by Bo Brennan
“A gentleman,” she said, covering the hand on her thigh firmly with her own until it stilled. “And I expect to be treated by a gentleman properly.” She gazed longingly at his lips and ran the tip of her tongue over her own. “Dish the dirt Ray, so I can bring the bastard down,” she whispered seductively.
His eyes lit up as they focused on her mouth. If he put anything in it, he'd be losing it. Ray Quinn was deluded. India Kane was nobody’s victim. Today was about celebrating her liberation from the shameful chains that bound her. She simply needed to dispose of this one last arsehole standing in her way.
Colt’s car screeched to a halt; the traffic was at a standstill. He could hear the sirens behind him, even the blues and twos would struggle to cut through this shit.
He frantically sounded his horn, irritated shoppers sounded back with a few expletives and hand gestures thrown in. The perks were limited driving your own unmarked car in this job. The wheels bumped over the kerb as he chose the pavement as a viable route through. Reaching the corner of the High Street the pavement narrowed, the route had taken him as far as he could get on wheels. It was time to test his aching legs.
He leapt from the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and driver’s door open, and ran like an Olympic sprinter to the wide glass frontage of Ray's shop. No signs of life, the closed sign displayed on the door. He looked up the street, the pink sign of Heidi’s bakery creaked in the bitter cold wind. When he burst through the door the startled bakery assistant instinctively reached for the phone.
“Detective Kane, has she been here?” he gasped, showing his warrant card.
“I’ve just told one of your guys,” the assistant said, on the verge of tears. “She ordered the sandwiches but hasn't been back to collect them yet.”
“How long ago was she here?”
“About forty minutes ago. She was outside talking to her friend, then placed her order and left. I swear I haven’t seen her since.”
“What friend?”
She nodded towards the window. “Him over there. The hairdresser.”
Colt looked out across the road to where Gino Spinelli stood hugging a cup of tea, anxiously looking up and down the street. He bolted from the bakery. “Is India with you?” he shouted, sprinting towards him.
Gino Spinelli froze, as if in slow motion his cup fell to the pavement as he covered his face and screamed. Colt grabbed him by the shoulders; there was no time for histrionics. “Have you seen her?” he shouted, shaking him.
Gino lifted a trembling arm and pointed, Colt followed his petrified stare. Through the glass shop front opposite he came face to face with his old friend Ray Quinn.
India Kane looked deceptively calm considering he had her long braid wrapped tightly around one hand, while the other held a knife across her throat. Colt pounded his fists against the glass as Ray dragged her backwards through the inner studio door. In the brief second her eyes met his before the door slammed shut, Colt glimpsed a terrified child pleading to be saved.
Behind him blue lights were reflecting in the glass. Police units blocked each end of the street and uniformed officers began swiftly clearing the remaining traffic till only police vehicles remained. Colt rushed at the door, throwing his entire body weight against it, shrugging off the hands pulling at him as he fought desperately to get inside.
“Jim!” Len's voice came through over the sirens. Multiple arms pulled at his shoulders and body, wrenching him away from the glass.
“She's in there, Len, I saw her,” he said. “We need to get her out.”
“We will,” Len said, gripping his shoulders.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Colt spat. “Give me something to break the fucking door with!”
“Listen to me,” Len said calmly. “A response unit is collecting a hostage negotiator, ETA twelve minutes.”
“She'll be fucking dead by then,” Colt shouted.
Chapter 63
“Did you see his face?” Ray Quinn said excitedly. “He knows I'm going to fuck you first.”
India’s eyes scanned the room, taking in everything she saw and assessing its usefulness as a potential weapon. There was no way she was going to end up like Lacey.
He hurled her down on the bed and tore at her shirt. She sank her teeth hard into the flesh of his hand and clamped her jaw down as he yanked it free. Shrieking in pain he brought the back of his other hand down hard across her face, she felt nothing just the sudden jerk of her head. But he did. She gave him her one sided smile as she spat a mouthful of blood and skin in his face. And right at that moment, India Kane decided she was going to kill him.
