by Bo Brennan
Gritting his teeth he went in again. Wrapped the woman in a bear hug and yanked her off. Lucy let out a blood curdling scream as her scalp came too. She rolled into the foetal position on the floor, blood pooling around her head.
The madwoman continued kicking out while he held her. In the confined space of the reception lobby Colt was powerless to keep her feet from striking their target. He squeezed her tighter, trying to restrict her breathing and press the air and fight from her lungs. It didn't work. She threw her head back and smashed him straight in the face. He felt his lip bust, and tasted blood in his mouth. Nose tingling, he fought the urge to squeeze the woman so hard he'd snap her in two.
Colt breathed a sigh of relief when officers finally began flooding through the security doors. And then just as quickly as it started, it ended. The mad woman was gone, whisked away to the cells by a blur of uniforms while medics attended to Lucy, writhing in agony on the lobby floor.
Colt looked down and flicked a fistful of matted, bloody hair from his shoe, then stared across the lobby at India – helpfully holding the main door open for the stretcher. When they made eye contact, she said, “Chuck me the keys. I'll wait in the car while you sort your face out.”
Across the green water meadows the majestic spire of Salisbury Cathedral pierced the skyline. India immersed herself in the view, enjoying the isolation.
“Why didn't you help back there?” Colt said.
India sighed and turned to look at him. He hadn’t said two words to her since they left the station, and now chose the most picturesque part of the journey to have a pop. His timing was impeccable.
“Have you looked in the mirror?” she said. Two steri strips were doing a fine job of holding his split lip together and his nose was red enough to rival Rudolph’s. Very festive.
“DI Mark Watson's wife kicked the shit out of her right in front of you, and you did nothing,” he said.
“I alerted the desk sergeant and called an ambulance, what more d’ you want?”
He took his eyes off the road for an inordinate amount of time to study her intently.
“Have you ever actually done a city centre weekend beat?” she said. When he looked away without responding, India shifted in her seat and watched the colour creeping into his cheeks. “You haven’t, have you?”
“I did the accelerated programme,” he said. “I came straight in as Sergeant and two years to DCI.”
“You missed a valuable lesson, then,” she said dully. “Only a madman gets between two women fighting.”
Colt shook his head and laughed, raised a hand to his lip, it would be a day or two before laughing was back on the menu. “Lesson learned,” he said. “Ruined my tie.”
“You look better without one,” India said matter-of-factly. “Less stuffy.”
He raised his eyes to the mirror and ran a hand down his throat to where his top two buttons lay unusually open. Gave a little murmur and settled pensively back in his seat. “When I was a kid,” he said, “we spent a week in Wiltshire every summer holiday for years.”
India watched the small lines at the corner of his eyes spring to life. “Good times?” she said.
“Only in hindsight.” He winced and pressed a finger against the steri strips. “At the time we wanted to be having fun at the theme parks like our mates, instead all nine of us would be packed like sardines into a damp smelly old caravan all week.”
“Big family,” she said, visualising the faces from the pub. “Must've made you close.”
“Some more than others.” He shrugged. “Life’s easier as kids. We all liked each other back then. What about you? Got any good holiday memories?”
India wished she had fond memories of childhood holidays. The few memories she did have invoked nothing but numbness. “Nope,” she said.
“You must have some good ones from when you were a kid,” he persisted.
India sighed, god he liked to talk. “Is that why you picked the Wiltshire one to visit,” she said, changing the subject, “a trip down memory lane?”
“Something like that. I went to Uni with a girl called Angela Compton.”
“Think it's the same woman?” India scanned the file. “Age fits.”
“I doubt it, Compton’s hardly an unusual name.”
India tutted and tossed the file on the back seat in frustration. It was like pulling teeth. Her brain sought the positives; there weren’t many. By the time they got back the identified victims would finally outweigh the unknowns, and every new identified victim brought them one step closer to establishing the link. It wasn’t enough. She leant her head against the window. When the hell were they going to get a bloody break?
As he turned left off the tidy village high street, Colt pushed the memory that really brought him here to the back of his mind – it was just a name after all – and focused instead on the winter hanging baskets that adorned every house and business frontage. Even the neatly trimmed road margins displayed fragrant blooms unusual for the season. “I'd like to live somewhere like this,” he said.
“You’d be fodder for the monthly newsletter, you’d never get a seconds peace,” India said. “Besides, you live in the big smoke you don’t do green.”
Colt smirked. “I have houseplants,” he said. “Or at least I did, they're probably dead by now. And if I squint really hard out of the bedroom window, on a smog free day I can get a glimpse of the park.”
A wave of warmth washed over him when she hung her head and huffed with amusement. He glanced across at her, the hair she always wore loose of her braid was hiding her face. It irritated him. On the rare occasions she smiled he wanted to see it.
Pulling up outside the house, he leant over and tucked the free hair behind her ear. And then he saw it – not her smile, but a thick, silvery white track that ran the length of her hairline from temple to chin. Abruptly she turned away and stepped from the car, pulling the hair free again as she strolled up the flower lined path to knock on Angela Compton's front door.
