a way of staying involved in the case without getting chewed out by the boss? I mulled over the options, placing the can down and eyeing the empty desks on either side of me before logging on to the computer. I searched the database to find which SIO was dealing with Mr. Robertson’s case.
The name that popped up on the screen allayed a little of my concern as I picked up the phone and dialed the internal number I needed. A two-minute conversation culminated in the knowledge that the Detective dealing with the case was in court.
Without giving myself a chance to think too hard about what I was about to do, I fired off a quick email asking the SIO to contact me as soon as he could. After that, I went through my notes to search for the dates of the alleged kidnap.
I pulled up the records of the first incident, my eyes widening at the lack of information I found in the system. I scribbled down the PC’s name and a list of questions I wanted answered before moving on to the reported attack from the day before. There was a little more detail, a churning sensation starting in my guts.
How had both men been processed so quickly after pleading not guilty to the charges? Was the Dom’s Haven footing the bill for a fancy lawyer with a fast mouth? Or had the police cells been so overcrowded that they’d been processed quicker? Whatever the reason, their release from police custody had certainly been fast. Had it been too fast?
An itch at the base of my neck, one I’d learned not to ignore, voted for the latter option.
Had the arresting officers viewed the security feed at the club? There was no log of any security footage that I could find. The club had security cameras, which meant there had to be surveillance footage of what had happened. The owner of the club was no fool, and from what I could remember their system covered all areas of the building.
