The moonlight created an incredible image; two beautiful people, naked and entwined, the only sound being gentle sighs and Irish words that Cade neither understood nor replied to.
Their lips met for the first time, she swallowed hard and then again; she was slightly awkward, but becoming more aroused by the moment. The body that Cade had seen when he first arrived, clothed in corporate and uninteresting colours, was now revealed; exquisitely shaped and honed by an active lifestyle; her hip bones were prominent, acting as a natural guide, her skin was as smooth as satin. Her small, excited breasts tensed in an instant as his inquisitive tongue flicked across them. Her toned behind flinched as his strong hands grabbed at her, lifting her slightly off her toes and up to meet him.
In seconds he was inside her, her legs wrapped around his hips as he walked her towards the window. With three simple steps they were in the bay of the window, her naked back pressed up against the glass. To a hunter, plying his trade in the nearby moonlit valley she would have been the most magnificent sight; ethereal, beautiful and wanton.
Her tongue fluttered around his mouth as he reciprocated, her sighs were becoming more pronounced and he knew that it would not take long to reach a pinnacle. He tried to slow down, and she sensed his hesitance.
“Jack, stop, turn me to face the window.”
He gently eased her to her feet, allowing her to turn around.
She bent over in front of him, her hands upon the windowsill, her hair falling downwards once more and covering her face. His tanned hands were evident on her pale skin as he wrapped them around her hips. With an exquisite feeling he was where they both wanted him to be, but now she was much noisier.
Her Irish drawl became more apparent as with each driving movement she cursed him, said she hated him and said she would never forgive him, she was constantly stifling her desire to scream, but all the while begging him not to stop.
“Oh God, Jack Cade, I hope someone is out there watching this!” and with that she screamed silently, biting her hand to avoid detection.
He stopped. His body was pulsing with pleasure. He too had reached the summit for the second time that day and once more he was breathless, exhausted but undeniably content.
She turned, stood up and wrapped her arms around him; he could clearly see her in the reflection of the glass. She had discarded any concern of being seen and it made her deeply attractive. She kissed him fully on the lips then walked across the bedroom floor and picked up her shirt.
“Look. I have to go. I want to stay. But I…have to go.” She was still breathless.
“Elizabeth…”
“Yes?”
He nodded and smiled, still in a state of partial arousal his body was silhouetted against the window, his own breathing slowly recovering. In a pathetic gesture all he could do was form a kiss and blow it across the palm of his right hand.
She caught it and playfully pretended to lock it into her heart. And with that she left his room and closed the door behind her.
The following day he felt a sense of elation and sadness. Had he exploited that beautiful woman from the Emerald Isle? Or had they both needed an outlet and with more than a hint of luck had providence brought them together?
Or, perhaps, did they both just want sex? Questions, questions and the answer appeared to lay deep in his slightly troubled conscience.
He walked into a more crowded bar area the next morning. Tourists that he hadn’t seen the night before packed the bustling restaurant, eager for a traditional English breakfast.
He was staring into his teacup when a familiar voice brought him to his senses.
“Well, good morning Mr Cade and how was your night?”
He smiled, looking straight at her gleaming grey eyes as every other diner continued to eat, oblivious to the nuance and interplay.
“Well, I got to sleep eventually, I have to say the room service was just perfect, better than I have had anywhere in the world. Thank you.”
“The pleasure was all mine. Thank you for coming Mr Cade.”
He brushed his hand against hers, almost imperceptibly. She pulled hers away; perhaps already subconsciously building a wall to protect her from the inevitable departure.
He finished his breakfast, dabbed his lips with the napkin and placed it upon the table.
He stood, turned around and walked to the reception, settled his account and left.
As he drove out of the gate and bid goodbye to the Izaak Walton, he convinced himself that occasionally things did indeed happen for a reason. He indicated, glanced momentarily, turned right and never looked back.
It was a fantasy stop-over in an idyllic part of the world made all the more incredible by the events of the previous night – and yet.
He was verging on turning the car around and heading back, to apologise or perhaps to take the ‘relationship’ to its next phase, but he knew it wasn’t feasible and ‘besides’ he said out aloud ‘who was the victim here?’
He resigned himself to the fact that he had in fact been the prey of a lustful and rather wonderful girl with smiling eyes and the body of an athlete and that when all was said, and all was done he was the hapless gazelle to the imperious lioness.
“What a way to go!” he offered to the only other voice in the car, the iconic Terry Wogan, who was busily chatting on the radio in his own inimitable Irish style and introducing the next song.
“And this is especially for Jack if you’re listening – it’s the Eagles, and One of Those Nights.”
He took his eyes monetarily off the road and looked in the rear-view mirror; surely not?
At the Izaak Walton, Elizabeth Delany carried on with her duties but with an intimate sense and a smell of a man she might never meet again. She felt nothing but elation. It had been wonderful, but now she cursed for not arranging to meet him again. The breakfast room was empty now; staff cleared up and prepared for the much hoped for lunchtime rush.
Lucy Foxton, a sixteen-year-old waitress with chestnut hair and vanilla skin skipped around the room, collecting occasional tips and cleaning each table in turn until she got to Cade’s. She brushed the crumbs into a napkin and scrunched it up before throwing it in the bin.