His memory had served him well, how could it not? She recognised him immediately.
“AJ, you haven't changed a bit,” Angela Compton said, and a little bit of sick rose in Colt’s throat.
He squirmed as she embraced him, turned his head towards India to avoid the kiss on his lips. Angela Compton’s wet smacker landed clumsily on his cheek. India stood rooted to the spot, staring at the woman. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Chapter 34
India silently took a seat in the lounge, not a word had left her lips since the woman opened the door.
She’d followed Angela down the hallway, and it was uncanny. Same height, same build, even her walk was the same. Now studying her mannerisms from the floral armchair opposite Colt’s, she just had to ask the question. “Do you know a woman called Katherine Darcy, Miss Compton?”
Angela Compton frowned and looked straight at Colt, who shuffled uncomfortably and stared at the skirting board. “You know I do,” she said directly to him. “What’s the stupid cow done now?”
“Nothing,” Colt said, glancing at her. “She hasn’t done anything, neither of you have.”
India cleared her throat and stared at him. Waiting.
“Angela and Katherine are sisters,” he said, without looking her way. “Twins.”
“Identical twins,” Angela corrected. “Except she has the morals of an alley cat. She’s still with him then?”
“Who?” India said.
“My fiancé, Kevin Darcy,” Angela snapped as though India should know already. In fact India did know Kevin Darcy. She’d interviewed him. Twice. “He discovered us,” Angela said. “Got us our first glamour shoot. Men love the whole twin thing. Anyway, she ended up on Page 3, and I ended up depressed, fat, and never worked again after they ran off together. The bitch nicked my career as well as my man.”
India raised a brow. “If it’s any consolation, they’re divorced now.”
It was more than consolation. Angela Compton bro
ke into laughter. “I told her this would happen,” she cooed with delight. “What sort of woman puts a man before her own sister? He was marrying me, and I was happy to share!”
“Share?” India said.
“We’re identical twins.” Angela frowned as though sharing was normal when you were half a whole. India wouldn’t even share a cold. “We always shared everything,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Even men?” India asked.
“Especially men,” Angela said with a smile, focusing all her attention on Colt. “We really thought we were getting arrested that day,” she laughed. “Couldn’t believe your mate let them in; what the hell was he thinking?”
Colt cleared his throat. “Angela, the reason we’re here –”
“We were really sorry to hear about your sister,” she said, rising from her seat and patting his knee. India saw a brief flash of pure horror on his face as Angela knelt beside him; it wasn’t until she opened the cupboard next to his chair that he drew breath again and his shoulders slumped with relief. “We followed your career you know,” she said.
Colt gave a small weak grimace in return. It was clearly more than just the blazing open fire in the room that was causing him to perspire. India rolled her eyes; she was invisible. She watched him draw the phone from his pocket when it sounded an incoming message. For the first time since they’d arrived he glanced up at her as he read the text.
“I’m sorry, I really have to take this,” he said, standing up. “India, I’ll see you in the car.”
As he hurried to the door, Angela Compton pulled a box from the cupboard and called after him, “But AJ, I’ve got . . .”
“Ms Compton, what can you tell me about the DVD you received?” India said.
“The same as I told the others,” she said, frowning hard. “Shouldn’t we wait till AJ –”
“He’s not coming back,” India interrupted, “you’ll have to tell me.”
“Well, it just arrived in the post out of the blue one day. I shoved it in a drawer. To be honest, I never really gave it much thought until the news article, figured a drunken one night stand taped us and sent me a copy.”
“Are drunken one night stands a regular occurrence?”
“They are since my very own Mr Darcy ran off with my sister.”
India dumped her notebook back into her bag. The statement she’d given the local police would suffice. She had no intention of raking through the woman’s personal life and sexual history. There was nothing to be gained. “May I?” she said, holding her hand out for the creepy box of press cuttings Angela Compton was hugging in her lap.
“That's why he became a cop,” she cooed, tapping the top clipping as she hesitantly handed it over. “Never caught him you know.”
India read the headline, ‘England Rugby Ace Critical After Shock Hit & Run’, and swiftly flipped through the news articles as Angela jabbered on in the background, reminiscing. India raised an eyebrow and briefly paused on the photo of a stockings and suspenders clad pneumatic blonde, the front page headline read: ‘Colt? My A***! He’s Hung Like a Stallion! Says Sunday Supplement Model.’
Angela Compton giggled. “It’s true.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” India said, pulling out the old dog-eared Winchester University yearbook and silently flicking through its pages.
The whole centre spread was dedicated to AJ Colt and his meteoric rise to fame as England Rugby superstar with a hoard of adoring fans. A regular Uni pin-up, there was even a home fans chant dedicated to his skills on the pitch. The clever bastard was already England Captain by the time he graduated with a first-class sports degree.
“Wasn't he handsome?” Angela said, before blushing and adding, “Still is of course.”
India chewed at her cheek to stifle a laugh when the woman said that haircut he wore was all the rage back then. “Do you know this girl?” she said, pointing to a familiar looking face amongst a group of identically dressed, scantily clad girls waving pompoms behind him.
“That's Caroline Branning. She didn't graduate. Such a lovely girl and painfully shy, never missed a game.” She smiled and her eyes glazed to a point in time she clearly remembered with great fondness. “She got teased relentlessly. Everyone thought she had a huge crush on AJ, so it was quite a shock when she dropped out because she got herself knocked up by the groundkeeper’s son.”
“Have you seen her since?” India said.
“Yeah, her and Gary came to the class reunion we had a few years back. Incidentally, no one could get hold of AJ to send an invite.” She smiled. “He’ll have no reason to miss the next one now will he.”
India could already think of two. “Who’s Gary?” she pushed. “You said Caroline came to the reunion with Gary.”
“Gary Connor, the groundkeeper’s son. All those years later and they were still together. Did well for himself too, took over the family business when his dad dropped dead.”
India twitched with excitement. She was leaving with the yearbook whether Angela liked it or not.
Colt sped away from the house as soon as the passenger door shut. In his rear view mirror Angela Compton – engulfed in a cloud of tyre smoke – waved them off enthusiastically from the middle of the road.
“I’ve nicked her book,” India said, fastening her seatbelt. “Caroline Connor’s in here too.” He gritted his teeth and glanced at the yearbook she was flicking through on her lap. “Did you phone Firman and tell him your University is the link?”
“I did everything your texts specified,” he murmured. He’d been so busy squirming he hadn’t even noticed her take out her phone. She’d ordered him out of the house – none too politely either. The texts had come thick and fast while he was waiting in the car. God only knows what Angela Compton had told her.
“So what’d he say?”
“He’s dispatched the FLOs to establish if all the victims went there,” Colt said, and looked at his watch. “And Veronica, Tom, and Lee, should be in court about now getting a warrant for the University’s records.”
India hardly acknowledged him, continued to paw over the yearbook. His high speed cornering failed miserably to keep it shut. “I've picked out four of our victims already,” she said. “Obviously the married ones we know by a different surname, but if we study the pictures it should be easy enough to identify them all.” She tutted as he took another bend too fast. “Do you want me to drive, Stallion?”
Colt glared at the road ahead, felt his jaw tighten and his back muscles tense as the past he’d worked so hard to leave behind snapped at his heels. They were at least an hour away from the office and he couldn’t even think straight, let alone have a civil and sensible discussion. The book of shame lurched from her lap and into the foot well as he swerved the car violently into the deserted view point car park and screeched to a halt. “I need a piss,” he muttered.
As he made for the woods forming the Western boundary of the clearing, his clothes suddenly felt tight and restrictive. The tense muscles of his back strained against the small clasp tethering the silk on the bottom of his waistcoat. His lack of tie did nothing to stop the rage from choking him. He stormed through the scrub, oblivious to the brambles and nettles attempting to bar his route, and stopped when the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak loomed into view. It was a worthy opponent. He tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat, if this was to be a fair fight he needed to be free.
India patiently sat and waited, the guy could piss for England.
When he finally emerged with pinstriped waistcoat in hand, his face was weary but thoughtful. His swagger seemed more relaxed as he came towards the car and seated himself on the bonnet. From the passenger seat she could see his knuckles were bloody and bruised.
Tentatively, she left the car and silently perched on the bonnet beside him. He stared across the rolling patchwork of meadows, eyes narrowing at the hazy horizon created by the low winter sun, seemingly oblivious to her company. She could feel the remnants of rage radiati
ng from him. His sleeves were rolled up tight against freshly pumped biceps and he was littered with bits of woodland debris. A line of sweat ran down his broad back, the darker blue v it created on his pale blue shirt clung to the twitching muscles beneath it.
Hesitantly she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to provide comfort in a way she didn’t know how. Her hand took on a life of its own and traced the back of his neck, gently kneading the tight muscles. Her fingertips tingled as they skimmed his hairline. That odd feeling in the pit of her stomach resurfaced, but it seemed to have the desired effect. Breathing deeply, his shoulders slumped forward and his head bowed, he gave a gentle groan as his tension and anger ebbed away under her touch.
India winced at the cuts on his knuckles, small splinters of tree bark visible in the congealing blood. They needed to be dealt with. He couldn’t go back looking like that. He straightened up as she went to the back of the car, looked childlike and sheepish when she appeared in front of him with the first aid kit from the boot.
“It's not your fault. The guy’s a fucking nut,” she said, pulling the sterile wet wipe from the packet. “Just focus on who had a problem with your pulling powers.”
“I didn’t sleep with the others, India,” he murmured. “But I did bed Angela and her sister. I’d like that to stay between us if possible.”
“Fine.” She glanced up to meet his dark eyes filled with a mixture of shame, pain, and admiration. Her body flushed hot and she frowned with discomfort as the heat grew especially intense between her legs. “You'll live,” she said, slamming the first aid box closed.
As she began to move, his hands grasped her hips, holding her between his thighs. She drew a strident breath. He looked at her with an intensity that she had never experienced before. She’d never experienced the strange, sharp surges that accompanied his scrutiny either, they stabbed at intimate parts of her body, twisting her stomach upwards until it crushed at the void in her chest.