Ray Quinn puckered his brow, nostrils flaring. She was laughing at him; he hit her again. This time she kicked out, one foot striking hard in his stomach. Winded, he staggered backwards towards the door. Blind fury soon had him straightened up again and on the attack. Purple with rage he snarled lunging towards her, his hands going for her throat preparing to throttle her.
India rolled sideways off the bed and landed hard on her back on the cold tiled floor, slammed the heel of her hand up into his nose as his startled face lolled over the bed at her. There was a loud satisfying crack when his nose broke and blood gushed forth, soaking her shirt, before he vanished from view.
Lumbering onto all fours she peered underneath the bed at the mirrored wall, looking for his feet. Too late, glimpsed them from the corner of her eye as his foot struck her sidelong in the ribs, the impact sent her hurtling across the floor and into the back wall. He stood laughing at her as she struggled to get up. He was losing a lot of blood, his face almost completely covered. His strength would ebb fast.
Her hands reached out seeking an anchor so she could get to her feet, and discovered glass shelves were not designed to withstand the stress her body placed on them when the tools of his trade came crashing down around her.
As India scrabbled around on the tiled floor, spilt ink making purchase impossible, an almighty thud shook the building to its foundations. The noise of shattering glass filled her head. Pictures smashed to the ground as cracks made their jagged journey through the studio walls. Wearily, Ray Quinn staggered towards her, blood covered teeth bared in a hyena’s snarl, and his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of victory. In the flickering light, India Kane saw the face of her father.
As they were plunged into darkness, the full weight of his body landed on top of her. The metallic sweet stench of blood overwhelmed her senses. Her hands grasped in the debris around her, fingers wrapping around something hard and cold and pointed. She lashed out with it over and over and over again.
Suddenly daylight flooded in and his weight was gone. She was free to breathe again. Someone grabbed her flaying arms and the hustle and bustle of bodies filled the room. She wasn't alone anymore.
“India, can you hear me?” Colt’s face peered down at her.
She stared at him. “Some fucking friend,” she spluttered. Wincing when the muscles of her face throbbed, voicing their displeasure at the task she expected them to perform.
An impromptu nervous laugh left his throat. He pushed her torn and blood drenched shirt aside, exposing her abdomen and chest, seeking the origins of the blood. With the exception of an angry purple shoe print on her ribs there was no obvious open wound. “Where are you bleeding?”
“It's not mine,” she said, rubbing at the side of her jaw. “Fucker made me bite my cheek though. Help me up will you.”
India extended her hand and Colt ignored it. He scooped her into his arms, kissed her forehead and rose to his feet.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hissed. “Put me down, I'm walking out of here.”
With an incredulous sigh he held her waist as he tilted her feet onto solid ground.
“He's not,” Colt said, wiping her nose with his sleeve.
India turned to find Dwyer, Sangrin and Firman in the remains of the doorway. She looked around at the ruins of the previously immaculate studio. “There's no way I'm re
sponsible for all this damage, Guv.”
“Colt dragged one of the traffic boys out of his Lexus and drove it straight through the shop front,” Sangrin enthused excitedly. “It was fucking brilliant. Proper Starsky and Hutch shit. Totalled his motor.”
“Stop looking at my tits, Lee,” she said, dropping her eyes to the floor. Colt wrapped his jacket around her shoulders and she pulled it close. Stared hard at Ray Quinn’s lifeless body, a tattoo gun embedded firmly where his left eye had been. Deep puncture wounds marked what remained of his face. Her eyes narrowed when she spotted the familiar angry red hue of skin peeking out from under his shirt and she dropped to her knees on top of him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Firman’s voice was panicked. He looked to Colt to stop her, but he simply looked on wistfully, hands firmly in pockets, wishing his best friend would draw a breath so he could kill him himself all over again.