Written on one corner accompanied by a single kiss was Cade’s cell phone number.
Within the hour he was back in familiar territory. Life had already returned to normal and already he hated it. He started to regret leaving the Peaks quite so soon.
Despite being told to take a few days off he pulled into the backyard at the Divisional HQ and almost ran up the stairs to Tom Jackson’s office.
If nothing else that pretty Irish girl had refreshed his mind and given his ego a sizeable boost.
As he turned the corner, he became aware of another set of footsteps coming hurriedly down the stairs. He looked up; it was Cooke.
“Jack my boy, how are things, feeling better? I hear you were not well, good to see you back in harness.” He smiled a smug almost overly confident smile.
Cade had two choices: grab his boss by the throat, hold him up against the wall and throttle the life out of him or walk on by, rising above the situation and gaining the higher moral ground.
He chose the former.
Without a moment’s hesitation he launched a hand straight for Cooke’s throat, pulling him towards his outstretched kneecap. Cooke’s stomach clashed with the much harder, bony structure and he was instantly winded.
Despite being a hard bastard, Cooke was now very much on the defensive, he was dropping to his knees and desperately trying to regain some control over his breathing when Cade rammed his foot straight into his testicles. To an onlooker he was converting the winning penalty at a rugby match, the kick was equally deliberate, delivered with the accuracy of an international Fly Half.
Cade’s instep struck the right testicle, causing it almost to burst against the pubic bone. Pain shot through Cooke’s hips and up into his stomach causing him to feel instantly nauseous. The combination of the tw
o rapid blows had been highly effective.
Cade stepped back slightly, aware that his boss could easily grab his feet and tip him back down the concrete staircase. Fortunately, it being the service exit it was unlikely to be used by anyone other than the Traffic staff who parked their vehicles immediately adjacent to the door.
Cade knew that he didn’t have long before they were discovered. He could hear more activity in the adjoining corridor: Footsteps.
He placed his hand onto Cooke’s hair and grabbed a handful, pulling his face up to look at his own. Cooke was still reeling from the hammer blow and was unable to feel the localised pain in his scalp.
“Trust me, we are nowhere near even, but that is a start. If you are half the man you think you are you will never discuss this matter again. You owe me at least that for what you have done to me.”
He dropped his head, allowing him to breathe in, each breath filling his lungs with oxygen and reducing the searing pain between his legs.
He slowly got to his feet, using the wall and railings as a guide.
Cade could feel the rage building again but knew he had to stop, or it was likely that one of them would end up in hospital. He took a deep breath and looked at Cooke before adding, “It’s over Cooke. We are done.”
As Cooke launched unexpectedly at Cade, he chose possibly the worst time to commence his retaliation. Unmarked and visibly the aggressor, he played straight into Cade’s hands. Cade had become aware of the presence of another person in the stairwell. If it was one of Cooke’s section then he was in deeper trouble than he thought, however, fortune was on his side.
“Inspector Cooke, what the fuck are you doing? Stand down man, stand down NOW!” It was Tom Jackson.
Cade was struggling not to respond but had allowed Cooke to land at least one punch to the left side of his face, which was now starting to swell. He staggered slightly, adding to the effect of the slightly staged, ever-so-slightly harder than expected assault. For Cade it was painful, but perfect for Cooke, possibly the end of his career.
Cooke regained his composure, “Sir, this is not how it looks, Sergeant Cade and I were having a discussion and things, well, things got a little out of hand, I’m sure he would agree, wouldn’t you, sergeant?”
Cooke glared at Cade through letterbox eyes, his nostrils flaring and his lips pursed over his teeth. He was ready for round two, but the referee had called an end to the fight.
Jackson turned to Cade.
“Sergeant, I saw Inspector Cooke attack you, do you wish to make a complaint?”
Cade rubbed his cheekbone, which was now angry, tender and red before responding to the question.
“And ruin a man’s life, sir? No, only the very weak would operate like that and you know me well enough…no, thank you I don’t, it’s clear that Inspector Cooke and I can no longer work in the same station though.”
“Indeed,” replied Jackson, “Indeed. I don’t need this sort of animosity between two of my most senior hands. Christ only knows what started this Grant, but so help me it bloody well stops, here and now. Do I make myself clear?” He barked the words straight into Cooke’s face, leaving microbes of saliva on his forehead.
He had made himself extremely clear. Cooke was defeated, but in his own arrogant way felt like the victor.
Cade left the station, and after a swift phone call met up with an old foe.
They had sparred many times, but David Francis also had a level of respect for a man who he once described as ‘the very best of the bunch’ and for Francis that was a compliment indeed.
Francis was a fifty-eight-year-old criminal, a brilliant burglar and ex-soldier. He’d left the Intelligence Corps during the end of the Northern Ireland conflict – The Troubles.
A man born in north Kent and with the area’a distinctive twang still present in his now softened accent, he had trained to a standard that most Mitty-esque characters could only fantasise about. What Dave Francis didn’t know about surveillance and counter-surveillance, intelligence gathering and source handling wasn’t worth knowing.
