STEALING POWER: A powerful psychological crime thriller (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

The first envelope was addressed to DI Mark Watson's wife, Janet. The second to the Chief Constable based at Winchester. His heart skipped a beat, each contained a disc. It was obvious who they were from, but why the hell had these two received them? They’d be pissing in the wind if the fucker changed his MO now.

  His eyes darted to Len. Len gestured to the accompanying folder. Colt flipped it open and stared at the first photo, his eyes becoming wider as he progressed through the still video shots, shaking his head. “This is outside Martha Matthews’ house,” he said. “What the fuck were they thinking?”

  “God knows,” Len said. “Needless to say they're off the case, and probably the force.”

  “No shit,” Colt murmured, peering closely at one photo and turning it sideways. “They’re date stamped Friday 10th December.”

  Len chuckled. “Of all the things to comment on, you pick the date stamp?”

  “What can I say,” Colt said flatly. “Who knows about this?”

  Len shrugged. “Arrived Monday – me, you, the Chief Constable, Mark's wife and whoever she's told.”

  “I know she put on quite a show here, Len, but I know Janet Watson of old. She's not the sort to go shouting her mouth off. She’ll be devastated.”

  “It raises a whole list of questions,” Len said, stroking his beard.

  “You’re not kidding,” Colt murmured, and turned one of the photos upside down. “How that is even possible in a Ford Focus has got to be number one.”

  Chapter 41

  Olivio’s, Park Gate.

  Colt purposely swirled the last inch of drink around the bottom of his glass, knowing the second it was empty the hovering waiter would be on him like a tramp on chips.

  He cast his eyes around the sparsely occupied restaurant, thankful she’d picked a place where the midweek trade was virtually non-existent. It was more a half-hearted poke in the eye sort of stand-up than a full blown punch in the face ‘fuck-you’. If she wanted to go for full scale humiliation she'd have picked the busiest restaurant in town. He sighed as he placed his empty glass on the table, ready for the hot footed waiter lurking in the shadows.

  “Are you ready to order, sir?”

  “I’ll have another lager shandy, please.”

  The waiter reached for the cutlery opposite. “I’ll remove this place setting, sir.”

  “Leave it,” Colt said curtly. “I'm expecting someone.”

  The waiter made an exaggerated show of looking at his watch. Colt was more than aware she was forty-five minutes late, he’d made the reservation himself, and didn't need some jumped up waiter rubbing his nose in it. He'd give her fifteen more minutes, and then at ten-thirty on the dot he'd leave. His rumbling stomach would have to make do with a pizza or something in front of the TV in his hotel room.

  He hung his head, taking a long blink as his fingers soothed the worry lines in his brow.

  He smelled her perfume first, thought it was wishful thinking until she spoke.

  “All right?” she said.

  Smiling, Colt dropped his hands and opened his eyes. “You made it.” He was unsure whether he should shake her hand or kiss her cheek. He’d seen her in action – if he got it wrong, she’d knock him out. “It’s not like you to be late,” he said, going for the safest option and simply pulling out her chair.

  India brushed him away. “I’m not.”

  Colt frowned. “We said nine-thirty.”

  “You said nine-thirty,” she corrected. “I just said I’d meet you here.”

  Colt stifled a laugh when he saw the approaching waiter’s face flash with brief unabashed shock as he brought his drink to the table. Self-satisfied, he sat back in his seat smiling smugly. The kid probably had notes riding on a no show wager with a kitchen hand, and lost.

  “Sparkling mineral water,” India said, taking the menu and sending the waiter packing.

  She seemed more aloof than usual. Colt wondered if it was the surroundings, they didn’t have much going for them. “They have a great wine list here,” he said, trying to tempt her. She was much more sociable after a drink, less awkward, more relaxed.

  “I know,” she said dully.

  Colt watched her over his menu. “Did you drive?”

  “Walked. It's only up the road.”

  “I'll drive you home,” he said, his eyes holding hers.