India looked up at her Guv’nor, her eyes full of fury. “He said he'd left the best space on his body for me.”
With one swift action she ripped open his shirt and gasped in disbelief as the inked faces of all his victims smiled back at her. Her eyes fiercely scanned the neat rows of faces, all named and dated, and breathed out a sigh of relief when she didn't see her own. Instead a freshly shaved patch of skin waited on his left breast.
Colt held out his hand to her. “Come on we need to get you checked over,” he said, pulling her to her feet.
India stood over Ray Quinn, one foot each side of his body, and thought of all the people he'd hurt. Some of those names she'd never heard of. Some of those women she'd have to visit and carry on spreading his poisonous pain. All of them would be changed forever. Most of them would never get over it. Some, like Sharon Cutler, would go on to take their own lives. She spat in his face before stepping on his lifeless body to get to the door.
She couldn't help what she did next, wasn't even aware herself it was coming. One after the other the happy smiling faces from the incident room wall flickered through her mind like images from an old black and white silent movie, ending with Dr Lacey Fox's dazzling white smile. She took a run up and slammed a striker’s kick Colt would have been proud of into his head. “That's for them,” she said.
Chapter 64
India point blank refused to go to the hospital, so Len sent a unit to collect her oldest sister Terri to accompany her home. Under the circumstances, Colt knew keeping him and India separate was a wise move on Len’s part. But it didn’t mean he liked it.
“Colt, you might want to take a look at this,” Vicky said, beckoning him to a pile of rubble in the studio’s back room.
As soon as he saw the small black velvet pouch he knew he was looking at the remains of Ray’s trophy cabinet. Crouching, Colt sifted through the debris of the desk drawer with a gloved hand, his stomach lurched when the red plastic casing of a small Swiss Army knife came into view. He tugged at the drawer above it still attached to the desk, his eyes scanning what was left of the room for something to break it open.
“Vicky, can you see if the fire crew have got something on hand to open this with please?” he said. As soon she left the area Colt was on his feet gripping the desk top with one hand and the base of the drawer with the other, he wrenched the frame apart and DVDs clattered into the dust. Hurriedly he flicked through them, searching for one bearing her name.
“You opted for brute force then?” Vicky said, appearing in the hole where the door used to be with Gray at her side wielding cutters. “Bloody hell,” she said, bending down beside him. “You've found his copies.”
“Is India's there?” Gray said, peering over her shoulder.
“No.” Colt straightened up as his phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”
“Hey Boss, your hire car should be delivered in the next hour,” Maggie said, as he stepped between the acrow props holding up the building façade. “Can you talk?”
Colt looked up and down the cordoned street, it was a soup of different uniforms and forensic suits. Ears were everywhere. He made his way to the empty bus shelter up the road. “Yep, I can now,” he said, taking a seat. “What you got?”
“Father is Douglas 'Doozer' Kane, a military man from Winchester. Mother is one Belinda Creasy from Portsmouth. They married in 1981, baby India arrived shortly after in 1982. The family home was in Worthy Down.”
“Was he Army?”
“Actually no,” Maggie said. “Royal Navy Police based at HMS Excellent in Portsmouth but remained living in the Winchester area.”
“He was a Regulator?” Colt frowned, sounded about right they always were heavy-handed bastards.
“He certainly was,” Maggie said, “and he had a reputation for being a hard man too.”
“And he died in what, 2000?” Colt said.
“Close but no cigar,” Maggie said. “He was officially declared dead in 2000, having been lost at sea in 1993.”
“Maybe he pissed the wrong skate off and got himself chucked overboard,” Colt murmured.
“It wasn’t work related,” Maggie said. “Seems he was an avid sailor and fisherman, took his boat out alone one day and never returned. The boat was later found drifting in the Solent. Despite a massive air sea rescue operation, his body was never recovered. And I can't find any evidence that any of the body parts washed up along the coastline over the years belonged to him either. Seventeen years ago he literally vanished.”
