by Bo Brennan
India huffed aloud. Witness Protection. What a fucking joke.
The NCA’s slap-happy Henderson had the upper hand. And India did not like that one little bit.
Colt drove down the dirt track, peering through the trees at the late afternoon sky. Deep blue, edging swiftly towards the slate grey of evening. Breezy, but not a rain cloud in sight. It could only be a good omen.
Emerging into the secluded clearing where the two houseboats rested, he smiled at the sight of the empty hard standing. His early arrival home meant he’d maintained the element of surprise. He parked up and pulled the Asprey’s box from his pocket, poised for the promise within.
The sudden call of a coot, noisily taking to flight, lifted his eyes to the river.
In the distance, he could make out India’s car parked halfway down the rickety old pontoon. The basic wooden structure wasn’t safe for vehicles. After the recent gales, it wasn’t safe for coots. It was a modern-day miracle the bloody thing was still standing at all. What the hell was she thinking?
Colt tossed the ring box into his glove box and climbed from the car, his heart stuttering in his chest as he started to run.
On legs like jelly, he juddered to a breathless halt at the edge of the pontoon, eyes scanning the small, evenly spaced pools of water temporarily staining the swaying timber surface. He frowned down at the one at his feet, the shape of a shoe clearly visible. She’d gone in with her boots on. And walked away. He looked to the heavens, giving silent thanks for her safety, and then wearily turned his attention to her abandoned car.
The offside front wheel had opened up a sizeable rot hole, and was wedged firmly between splintered, weather-beaten planks. At the risk of looking like a sap, right now he’d welcome a visit from her brother and his mates. But India wouldn’t. She’d rather lose her car to the river’s silty depths than ask for help, even from him.
A sudden squall indicated that scenario was highly likely if Colt didn’t act now. As daylight faded fast, the March winds whipped.
The driver’s door was open. The keys still in the ignition. The dry interior revealed her reckless mind had suffered a momentary lapse of sensible – she’d made no attempt to recover it. The pontoon creaked as he adjusted the seat, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. This woman and her crazy ways were going to be the death of him, he thought, as he slipped the car into reverse and released the brake. Tentatively, he tapped the accelerator. Nothing gave. So he floored it. The engine gunned and the chassis bucked, but the heap of shit didn’t move, the wheels simply spun in place.
Brute force required, he climbed out and slammed the door, the frustration of a shitty day building steadily in his muscles. The wheel had sunk deeper between the planks. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bumper and bounced until the wheel came free with an ear-splitting crack, and the silk of his waistcoat tore on his back. Dark inky waters lapped at the void the tyre left behind, warning he’d long outstayed his welcome.
He reversed off the pontoon at speed, spinning a doughnut on solid land before snaking towards the hard standing where he dumped it amid a bitter cloud of burnt rubber.
He shook his head and climbed from her car, loosening his tie as he stepped into the speciously calm air. No harm done, nothing lost . . . only the element of surprise. He still planned for this to be a night to remember. He took two steps towards her place and froze.
Harrods were slipping. He hadn’t ordered carnage.
Flowers were strewn everywhere, de-thorned stems carpeted every step to her door.
The tented canopy he’d had erected on her deck, billowed wildly in the growing wind. The romantic setting beneath it consisted of upturned wrought iron furniture, scattered silverware and shattered crystal. A champagne bucket clattered ominously as it rolled back and forth across the wooden planks.
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the delicate, fragrant crush under foot to throw open her front door. And ducked as a wine bottle exploded against the wall, inches from his head. “Jesus Christ, India! What the fuck are you doing?”
“This is my place,” she shouted, pulling a carving knife from the kitchen rack. “I can do whatever I fucking want!”
She flew across the houseboat and upended the sofa in one swift fury-fuelled movement. Colt looked on as she set about the cushions, stabbing, slashing, and tearing until feathers scattered the room. She was right. This was her place. Her space. Her things. She could do whatever she fucking wanted – it was all replaceable. But she wasn’t. And she belonged to him. She already had a fat lip and scratches on her face, he wasn’t about to stand by while she damaged herself further.
