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

by Bo Brennan

“I said I’ll go.” India glared at him, stood up and threw a pad down on Lee Sangrin’s desk. “Write down what you want.”

  Colt drew a deep breath, clenched his jaw and gave a tight nod. Lee sighed and slowly sat back down, resigned to scribbling his order. “Come and get the money when you’re ready, India,” he said. He closed the incident room door and limped back to his seat, wishing he’d gone to the canteen after all.

  Jesus it was cold. India huddled her shoulders, burying her chin in her scarf. Gloved hands firmly in pockets, she hurried past the stationary cars snaked all the way back to the top of the road.

  The constant beeping of horns declared it open season on last minute gift seekers queuing to get into the shopping centre car park. The big event was just days away and she hadn't done a thing. The few she bothered with would understand when they received vouchers again this year.

  She was glad of the fresh air, had needed to get out of the office before she blew a gasket. The Guv was being a total arsehole. This morning he’d officially declined her request to work the entire holiday as she’d done for the past four years. Her protests hadn't quite fallen on deaf ears –Firman had given her two choices: take the break, or endure three months of weekly therapy sessions with the force shrink. She'd withdrawn her request to work. Now she'd need to find ways of filling her time, and wished Gray hadn't been quite so industrious around her place when his own shit had hit the fan.

  Dipping her head against the artic breeze she rounded the corner onto the High Street, where the warm interior of the bakery that made the Guv’s famed guilty pleasure resided, and ploughed headlong into the firmness of a man’s chest.

  “Oh my god, it's official,” Gino Spinelli said, stooping to collect his bag of donuts from the ground. “You do go around in your own little bubble Miss Kane.”

  “Not like you to do carbs,” India said. “I thought you loved yourself too much for that.”

  “What moi?” he said, swinging the bag. “A little treat for my girls, they’ve worked their tits off this week. Clare told me what happened, should you be out on your own?”

  “I’m a grown woman,” India mumbled. “I’m perfectly capable of getting a few work sarnies.”

  Gino twisted his lips and raised a brow. “Did you pre-order?”

  India shook her head.

  “They’re running around like Beyonce’s backing dancers in there, darling. If you haven’t pre-ordered they’ll take forever.” Typical. India huffed, and Gino glanced at his watch. “I’m letting my girls go early, why don’t you pop over for a quick cuppa while you’re waiting? I’ll save you a jammy one.”

  “Stick the kettle on,” India said. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  Colt poured two cups of stewed black coffee from the main office jug, stirring sugar into both and milk into his own before gingerly heading for the incident room.

  He placed the scalding mug of black coffee he'd poured for India in front of the empty seat opposite him, and smiled when Vicky Maplin crashed through the door, laptop case and box of tricks in one arm, and a family bag of apples in the other.

  “I know how partial the Guv is to a cake,” she said, handing him the apples. “I'm on a diet so I picked these up on the way in.”

  “Diet?” Sly Majors said. “There's nothing of you.”

  Vicky smiled demurely at her latest admirer. “It's just me for Christmas this year, so I've booked a week in the Caribbean. This body needs to get in a bikini.”

  Lee Sangrin’s eyes lit up. “Got room in your suitcase for me, Vicks?”

  “Oh, I've got the room Lee. The bikinis are very, very small,” she teased, “just not the inclination.”

  Tom Dwyer arrived with a pile of paper plates and serviettes. “I found these in the cupboard under the coffee machine, leftovers from the last working lunch,” he said, taking his seat.

  “The sandwiches are coming in packets you ponce,” Lee said, and Tom glared at him. Lee hung his head and shuffled his notes.

  Colt sat down between Len and Veronica. His stomach was rumbling. Veronica glanced sideways at him, unsure if the strange sound emanated from him. Colt drummed his fingers on the table attempting to drown out his noisy gut, looked at the clock then at the full cup of coffee rapidly cooling opposite him.

  India was taking her time. The sandwich shop was only across the street, it wasn't like Christmas shopping traffic could be holding her up. It was forty-five minutes since he'd watched her back disappear out the office door, her fitted winter coat clinging to all the right places. She should be back by now.