When India was eleven years old. Colt's fingers tightened around the Swiss Army knife in his trouser pocket.
“You still there, Guv?” Mags said.
“Yeah, I'm listening.”
“Anyway, seven years later the mother had him declared officially dead and cashed in. She’s currently sitting pretty in a pile in Twyford that would rival your own. Well your old one anyway. How's the purchase going by the way?”
“Collecting the keys tomorrow,” Colt said.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Guv? The commute will be a nightmare.”
“Not with you collecting me at the station it won't,” he said.
Maggie sighed. “I hope she's worth it.”
Colt smiled. “What's the mother’s address, Mags?”
“It's all in the long version, I've sent it hotmail to hotmail,” Maggie said. “You are coming back aren't you, Guv?”
“If they don't sack me,” Colt said.
“They wouldn't do that – you're our poster boy.” Maggie laughed. “Have a good Christmas. I'll see you next year.”
Colt pulled the Vauxhall Insignia into the hotel car park, his left foot hitting nothing but air when he forgot the heap of shit was automatic. Sticking it in park, he clambered out and removed the items he'd transferred from his trashed Lexus before it was towed away.
The receptionist grimaced cautiously as he walked through reception, covered in dirt and dust, with his laptop case and holdall in hand. He didn't want to be here anymore than they wanted him here, if it wasn't for every other hotel in the county being booked up for Christmas he'd have been out of here in a shot. At least they'd changed his room, shoved him in a room on the ground floor at the back of the building. Probably best to keep him as far away from the other guests as possible.
He dumped his stuff in the room and scrolled through the contacts list on his phone until he saw 'India' displayed on the screen. His thumb hovered over the call button. Frowning, he scrubbed a hand down his face and tossed the phone on the bed, stripped off his clothes and climbed into the shower.
“Is Colt coming over tonight?” Terri said.
India frowned. “Why would he?” He'd already got what he wanted from her, and now Ray Quinn was dead there was no need for him to stick around.
“I thought he might come by and check you were all right or something,” Terri said, flicking through the television channels.
“He knows I'm all right, he was there. Besides, there's enough coppers here already, don't need any bloody more.”
“What the hell is th
at noise?” Terri said, swivelling in her seat. “It sounds like a dentist on crack, and it’s interfering with the telly.”
India opened the door to the sound of drilling. Three men in high visibility jackets and hardhats were speaking to one of the uniforms. “What are you doing?” she called from the deck.
“They’re carrying out maintenance for the new neighbours,” the uniform called back.
Great. India slammed the door frowning hard, didn't even know it had sold. It was getting like Clapham bloody junction around here lately, so much for seclusion. “How's Clare?” she ventured.
“Wailing for England,” Terri said. “She's staying at Mum and Dad’s for a few days, milking the sympathy vote as much she can.”
India groaned.
“Don’t worry about Clare. It’s not your fault she’s been blowing a crackpot, even if . . . well, you know.” Terri grimaced apologetically. “I suspect you'll see Colt tomorrow then, will you?”
“No, he'll be back in London by the time I’m allowed back to work.” India slumped down on the sofa next to her. “Is there a film on tonight or what?”
AJ Colt reclined on the hotel bed and rested his laptop on his abdomen. He stared long and hard at the DVD labelled 'India Kane' on the bed next to him . . . then placed a pillow over it and logged into his Hotmail account.
Maggie's report was four pages long. The first page was pretty straight forward and covered her father’s illustrious career with the Royal Navy Police. Colt stared at the last line and felt a shiver race up his spine. The last time he’d seen the Latin words Ne Cede Malis they were racing up India Kane’s spine. Maggie had helpfully translated the RNP motto for him: Do Not Give in To Evil.
Colt turned to page two and read on. Raising his eyebrows where it stated Douglas ‘Doozer’ Kane was thirty-five years old when he married Belinda Creasy one week before her seventeenth birthday. Figures. The guy liked them young. But it was page three that had him sitting up: