by Adam Carter
Still, it would take a lot more than two glasses to sozzle her, and she figured some air would do her good. If she had any more to drink she wouldn’t feel like riding her motorbike back to the office anyway.
They headed outside and the winter chill hit her at once. Thompson shuddered involuntarily, and Stenning took that as an invitation to drape his arm around her. She would have preferred his coat, but Stenning was far from a gentleman. There were a lot of people on the street, many from the club itself, and Thompson noted the two big guards on the door. She wondered whether they recognised Stenning, whether they knew what he got up to, whether they had even noticed the amount of comatose girls he carried out of here. But why would they? He wasn’t doing it on a regular basis and they weren’t paid to keep an eye out for those sorts of things anyway.
Stenning led her slowly away from the crowd, steering her with his hand upon her shoulder. She thought about all the different ways she could take him down right now. His arm about her, she knew of six different moves which would break the offending limb before he even realised she was doing it. But then Thompson had grown up around soldiers and had learned a lot of survival skills in the barracks.
She wondered where he was taking her. There was an alley to the side of the club, but he did not seem to be heading in that direction. He was also talking, telling her he lived nearby, and genuinely seemed to be trying to chat her up. Perhaps he did not intend to drug her after all, she thought: not that it would change what she had in mind for him.
His hand slipped from her shoulder and pressed against her back, and before she realised what was happening he had her pushed against the wall, kissing her, his other hand going places it really shouldn’t have. She pushed him away, startled that she had been so preoccupied not to have noticed his intent, sickened that this creature had dared to touch her. He took a step backwards, holding up his hands.
“What?” he asked as though it was she who had done something wrong.
Thompson stared at him, knew to make a scene on the street would not be good for her assignment. She also figured he could turn any argument they had to his own advantage with the crowd. She felt angry with herself for not having paid attention, but also she knew then what all the other girls must have gone through. She knew how they had felt, how they had hated him, and if she had any doubts about her assignment they were dashed in that single moment.
Thompson took a single step to the side and remembered the alley. If she could lure Stenning away from the crowd she would have the opportunity to finish her assignment; and she was more disgusted with him than she ever had been. Thompson was a woman who knew her work was as important as it was repulsive, but she still enjoyed it. This night, however, she was beginning to see things from the victims’ point of view; and that was never a good idea in her line of work.
Almost stumbling, Thompson finally kicked off her high heels, grateful to be rid of one annoyance at least. She stepped into the alley, not running, and heard Stenning follow. It was a metre wide, but after several steps it broadened, opening out into an area filled with refuse which had not been collected for what appeared to be several weeks. Thompson moved as though she was staggering, when in fact she knew precisely what she was doing.
“What?” Stenning asked, behind her now. Gone was any of the former playful tone, for he seemed angrier than he had any right to be. Thompson could see the true Stenning now: the man who got whatever he wanted, however he had to. “What was all that back there? You pull me along and suddenly you’re not interested?”
“Every girl who shows an interest in you has to drop her pants or you drop them for her, is that it?”
“I never touched a girl who didn’t want it.”
Thompson knew the best way she could do this would be to entice him in, get him as close to her as possible, but the thought of him touching her again was repulsive and she wished she could just pull a gun and blow him away. But there had to be a style to her work. That was not her egotism, but a prerequisite for the job.
He was looking strange now, and she knew precisely what was happening to him, although it was too slow. When he had disappeared to the toilet she had slipped something in his drink she knew he would not notice. The plan was to allow it to take effect before leaving the club, so she could leave with him draped half-conscious over her shoulder. She could then have thrown him in the river and his body would have eventually washed up somewhere. There would be no way to trace the killing back to her, and even if foreign substances were found in his bloodstream it would be assumed he had accidentally laced the wrong drink. His history with such things would support his knowledge and possession of them. However, she doubted his body would have resurfaced soon enough to be able to run a proper toxicology.
But that had all gone south when Stenning had decided they should take a walk before his juices had properly cooked. She could see he was beginning to feel the effects now – possibly his adrenalin was quickening the process, but she didn’t know much about drugs, only what they ultimately did to people. Stenning shook his head, clearing it for the moment, and looked upon her with confused, angry eyes.
“What have you done?”
“Oh put a sock in it.” She kicked him, hard, between the legs. Stenning’s eyes bulged and he dropped to his knees. Thompson had not given the assignment much thought, saw it as pretty much standard, and had not even constructed a contingency plan. Knifing him seemed like a messy idea, and she doubted the DCI would have thanked her for it, but as Thompson looked around she had an idea. It had been raining a lot earlier in the day and one of the bins had collected a lot of water. She could not see that it was especially deep, but it would prove enough for her purposes.
Grabbing Stenning by the collar, she dragged him across to the bins. She did not quip, did not laugh with him at all. Even if she was of a strange character to do such a thing, the man was too disgusting to waste any words upon. Kicking at his legs, she forced him to stumble and shoved him down to his knees. Stenning tried to say something, but she didn’t much care what. Pressing his head forward, she shoved his face into the chill rainwater, making sure the mouth and nose were both covered. Stenning thrashed madly, but he could not see her, and backwards flailing arms could never have the strength necessary to fend off a determined assailant. Thompson maintained the pressure, knowing she did not have to push him, merely hold him there. She could feel his strength ebbing, his thrashings becoming less frantic, and knew it would only be a few more moments. While she worked, she tried to think of how she was going to explain this. She could still dump him in the river, but an autopsy would reveal he was dead before he went in. At that moment, so long as he was dead Thompson did not much care what story she would have to concoct afterward.
“Stop her!”
Thompson half-turned to see two men coming for her. Straightening her back and not letting Stenning up for even a moment, she kicked out, slamming her heel into the first man’s belly and crumpling him. The second reached her and attacked with something long and made of metal. She felt a jolt of pain run through her arm where he had struck her and was forced to remove her hold upon Stenning so she could punch her assailant in the side of the head. Even as her fist connected, however, she felt something slam into her and saw the first man had recovered. The three of them collapsed in a scrabbling heap, while to the side she could hear Stenning spluttering and gasping.
Thompson fought only half-heartedly now, for Stenning was alive and she was going to have to explain herself. One of the men had her arms pinned behind her back, and she noticed they had oddly enough not pounded her when they had the opportunity.
Then she saw a familiar redheaded woman standing in the alleyway and her heart began to sink. She knew this set-up, had employed similar strategies herself often enough.
The woman removed something from an inside pocket and held it up before Thompson’s face. “Detective Inspector Sophia Ellison,” she said somewhat smugly. “You’re under arrest, honey
. Who knows, maybe a few hours in a metal box will help you shed a few pounds.”
Sometimes Thompson wished she didn’t have such a big mouth.
CHAPTER TWO
“Jen’s been arrested.”
DCI Edward Sanders looked up from his work. He did so only with his eyes, giving the impression that he was continuing writing his reports. In reality, the instant he had seen Baronaire charging towards his office he had grabbed up a stack and feigned he was engrossed in something. Sanders was a man in his fifties, although had heard whispers through the office indicating people thought he looked a lot older. His craggy features and receding hairline were not things he much cared about, however, since they did not interfere with his job in any way. And if his staff felt he was the inspiration for the carvings of Easter Island, so much the better.
Charles Baronaire was at the same time entirely different and very similar. He was aged in his thirties, but Sanders could see physically he was already headed Sanders’s way. The main difference between the two was that Sanders always wore a suit, while Baronaire favoured a tieless crumpled shirt beneath his ever-present trench coat. Also, Baronaire had more hair.
“And?” Sanders replied after what he deemed a sufficient length of time.
“And? And we have to help her.”
Sanders made a grand show of putting down his pen. He leaned back ever-so-slightly in his chair, arms resting casually with steepled fingers. He did this a lot with Baronaire because he knew the younger man was impatient. Sanders was one of the only people Baronaire could not push around, and the DCI liked to remind him of that at every opportunity.
“When,” Sanders asked slowly, “did you start calling her Jen?”
Baronaire had not expected this. Momentary confusion flitted across his face. He had been after agreement, possibly conflict, but casual questions were clearly never something he had thought about on his way in here. Sanders held the only segregated office within the entire bunker, and three of its walls were glass, so he could always see every movement his officers made amongst their own desks. It afforded him time to prepare his reactions, since he could always see trouble coming.
“What does it matter what I call her?” Baronaire asked at last.
“Because you should be referring to her as Detective Thompson. I don’t need to remind you that I frown on familiarity here and actively discourage personal relationships.”
“I don’t have a personal relationship with Detective Thompson.”
“No?” Sanders arched an eyebrow.
“I respect her.”
“You’re not friends then?”
Baronaire stiffened. “This really isn’t relevant, Ed.” He spoke the name as though issuing a challenge: it was true, after all, that Sanders allowed the man to call him Ed, although neither of them really knew why.
Sanders held his gaze for several moments longer and then made to go back to his work. “It’s irrelevant anyway since we can’t do anything about it.”
Baronaire laid a gentle fist upon the paperwork, forcing the DCI to look back up at him. “We can’t just abandon her, Ed.”
“I’m not abandoning her, Charles. But Operation WetFish survives through its anonymity. Thompson doesn’t know enough to bring us down. She can set a few tongues wagging, sure, but she only knows her place in this department.”
“That’s all this is to you, isn’t it? She’s a resource to be discarded when her use comes at too great a price.”
“You’re all resources, Charles. You most especially. Detective Thompson is a good officer, and if she gets herself out of this situation I’ll consider taking her back in. But as for helping her? You’re out of line even suggesting such a thing.”
Baronaire’s face contorted into something between a grimace and a scowl: in fact, it made him look constipated, but perhaps that was because he knew he could not explode all over his boss. He removed his fist from the desk and turned to walk out the door.
“Charles,” Sanders said, casually taking up his pen, “don’t get involved in this. And yes, that’s an order.”
Baronaire paused with his hand upon the knob, half looked back, and returned to his desk.
Sanders scribbled a few further notes before setting his pen aside. His department was legitimate, but their methods were unorthodox. Sanders had always known a weak link could bring the entire organisation crashing down around him. As such he had always made certain no single person knew enough to truly damage WetFish. Every officer knew the location of the bunker, and also the names of other officers working out of it; but that was not damaging at all. His team was on the official books, and while the bunker itself might not have been he had many ways in which he could easily explain it away. As one of his top field agents, however, Thompson knew more than most of his staff. Still, there was nothing she could do to cause irreparable harm, and if she was foolish enough to start spouting information in order to save her life, it would only end badly for her. Already would Sanders’s superiors be fully aware that Thompson had been arrested and would be monitoring the situation closely. If she said things she should not, they would move in themselves. Why they did not just step in to set her free, Sanders could not say, but there was only so much power Sanders himself had. He had not needed the phone call from the Borough Commander an hour earlier which told him not to interfere; he knew his job well enough, as did his officers. Just as Baronaire knew he was not allowed to interfere without the need for Sanders to tell him so.
But the problem with Thompson was that she was indeed a good officer and it would have been a shame to lose her. Sanders wondered whether Baronaire would obey him and stay away from her. If he did, it would surely have been the first time.
*
He knew Sanders would be under pressure from above to keep the department a secret, but Baronaire could never abide the man when he closed ranks around himself like this. Nor could he say how much of this decision had come from the top brass and how much from Sanders himself. Baronaire had never trusted Sanders, but he did respect him. But he also respected Thompson and would not leave her to face a charge of attempted murder all by herself.
If he was going to help her he needed to know about her assignment. Sanders did not like his officers talking to each other about their work, so Baronaire did not have the first clue as to what she had been doing. But there was someone who did, someone who knew everything about everyone’s cases. Sometimes Baronaire wondered why Sanders allowed such a security risk to exist, but perhaps Sanders saw it as a necessary evil.
The security risk, the hub of information for the bunker, was named Barry Stockwell. A young man with shoulder-length fine hair and glasses, Stockwell was almost always hard at work, tapping away at his computer and researching various things for the officers who had left him requests. Whenever Baronaire had radioed Stockwell from the field, Stockwell had been able to provide information quickly and merrily. He was a man who revelled in his work, and while Baronaire usually also found him annoying, he had to admit the young man knew his job inside out.
Baronaire approached Stockwell’s desk and saw it was decorated with all manner of fish. There were pictures of the things, small ornaments brought back from various parts of the world, a diagram of the internal organs of some form of shark. There were a few useful things as well, such as notepads and a desk calendar. All of course bore images of fish.
To say that Stockwell was obsessive would not quite have been enough, but he was also harmless and, while some of the other officers found him annoying, Baronaire only felt that way when he was in an especially bad mood. Or a hurry, since the one thing Stockwell loved to do was stop and talk about his obsession. So far as Baronaire could see, there were silver fish, there were orange fish and there were blue fish. Aside from the sharks, he could not tell any difference in any of them.
“Go on then,” Baronaire told him as he stood by his desk, “get it out your system.”
Stockwell looked up at him, his fingers poised
over the keyboard. “Get what out?”
“Your fish facts. I need information and you’re going to lace your answers with how an octopus would do things.”
“Uh, octopi aren’t fish, Baronaire.”
“Fact one. I’ll let you have three before we put the fish aside, all right?”
This did not seem to go down too well with him, and Baronaire realised he probably should keep the young man on his side considering it was he who wanted the favour off him.
Baronaire attempted a smile. “Hey, just joking, Barry. Why do they call them fish fingers when fish don’t have fingers?”
Stockwell looked up at him with resigned ire. “You want something I shouldn’t give you, right?”
“Uh ...”
“That’s a big fat yes.”
Baronaire tried not to glance towards Sanders’s office, wishing now he had waited half an hour before coming over to interrogate Stockwell. He perched himself on the edge of Stockwell’s desk and pretended they were pals. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m just on edge because of Thompson.”
“Detective Thompson?” Suddenly he was interested. “What’s she done?”
“You haven’t heard?” It was a stupid question since Sanders liked to keep everyone on such a short leash. “She’s been arrested.”
Stockwell laughed. “Irony, love it.”
Baronaire scowled. “You want to help me get her out or you want me to twist your face around so you have eyes in the back of your head?”
Stockwell stopped laughing. “You’re serious aren’t you? Ichthys, this isn’t good.” He resumed tapping away at his computer.
Baronaire watched him in confusion. “So you want to help me or what?”
“What do you think I’m doing? Here.” He indicated his screen. “Everything about Thompson’s current assignment.”
Baronaire leaned over his shoulder and skimmed the information. She was undercover, looking for a target named Stenning. There was a profile of the target and other miscellaneous information. Baronaire absorbed it all as quickly as possible.