  Agitated, he pushed away from the table and hobbled to the window, there was a clear view of the sandwich shop across the street from where he stood. It didn't appear excessively busy; he could see no evidence of the regular lunchtime queue that usually stretched out the door.

  He observed the little shop empty when three workmen in hardhats came out holding bulging brown paper bags smeared with darkening patches of grease. Judging by their physiques the bags contained pies or pasties. The next rumble was far too loud to conceal by clenching his abs and gulping the last of his coffee.

  “Bloody hell,” Sly said. “Vicky, give him one of those apples before he starts gnawing on one of us.”

  “Actually you'd better give him two,” Len said. “He's like a bear with a sore head when he's hungry.”

  “Catch.” Tom threw him an apple.

  “Cheers,” he said, catching it in one hand before it hit the window.

  “Still got it,” Lee cooed. “Even for an old dude.”

  Colt's momentary ego boost was swiftly replaced with a scowling frown. “She must be on her way up the stairs,” he said, taking a chunk out of the apple. “I can't see her in the shop.”

  “You won't,” Len said. “She's gone to Heidi’s.”

  “Why the hell has she gone all the way to the High Street when there's a sandwich shop right there,” he said, pointing out the window.

  “When it comes to iced apple doughnuts, Jim, you can't beat Heidi’s,” Len said, smacking his lips together.

  Colt shook his head. He was sacrificing the lining of his stomach, and his better judgement, for the sake of Len's sweet tooth. He would never have allowed her to go alone if he'd known she was going to be outside his field of vision. He frowned and sank his teeth into the apple, could feel his mood darkening by the minute.

  India put her hands up to the glass of Gino’s closed salon door and peered inside. She couldn’t see him; he was probably out back making the coffee. She was just about to knock on the window when she glimpsed the reflection of the sign behind her in the glass.

  She turned and stared at the shop front she’d walked straight past just moments ago, and felt a flutter of excitement at the recognition of the name. He was good, the best. She’d seen and admired the expertise of his craft, been mesmerised by it. India pushed aside the delicious image of AJ Colt uncovered and thought back to what he had said about making them significant, art that marked the milestones of his life. Every tattoo had its own story, its own memory. So did hers, and it was time for another.

  India Kane was changing; the numbness that had haunted her for so long was beginning to fade. For the first time in her life she was feeling and noticing things that had previously gone undetected. She was actually looking forward to what spring and summer would yield, anticipating bursts of colour where previously she'd only seen muted shades of black and white, a life lived in grayscale.

  Everyone was watching her like hawks lately, waiting for her to career spectacularly off the rails. Even Firman was giving her the evil eye. But she'd felt it. She'd felt it all. The anger, the utter despair, the emptiness, loss and grief, rage and tears. She'd cried rivers of tears. Jesus Christ she'd sobbed and lashed out. Screamed and shouted and hit the floor. She felt these things – India Kane who had felt nothing for years – and she was still standing. Inner peace felt just moments away. This awakening was something she wanted to remember. A colourful butt
erfly taking to flight would immortalise it forever.

  She waited for a gap in the traffic and ran back across the road. Thirty minutes the bakery had said, it would take seconds to book an appointment. She’d be back before Gino had even stirred the coffee.

  Stepping over the threshold, a small electronic bell beeped, alerting the man in the back room busily disinfecting his workspace to her presence. A good looking, burly, tattooed man with strangely stretched earlobes emerged to greet her. His face lit up with such an enormous welcoming smile that India was compelled to look over her shoulder to see if his long lost friend or lover had quietly slipped in behind her.

  “What can I do for you, sugar?” he said.

  “I'd like to make an appointment,” India said.

  “I’m closing for lunch, now,” he said. “And I don't have any appointments available till March.”

  India frowned. March? That was, well, next year. “It's only something small. That’s perfect,” she said, pointing to a picture on the wall. “You’ve been highly recommended by a good friend.”

  “Who's your friend, sugar?” He rubbed his hands together. Not once had the beaming smile left his face, his eyes were positively sparkling. Gleeful even.

  “AJ Colt,” she said, slightly uncomfortable at dropping his name.

  “Well then, that changes everything.” He grinned. “A pretty little thing like that will take me all of ten minutes. I can do it now if you like. Or March.”

  Once she set her mind to something it was a done deal. She didn’t have the patience to wait months. “Now,” she said. “I've got thirty minutes to kill.”

  Ray Quinn laughed, and said, “Drop the latch on the door and turn the sign to ‘closed’, gorgeous. I'd hate to be interrupted.”

  1.30 pm, she’d been gone for exactly an hour. AJ Colt’s stomach was becoming more unsettled by the second. He needed to take his mind off food and India Kane. It was broad daylight, a short distance, and a nice clear day. The area was teeming with shoppers, and she’d be walking back in that door any minute now. He needed to get a grip and stop fussing.

  “Let's get started,” he said. “If I haven’t died from starvation first, I'll fill her in when she gets here.” Scowling he sat down opposite India's empty seat, under the wary eye of the lithe Crown Prosecutor who passed him another apple. It seemed Veronica had taken the threat of him eating someone a little too literally.

  “What have we got then?” he said, polishing the apple on his waistcoat.

  “We've cross referenced all leads and narrowed the suspect list to thirty seven,” Tom said. “Seventeen of them have previous convictions, mainly minor, ranging from possession of a bit of weed through to student political activism. Four of them have majors, and one of those four is six years into a life stretch for murder, leaving us with three primary suspects.”

  “Are any of those on the list I gave you?” Colt said, crunching into his apple.

  “Only one,” Tom said. “Gino Spinelli.”

  “Gino Spinelli the hairdresser?” Len frowned. “He does my wife’s hair; he’s as queer as a bloody fish!”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Len,” Colt said, raising his brows. “He used to do my wife to. What’d he get done for?”

  “Likes to waggle his willy in public,” Lee said.

  Tom shook his head and tutted. “He did a drunken streak up the High Street last New Year’s Eve.”

  “Anyone who does that ain’t right in the head,” Lee said.

  “You’d know,” Tom said dully. “I’ve lost count of the times you’ve dropped your pants and mooned some poor bastard when you’re pissed.”

  Colt sighed. “Who are your three and what do we know about them?”

  “Well none of them have a Porsche registered in their names, but we could put eyes on them,” Tom said, “one of them might have access to one.”

  “When were their offences committed?” Colt said.

  Lee scanned his file. “1998, 2001 and 2007. The one currently inside was 2004.”

  “Scratch those,” Colt said. “You need to look at the minor offences committed before ‘95. Pre DNA. If it was any of those guys the database would have spat them out.”

  “Fuck,” Sangrin muttered, frustration forming deep furrows in his young smooth brow.

  “Run all thirty-seven names against the DVLA registered keeper info,” Colt said, and glanced again at the clock on the wall.

  1.37 pm. She’d been gone too long now, and it wasn’t just him fussing. His eyes fell on an anxious looking Len studying his watch. Colt breathed a momentary sigh of relief as the door behind him opened. The relief was short lived when he saw DS Simon Atkins carrying a pile of papers.

  “Guv, this has just arrived from the police artist,” he said. “I took the liberty of making copies.”

  “Thanks, Si,” Len said, taking the pile. “Do me a favour, get a unit over to Heidi’s Patisserie and find out where India Kane has got to. Now please,” he said ushering him out the door.

  Copies of the nightclub barman’s witness sketch went around the table.

  “I've seen this guy somewhere before,” Lee said, twisting his lip.

  “Yeah, he was in the Nag’s Head a couple of weeks back,” Tom said. “Watching us all play pool.”

  Colt crunched down on his apple and extended his hand for a copy, watching Simon Atkins on the phone just outside the door. Glancing at the picture, he stopped chewing and stared in shocked disbelief. “It's Ray Quinn.”