  She nodded towards the full pint sat on the table. “Not after a few beers you won't.”

  He smiled. “Shandy.”

  The waiter returned in a far more professional manner than the one he’d left in. “Are you ready to order, miss?” he said, cracking open the seal on her bottle of water.

  “I’ll do it,” Colt said, grabbing the bottle from his hands. If anyone was pouring her drink it would be him. Ignoring India’s glare, he filled her glass. His over caution warranted, the attacker was a drink spiker.

  He handed his own menu back without even reading it, ordered a well-done steak with everything. If he had to wait much longer for food he'd probably start gnawing at the table, and that was never a good look on a first date.

  A first date, Colt smiled coyly to himself as the waiter lit the candle on the table. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been on a proper first date. The last few years had consisted of nothing even remotely approaching a date, just a string of random women who fulfilled his immediate need, but left him feeling hollowed-out and lonely afterwards. A first date alluded to something far more, a slower more meaningful pace and the opportunity for something special to develop.

  India coughed uneasily. “You must be relieved we've finally got a pool of suspects to work with,” she said.

  “I don’t want to talk about work, India. I want to talk about you,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She flinched away and leapt from her seat, sending cutlery careering to the floor. “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice croaky and panic in her eyes. “I'll pick them up. I'll do it now.”

  Her over reaction startled him. He glanced uneasily around at the few other diners gawping their way. “India, it’s just a knife and fork, sit down,” Colt said, desperate to get her jittery body back in her seat. “It’s no big deal, I'll pick them up. You can have mine.”

  India slowly sat back down. She stared at the tablecloth while he carefully transferred the ridiculous amount of cutlery before him to her side of the table. “I have absolutely no idea what all these are for,” he grinned. “I'm a simple man. It's only recently I started using a knife and fork.”

  He watched her eyelids flutter, and her face soften again, as her tense body began to relax. She put her right elbow on the table and propped her cheek in her palm. He stared in awe as the smile spread across the left side of her face, dissipating the last fleeting signs of panic as it reached her left eye. And his insides melted.

  He wanted to know how that plate got in her head, wanted to ask her. Instead he spluttered, “I'll find the knives and forks,” and slid his considerable bulk off his chair.

  The table scraped against his back as he reached on all fours for the scattered utensils. He was getting too old to be on his hands and knees, especially under a remarkably small table for two. He took a sharp breath as he found his face inches away from her denim clad thighs. He'd run his hands up those thighs; felt their firmness in the darkness. Felt far more than the jeans she wore currently would reveal.

  Her crossed legs placed a heeled foot a breath from his gaping mouth, slender calves snuggly encased in brown suede. God he loved those boots, imagined how the suede would feel across his bare shoulders if her legs were wrapped around his neck. Imagined how the heels would feel scoring his back as she came.

  “Are you ok, sir?”

  The waiter’s voice had him swiftly emerging from under the table, banging his head in haste. Red faced, he awkwardly lumbered back into his seat, using the table as groin cover to save himself further, more serious, embarrassment.

  “Dropped my knife and fork,” he said, as India hung her head.

 
“I'll bring replacements, sir,” the weirdo waiter said, staring at him. “Your food is ready now.”

  “Cheers,” he said, staring back at him. Colt moved the obstructive candle to one side and leaned across the table. “You could've warned me he was there,” he whispered.

  “I didn't have time,” she whispered back, “he crept up on me like some sort of ninja.”

  Her eyes danced with joy, sparkling in the candlelight. For the first time he noticed the small freckles crossing the bridge of her nose and running riot on dimpled cheeks. The need overwhelmed him and before he knew it his lips were on hers.

  Concerned he’d crossed the line, he pulled back to see her eyes bluer than he'd ever seen them, full of warmth and want. Hesitantly, he brushed her lips again, lifting from his seat and deepening the kiss as she falteringly responded.

  It wasn't the exaggerated cough nor loud throat clearing that parted them, it was the unnecessarily obnoxious, “Excuse me,” from the waiter standing next to the table with two hot plates of food in his hands.