He had left a fractured home and become a boy soldier, initially signing up in an Infantry role with the Infantry Junior Leaders Battalion at Shorncliffe Barracks, Folkestone.
After months of training and physical endurance, he had made the final grade. Posing on a bright afternoon with a few of his new-found friends, his tie askew and a broad smile on his face, he looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The photographer’s index finger clicked away, his thumb winding on the film on his trusty Canon SLR before taking another group shot, this time with the few family members that had made the journey.
Sadly, he quickly came to the attention of his senior command staff for the wrong reasons.
‘A fine soldier in the making…but lacks commitment.’
However, an observant non-commissioned officer had noted his potential to assimilate information and made a call to the nearby Templer Barracks, the home of the School of Service Intelligence.
The SSI took a quick look at his personnel file and declined him.
After almost two more years of firing, stripping down and firing again every weapon he could lay his hands upon, then repeatedly running, frenziedly at inanimate mannequins, stabbing them with a bayonet he was finally considered a fully trained soldier – with no war to fight. And he became bored.
Until he was sent to Northern Ireland.
It was in The Province that he really learned his craft. Killing became all too easy, a thrill, and one which needed to be replicated on his leave days. He turned to drugs in order to provide something approaching the sheer high that stalking prey – on their own soil – had given him.
He unwittingly became the target of the Special Investigation Branch, who conducted their investigation with the utmost vigour and pride. Drugs were not welcome in the modern British Army – and therefore neither was David Francis.
Never one to believe in the fabled six degrees of separation, he did concede that Lady Luck may have been on his side when he was able to avoid the hell that was the Military Corrective Training Centre, Colchester, Essex.
Colchester was where all British servicemen who had committed criminal acts were sent to finish their time in the military – but not before enduring a certain level of humiliation and what some saw as Draconian treatment. Private 32979006 David Edward Francis would have adored it. Frankly, the harsher the better.
Colchester also provided training, a way to steer its people back onto the correct path in life. By some means, Francis had avoided both the internment and training.
The same NCO who had made Francis his own pet project a few years prior happened to return to Francis’ regiment and spotted him in the mess.
“You are coming with me, private. No arguments. You are heading to Templer. Do I make myself clear?”
His rasping, intense Glaswegian accent enforced his meaning and Francis knew it was a fight he would lose.
Within months he had made a name for himself again, but for the right reasons.
“‘Private Francis is a natural collector of intelligence.”
These were the kind of words he needed to assist him in finally achieving something, something that he not only enjoyed, but was good at.
“He is recommended for secondment to HUMINT Branch.”‘
From here he developed skills that would lead him into some of the world’s most closely guarded secrets and some not so.
Northern Ireland was where he cut his teeth, on more than one occasion. He worked with the regular army and plenty of irregular ones too, in their day, special, but unknown, still hiding behind a veil of much-needed secrecy.
He would serve in the northern and southern hemisphere, in obvious conflict zones and some less apparent. He rose quickly through the ranks, never achieving a commission, but in truth that suited him – better to gain respect as an experienced warrant officer than be quietly mocked by your peers for wearing pips, and not having a clue about leader
ship.
Above all, he learned to capture information at a rate that most of his peers could not compete with.
After years of travelling around the world, free of charge and forgetting about more places of interest than most would ever see, he made his first poor judgement call in years. An old service friend had left the Intelligence Corps a few years prior and had set up what he called a consultancy business. Mercenaries in any other language.
Francis was lured by the promise of obscene pay packets and a chance to re-engage with a tangible enemy. Despite the thrills of working in the Intelligence Corps, he missed the raw, tactile brutality of inflicting pain.
He headed to Africa and was immersed himself among the horrors of a war without conventions.
He lasted two years. A year longer than most.
Returning to the United Kingdom with a backpack full of memories and a carrier bag full of US dollars, Francis drifted onto the wrong path and began to consume alcohol at an alarming rate.
His family members turned their back on him, society gradually stepped over him and ultimately, he even lost respect for himself. He had initially returned home to Kent, a place he once called home. Then, facing continual rejection, he caught a train, rather randomly to Nottingham, on the off-chance he might find his old service partner ‘Mad Dog’ Micky Hilton.
He never did locate him. Heroin had found Francis first and left him as a shattered wreck in an abandoned railway arch, a victim of the mental savagery of exposure to urban warfare and the inevitable drug and alcohol addictions that followed.
A number of unsuccessful suicide attempts had left him battered and scarred way beyond anything that two tours of The Province could ever achieve.
He first met Constable Jack Cade in the late nineties, by which point he was a ragged, dishevelled shell of his former self.
Cade had visited his home one November evening; every other member of the force had done their level best to avoid visiting the dark and damp plat Francis called home, recording a dubious-at-best ‘no reply to knocking’ on the job sheet. But Cade could see something unique in the eyes of ‘Frank’ Francis. He had obtained the details of yet another ‘attempted burglary’ to Frank’s home and was about to close his pocket book when among the squalor and heartache he saw a solitary dog-eared, unframed colour photograph clinging to the edge of the beige-tiled sixties’ fireplace.
Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1) Page 26