by David Blake
‘Actually, sir,’ chirped Tanner, ‘would you mind if I did head home?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Forrester replied, stepping forward with a bemused look.
‘It’s the storm, you see. I was told about it yesterday. I was going to move my boat to a safer mooring, but then I got the call about Sir Michael.’
‘Oh, right. I see. Then perhaps Vicky could go?’
‘Er…sorry, sir,’ Vicky spluttered, having opened and closed her mouth a few times, ‘but I really can’t say I’d be comfortable going to what is effectively a strip club; not on my own, at least.’
‘Then maybe Cooper could go with you?’
Vicky turned to give Tanner a look of pleading desperation.
‘If it’s alright by you, sir,’ Tanner began, realising the predicament he’d placed Vicky in, ‘I’d be happier if Cooper could remain focussed on the blackmail side of the investigation.’
‘Then how about taking young Townsend?’
Tanner glanced over at Vicky. ‘Is he even old enough to go inside?’
Forrester let out a heavy sigh of reluctant capitulation. ‘Very well. I suppose it will just have to wait till tomorrow.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOOKING FORWARD TO a pleasant evening’s sail, Tanner arrived at his old 1930s yacht only to find the wind had dropped to virtually nothing. Assuming it had to be the calm before the forecast storm, he was forced to change his plan, motoring out from his moorings instead, heading for Horning and the River Thurne beyond.
Thanks to Christine, the Broads Rangers had offered him free temporary moorings in amongst their patrol boats at Potter Heigham, and although it meant having to make a long four-hour journey, he was grateful to have found somewhere safe to keep his yacht during what looked likely to be a particularly savage summer storm. He also knew the journey would do him good. There was no better way for him to relax than to chug along at a sedate four miles-an-hour with nothing better to do than take in the gentle beauty of the Norfolk Broads and the majestic rivers that meandered their way through it.
‘Ahoy there!’ came a familiar voice, as he began steering his yacht in towards a line of near identical patrol boats, each glowing pink in the light of a steadily setting sun.
Lifting his head to see Christine waving at him from one of the bows, he raised a hand with a grateful smile, the other easing back on the yacht’s stubby brass throttle.
With the noise from the engine ebbing steadily away, the boat’s forward momentum gradually began to slow.
‘You didn’t have to meet me,’ he called, his words echoing out over the river’s gently rippling surface.
‘It’s no problem. I’ve only just finished work. Besides, it’s not every day I get to meet someone famous.’
‘Huh?’
‘I saw you on TV earlier.’
‘Oh, that!’ Tanner replied, rolling his eyes with a bashful smirk.
‘I don’t suppose I could have your autograph?’ she teased.
‘I suppose that depends on what you want me to sign.’
‘How about a cheque for two-million?’
‘Er…that might be a problem.’
‘Fifty-quid?’
Tanner laughed. ‘Tell you what, if you can help me moor up, I’ll think about it.’
‘OK, but you’d better throw me a line before the tide takes you.’
Realising she was right, and the boat was already being swept past the mooring towards the ancient brick base of Potter Heigham’s low medieval bridge, Tanner leapt out of the cockpit. Picking his way down the narrow walkway to the bow at the front, he fetched up a neatly coiled rope from off the deck to send it spiralling over the water towards her. Leaving Christine to pluck it out from the air to begin heaving on its end, Tanner hurried back to the cockpit to place the tip of his foot onto his yacht’s tiller, nudging it gently away. As the yacht’s nose crept slowly in towards a space between two of the Broads Rangers’ patrol boats, he leaned over to retrieve the second mooring line coiled up beside his other foot, waiting until the rear transom lined up with the port-side patrol boat before stepping lightly off.
‘That’ll be fifty pounds, please!’ Christine announced, tying off her line to send him a broad cheeky grin.
‘Ah, yes, right,’ he began, tying his own off to begin searching his pockets. ‘How about I make you something to eat instead?’
‘I wasn’t aware you could cook?’
‘I suppose that depends on your definition.’
‘If you were in Bake Off, would you make it through to the final?’
‘If it was a ready meal special, I’d probably win!’
Sending him a look of scolding disapproval, she placed her hands firmly down on her hips. ‘There’s nothing funny about what is without doubt the greatest show on British television.’
‘I’d no idea you were such a fan,’ Tanner replied, struggling to work out if she was being serious.
‘I’m more than just a fan, I’m an applicant!’
‘You’ve actually applied to be on the show?’
‘I have.’
‘Wow. That is impressive.’
‘So, no more Bake Off jokes, please. It’s all far too serious.’
‘Understood. So, anyway, I can cook you up a tasty Sainsbury’s lasagne with a serving a freshly heated up baked beans, if you like?’
‘To be honest, I think I’d rather have my brain removed with a spatula.’
‘I can do peas; if you prefer?’
‘I’m not sure that would make much difference. Anyway, joking aside, I should be getting home. I’ve got a homemade Boeuf Bourguignon waiting for me in the fridge.’
‘I must admit, that does sound a little more tempting. I don’t suppose I could tag along?’
‘Only enough for one, I’m afraid.’
They exchanged a flirtatious smile.
‘Look,’ Tanner eventually said, ‘why don’t you stay?’
‘For the night?’
‘You may as well. You’re going to have to come all the way back here tomorrow anyway. If you did, you’d be able to have a lie-in.’
Christine hesitated for the briefest of moments before shaking her head. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, John. I’ve told you before how I feel about staying on board the boat you used to live on with your fiancée.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ came Tanner’s reluctant reply, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.
‘Besides, we need to go on a date first.’
‘OK, then how about I take you out for dinner tomorrow night?’
Christine paused for the briefest of moments. ‘Are you sure you’ll be free?’
‘Not sure, no, but I can’t see what possible reason Forrester would have to object to me taking a few hours off on a Sunday evening.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday, 29th August
EVERY SINGLE DAY for the last sixty-three years, William Appleyard had taken the bus to Fairbrother’s in Norwich, the locally renowned department store where he’d worked with loyal diligence for the entirety of what he now considered to be a wasted career. Throughout that time, he’d only ever missed two days; the first being when he’d woken up to find his wife lying dead in the bed beside him, and the second the day after he’d been made redundant. The weeks, months, and years that followed, he’d continued to make the very same journey; not because he had to, at least not for financial reasons. He’d been given a surprisingly generous retirement package, which combined with decades of savings and the normal state pension, was more than enough for him to live on. His reason for continuing his daily commute was purely psychological. Having made the exact same journey every day since he was sixteen-years-old had become such an integral part of his being, the idea of not being able to filled him with the most inexplicable sense of dread. And so he’d continued to drag his now fragile arthritic body out of bed every morning at half-past six, no matter what day of the week it was, to shuffle his way to the road at the e
nd of the bleak narrow alley that ran along the back of his small terraced house. There he’d catch the number thirty-two bus into Norwich City Centre where he’d walk to Fairbrother’s main entrance, stare longingly up at the building he’d spent all those years working in before dropping his shoulders to turn slowly around to begin the exact same journey home.
Taking a seat at the very back of the bus, apart from the somewhat blustery conditions, so far this particular day had been no different. But his journey home became a special moment in time when the bus jerked to a halt to let on a gorgeous scantily-clad young woman who immediately began making her way past rows of empty seats towards him, the undulating tops of her half-exposed breasts rippling with every seductive step.
When she reached the line of seats he was slumped at the end of, instead of choosing the opposite side, to be as far away from him as possible, to his absolute astonishment she offered him the most alluring smile he could have possibly imagined before nestling herself down next to him, her skin-tight miniskirt riding so far up her smooth naked thighs that by leaning forward and tilting his head, he could see that she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing underneath.
With his heart thumping hard with voyeuristic excitement, every time she looked away he stole another glance. After a while, he hardly cared if she saw him doing so or not, surreptitiously slipping his right hand down inside his sagging suit trouser pocket to absorb himself in the pure hedonistic pleasure of gently massaging his already throbbing manhood.
When he realised she was purposely levering open her legs to offer him a better view, he honestly couldn’t believe his luck. As the motion of his hand increased, he quickly approached a state of orgasm when she suddenly snapped her legs closed to reach up and press the bell, indicating for the driver to stop.
Watching as she stood to quickly smooth down her skirt, he was about to carry on regardless, when it suddenly dawned on him that it was his stop as well.
Panicking that he might miss it, he wrenched his hand out of his pocket to haul himself up, his eyes remaining glued to the woman’s perfectly formed heart-shaped bum. As it swayed back and forth like a hypnotist’s pendulum, he followed as fast as his wretched body would allow, up until the moment she stepped lightly down from the bus to immediately disappear from view.
‘Wait a minute!’ he called out to the driver, lurching his way forward as the doors began hissing to a close.
Relieved to see them jerk to a stop to start juddering open again, he continued forward, stopping to step carefully down to the pavement.
With the doors closing awkwardly behind him as the bus pulled away, he stared about for the woman, longing for another chance to see her sumptuous young body. But she was nowhere to be seen.
A savage gust of wind tugged at his threadbare black suit as he let out a disappointed sigh. Hunching himself over against the stiffening breeze, he shuffled his way into the narrow alleyway that would take him back to his house, his mind feverishly replaying the events on the bus. With a wandering hand re-entering his pocket, he’d only just started flirting with the idea of finding somewhere quiet to finish what he’d started, when something caught his eye, lying on the path ahead. It almost looked like the woman from the bus, the one who’d left him in such a state of deprived sexual arousal. But he knew it couldn’t have been, not unless she’d fallen over and hurt herself.
Removing his hand, he continued along the shadowy path, his eyes continuing to question whether it was her or not. It wasn’t long before he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it was. He also knew that she hadn’t simply tripped and was now catching her breath, preparing to get up. The woman was lying sprawled out on her back, her unblinking mascara-lined eyes staring up towards the twisted branches that hung over the path like a shop crammed full of broken umbrellas.
He continued to stare at her face for a moment longer, before allowing them to wander down the length of her curvaceous body, first resting gently on the smooth milky curves of her ample young breasts, then down to where the hem of her skirt met her pale naked thighs. Instinctively, he knew she was dead. There was no other explanation for her eyes to be staring up like that if she was anything but.
With his mind picturing what he’d been stealing glances at on the bus, his manhood swelled once again. Ungluing his eyes from the hem of her skirt, he lifted his head to stare down the lane, first at where he’d come from, then the other way, towards where he lived. There was nobody about. There never was!
His eyes drifted back to her skirt, a billion years of animalistic evolution yearning desperately for what he knew lay underneath.
Could I? he asked himself, glancing up again. There’s nobody about.
His hand snuck back into his pocket as his eyes ran themselves back up the smooth bare skin of her legs. I could, he continued to think, glancing over his shoulder at the thin line of trees that lay only a few feet behind, but not here.
With his heart thumping hard behind his ears he glanced up and down the lane again, listening for the slightest sound. Without a soul in sight, he quickly navigated himself around to the woman’s head, fetching up her arms to begin heaving her back. As beads of sweat erupted over his head and face, the heels of his polished office shoes soon began digging into the soft earth behind. Less than a minute later, with only the woman’s feet remaining on the path, he was about to heave her body back again for what he hoped would be the final time, when a flicker of fluorescent yellow began dancing through the trees towards him.
Panic rising, he placed a frantic foot behind him to heave back again, only for his office shoes to slip on the inky black mud, sending him crashing to the ground, his ears to be met by the jarring screech of a bicycle’s rusting brakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
TANNER WOKE THAT morning with that all-too familiar sense that he’d hardly slept a wink. As the night had worn steadily away, a building breeze had left his yacht slamming into the patrol boats lashed to either side of his. More annoying still, he’d neglected to put a spacer between the mast and the rope used to hoist the mainsail, leaving it slapping against the vertical wooden beam every time there was even the slightest gust of wind.
It wasn’t until he was dragging himself out of bed that it dawned on him he’d forgotten something else as well; two things in fact. Firstly, that his car was still sitting in the carpark next to his former moorings, all the way over at Wroxham, leaving him with no immediate way of getting into work. The second was that he was supposed to have reset his alarm, to give him the additional time needed to commute in from his new, more distant location.
Kicking himself for having forgotten both, with the wind howling like a banshee above his head, he scrabbled around for his phone to put an urgent call through to a local taxi firm.
With a car booked to come as soon as possible, his next call was to Vicky, asking her to let Forrester know that he was going to be late.
By the time the taxi had dropped him off outside the station, it was already gone half-past nine. Hurrying inside, he’d only just started wrestling himself out of his coat when he saw Vicky, forging her way through the middle of the office towards him.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ she said, the moment she was within earshot.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your coat. We’ve been called out.’
‘But…’ Tanner began, his eyes gazing longingly towards the kitchen, ‘I haven’t even had a coffee yet!’