  “Quinn? He's one of our thirteen minor convictions,” Tom said, anxiously scanning the printouts. “Raymond Anthony Quinn, 1994. 1 count of taking a vehicle without consent.”

  “What's his last known whereabouts, Jim?” Len said.

  “He's got a tattoo studio,” Colt said numbly. The apple fell from his hand, rolled across the table and dropped to the floor at Veronica’s feet. His chair crashed into the wall behind him as he sprang from his seat. “It’s two fucking doors away from Heidi’s!”

  Chapter 62

  India took in the surroundings of the studio back room.

  The sharp end of Ray Quinn’s business couldn’t fail to impress. The entire length of one wall was mirrored, along with the ceiling where concealed spotlights accentuated his work areas. Mounted on the far end wall were four long and thick floating glass shelves. Neatly organised, they displayed perfectly aligned rows of gleaming products and inks. Along the wall by the door was a highly polished black desk and leather high backed swivel chair. The main wall displayed an extensive collection of photographs, mounted in identical frames, arranged in perfect rows. The place was scrupulously clean; the smell of disinfectant made India’s nose twitch.

  “Nice place,” she said.

  Ray patted his hand on the very sophisticated and expensive looking reclining medical chair bed that dominated the room. India took a seat, and shimmied back until her feet dangled over the edge.

  Ray Quinn wet his lips and smiled. “I need you lying on your side, with your trousers down.”

  “Why?” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  He laughed. “You want it on your hip, right? Good as I am, I can't tattoo through clothes, sugar.”

  India blushed, feeling like an idiot. She came in here to celebrate her own new beginnings, a butterfly emerging from an eternal cocoon. Already she was diving back into her pupa at the mere thought of baring her thigh for a sober stranger. This was no intimate affair, this was a business transaction. Money would change hands for this man’s highly honed skills with the needle.

  She lay there on her side, one elbow propping her head looking at the photos. “He looks like that singer,” she said.

  “It is him,” Ray Quinn said, wheeling a steel trolley containing his tools over to the bed. “You should recognise quite a few. I’ve got a lot of famous clients.”

  As India peered closely at the photos, he pulled his black latex gloves on with ease. Standing over her his eyes traced the milky white thig
hs he was so familiar with. Black cotton panties were the order of the day, he was impressed she'd gone to the trouble to colour coordinate her underwear with the studio decor. The woman had class.

  “When did you get the tat on your back?” he said.

  India frowned and glanced back at him, realised her top had risen up exposing the bottom of her old inking. “When I was sixteen,” she said, tugging it back down.

  “Personally I wouldn’t have done it over scar tissue,” he said. “It distorts them, makes them look ugly.”

  She stared at him, coming from a man with holes in his ears the size of bin lids he’d know all about ugly distortion. This wasn’t a conversation she was entertaining, and returned her eyes to the pictures.

  “Your friend AJ is up there too,” he said. “He used to be famous, before I mowed him down.”

  “I heard,” she said.

  “You'll find his picture down in the far corner with the other has-beens.”

  She craned her neck to see, frowned when she realised the expression he'd used. Then what he’d actually said.

  “Have you fucked him yet, India?” he whispered in her ear, running his hand up her thigh.

  India Kane didn’t move, she was officially up shit creek without a paddle, and to top it all she was handicapped by her own trousers binding her legs at the knee. But she wasn’t drugged and that gave her the upper hand. She stared at the photos, her brain filtering every scrap of information about him, bringing to the forefront anything that would help her to survive.

  “He's not my type,” she said. “He thinks he's god’s gift, it’s sad really.”

  “What is your type?” he leered, still rubbing his hand up and down her thigh, the latex dragged against her crawling skin.

  Eventually they'd come looking for her. They'd go to Heidi’s, discover she'd been there but hadn't collected yet. No one would look here, Ray Quinn wasn't even a suspect, he was the SIO’s best friend. She needed to get into the main reception area. From the nick they'd drive up this street, passing the big glass shop front on the way, and she intended to be visible when they did.