  Colt never took his eyes from her as he leant back in his seat, ignorant to the bet losing waiter placing their meals and clanking about with cutlery. He gazed at her flushed cheeks and saw her chest straining under her snug cashmere sweater with every shallow breath her racing heart allowed. His stomach was doing somersaults and his pulse was pounding. Jesus, he felt like a teenager.

  “Dinner’s getting cold,” he said, and smiled as she tucked into her pizza. It was a great to see a woman with a healthy appetite. It was better than great to see India Kane relaxed in his company. “Is it good?”

  She nodded, her mouth too full too speak.

  He peered at it, couldn’t see anything in the topping remotely resembling meat. “Seafood?” he said.

  She shook her head and took a swig of her water. “Mediterranean vegetables.”

  Colt frowned. “Just dough and veg, no meat?”

  “I’m off meat at the minute.”

  He looked at the chunk of steak he had speared on the end of his fork, his mouth watered in anticipation of chewing it. He couldn’t swear off meat, it was abnormal. She should be sickly and weak, not toned and healthy. She's wearing suede, she's joking with me.

  “You nearly had me there,” he laughed.

  Her face twitched and she rested her right cheek against her shoulder, beaming him half a grin in return.

  “How'd you get that plate in your face?” he said, quietly.

  She dropped her eyes to her meal. “Sly's great isn't he,” she said, poking a courgette towards the small green pile accumulating on the side of the dinner plate. “The press release was spot on.”

  Okay, that subject’s off limits, he thought. Try again. He took another mouthful of food as the air between them thickened.

  “You're a great dancer,” he said with a smile. “Whereas me, I've got two left feet. D’you reckon you could teach me a few moves?”

  She laid her knife and fork across her half eaten pizza. “It was good of the University to loan us a room for the DNA screening wasn't it,” she said, without looking up.

  Colt chewed the last of his steak and sat back in his chair studying her intently, witnessed her steel shutters go up right before his very eyes. He watched her hands nervously smooth imaginary crumbs from the table cloth. “Dessert?” he said, screwing up his napkin and tossing it on his plate, suddenly losing his appetite.

  “It's late,” she said, briskly pulling her jacket from the back of her chair. “I need to make a move.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, Colt pulled out his wallet and threw two fifty-pound notes onto the table. “I'll take you home then,” he said.

  “No,” she snapped, her eyes all cold and distant again as she fiddled with her mobile phone. “I'll get a cab.”

  Colt clasped the phone in her hand. “I don't want coffee, I don't want anything, India,” he said, gripping her hand tighter when she tried to pull away. “But I am going to drive you home and see you safely to the door.”

  God he's pathetic. He should’ve learnt from that little mess his chump of a mate Watson just found himself in with that two bit whore who had the nerve to call herself a Detective. The only detecting she did was with her mouth around cock.

  That park opposite was bound to be a pervert’s paradise after dark. Minxy Martha had never closed her bedroom curtains in all the time he’d been studying her. Even after they were over, he couldn't resist returning there to have a little stroke himself.

  Couldn't believe his luck when the perverted pigs turned up; the angle he'd filmed them from was just perfect. He’d got artistic too, chucked in the occasional wide shot to bring the burnt out shell of Martha’s house – and the mass of wilting flowers outside – clearly into focus. The single strand of crime scene tape, blowing delicately in the breeze, set off the Mr Whippy dog turd beautifully at the base of the lamppost.

  The zoom on the camera was truly explicit, captured every little lick and suck the bitch gave him. The Chief Constable probably wasn't surprised to find out she was a swallower. His bell end had probably hit the back of her throat a few times. Bet sparky Mark’s fucking wife was though, after three kids she’d probably lost the will to gargle.

  Now here was the ultimate philandering, perverted pig, Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt, abysmally failing to get his cock sucked by a junior officer. India Kane wasn't like that other thing, she wouldn't swallow. The woman was a vegetarian, wouldn’t let his cock anywhere near her mouth. She was so far out of his league it was unbelievable.

  And he'd forced a kiss on her tonight. She wasn't into it though. No tongues. No touching. She kept her hands firmly on the table. When will he learn? He's nothing, no one, just another washed up has-been. If he thinks he's going back to hers to take advantage and abuse his position, he's sorely mistaken. India Kane is mine, and there’ll be no sloppy seconds left for him.

  Chapter 42

  The heaters were going full pelt, yet the temperature inside the car felt ten degrees colder than the freezing night outside. “What’s going on with you, India?” Colt said.

  “You’re the one with all the answers. You tell me.”

  Colt heaved a heavy sigh. He'd grown accustomed to her deflection tactics, and she was bloody good at them. But tonight he wasn’t playing.

  He looked over at her. “Do you know my dad?” he said, and frowned when she blanked him, saying nothing at all. “Bill Colt,” he said, slowly and clearly for the avoidance of doubt. “He used to be a Superintendent at Winchester.”

  He gritted his teeth, silence wasn’t an option. “Do. You. Know. Him?”

  “No,” she snapped, wringing her hands in her lap.

  He was pretty sure his dad knew her. “He's good friends with Len Firman,” Colt pressed. “I'm surprised you haven't come across him.”

  “I don't pay much attention to other people's business,” she said, chewing at her nails and gazing out the passenger window.

  Colt smirked. She was good at swiping his legs and forcing him to retreat. Only comfortable talking work, the weather or equally mundane crap, she never gave away anything about herself freely.

  And he wanted to know everything . . . whatever the cost.

  Right now, he wanted to know if whatever was going on between her and the fireman was serious. The way they moved together, the way her body was so pliant in his hands was serious. The closeness he'd observed had filled him with envy. Asking would mean ignoring her thinly veiled warning to stay out of her business. Sod it; he was going for it, no beating about the bush either.

  “Are you screwing Gray Davies?” he said.

  She glared at him, her face filled with utter contempt. “No,” she spat.

  Colt returned his eyes to the road, inwardly smiling. He could play the direct game too. And it had paid off. He’d got his answer and survived to tell the tale. No bones broken, genitals intact.

  Pulling into the darkness of the lane leading to her dirt track home, the te
nsion in the car was palpable, cloaking a dangerous and undeniable chemistry. She didn't trust him. He didn’t blame her. He was finding it difficult to trust himself these days.

  He indicated left on the approach to the dirt track – which sooner or later was going to wreck his car – and the interior lit up in alternating hues of orange and electric blue. The flashing blue lights came from nowhere. Colt made the turn quickly allowing them room to pass on the narrow lane. They didn't pass. He frowned at the rear view mirror as they followed closely down the dirt track behind him.

  India shifted in her seat as the Lexus emerged into the clearing where the two houseboats rested in complete darkness. “What are they doing here?”

  “I have no idea,” Colt said, pulling onto the hard standing, “but I intend to find out.”

  India had already unfastened her seat belt, and was reaching for the door, when the police car pulled across the back of them, boxing his car in its space.

  “Stay in the car,” Colt said.

  “But . . .”

  “Stay in the car!” he said, throwing the keys into her lap. “And lock the doors.”

  The theory the attacker could be a cop was one Colt had been taking seriously for a very long time. He waited for the secure thud of the central locking system before moving towards the flashing blue lights. He placed himself intentionally between India and the police car, knowing his silhouette would give her a good indication of the threat level, and raised a hand to shield his eyes as the light of a police torch scorched his retinas.

  “Stay where you are,” a voice shouted from behind the light. Colt directed his eyes to the ground below the glare, thought he could make out two outlines behind the brightness.

  “Passenger,” another male voice shouted, confirming his suspicion, “step out of the car!”

  “She's going nowhere,” Colt shouted back, taking a step forward.

  “Get your hands on the bonnet!” the first voice shouted.

  Over all their dead bodies would his hands be going on any bonnet tonight. “What's this all about, boys?” he said, taking another step forward.