He had one chance, and he took it.
Dropped his head and ran. Rugby tackled her clean off her feet and didn’t stop moving until they crashed into the houseboat wall, taking the dining table with them. He pinned her arms with his own, his eyes never leaving the knife glinting in her palm. Flattened his body the full length of hers, bracing her firmly in place to prevent getting dropped by a well-placed knee. Her body, rigid and tight, twitched against his as her ire intensified.
“Get the fuck off me!” she screamed.
“Calm down,” he said, staring down at her. The rage in her eyes was immense, turning the cool blue irises to brilliant, fiery sapphires. He’d be a fucking idiot to let her go in this state. She’d hurt him. Kicks and punches he could take. An eight-inch blade was a different matter. He closed his eyes and turned her wrist, twisting till she gasped in pain and the knife clattered to the wooden floor. “Talk to me, babe,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “Let me help you.”
She said nothing, but he felt her short, shallow breaths deepen and even under his chest as she regained some semblance of control. With a sigh of relief, he loosened his grip and glanced over his shoulder at the trail of destruction her temper had left behind.
His relief was short lived. His head jerked as she punched him.
Colt instinctively snapped back. Grabbing her by the jaw, he slammed her against the wall. Her angry eyes bored into his, the embers of rage still smouldering. He could feel the danger oozing from her pores; smell her power with every ragged breath he took. But he wanted to taste it.
He took her mouth with his. Kissed her hard and deep as she bit at his darting tongue. Tasted blood on his lips as she struggled against him. His body relished every punishing punch, feeding off her power as it sparked like electricity. The more she fought the more he wanted her.
Grabbing a fistful of damp hair, he pulled her head back, exposing her neck. She gasped as his mouth dropped to the throbbing pulse at her throat, sucking and biting until her flaying fists dropped to his waist and pulled his shirt free of his trousers.
Hot hands coursed his back, nails dug into his flesh.
He had to have her. Here. Now. He yanked her jeans open. Tugged denim and cotton down her legs as she frantically worked his belt and moved on to his zip.
Stepping out of her jeans and underwear, she gave him a sharp shove in the chest. His trousers dropped to his thighs as the backs of his legs met the table. With a rough tug of his boxers she freed him. With a hand to his throat she forced his back to the table top and straddled him, leaving him breathless as she ground deep. He reached up and pulled her top over her head, slinging it across the room as she rode him. When his hands reached for her bra she pinned them beneath her knees, rendering him useless. He groaned when she tore his waistcoat and shirt open in one raw, animalistic movement and sank her teeth deep into the muscles of his chest.
She fucked him hard and fast. Full breasts swelling against the confines of her bra as she denied him the pure bliss of touching her.
If she was trying to shag him senseless, she succeeded. His mind emptied. The only thing of importance the relentless pursuit of sweet release. His pulse pounded in his ears as his muscles tightened. Clenched buttocks mercilessly bucked his hips to meet her every wild and ruthless thrust. His gaze hungrily traced a bead of sweat as it t
rickled down her temple, her throat, her collar bone, before making its way between her breasts and disappearing into her cleavage. Her face flushed red under his scrutiny. She closed her eyes, arched her back and threw her head back, lips parting as her fingers tightened around his calves. Past the point of no return. There was no ecstatic slow build. Just a violently explosive assault that wrung him out dry. She cried out and sagged against him as the fury finally fled her body.
He lay there, panting hard on the table. “Shit,” he gasped, easing his dead hands free from under her knees, clenching and unclenching his fists to get the blood circulating again. “What the fuck just happened.”
India grunted in response. Chin tucked tightly into her chest, gaze fixed firmly on his navel.
“You okay, babe?” he asked, resting his hands tenderly on her thighs. She shuddered and hugged herself. Colt frowned at the giant, unmistakably hand-shaped bruises encircling her biceps.
“Who did that?” he said, eyes fixed on the marks another man dared to leave on her flesh.
Her expression hardened as she abruptly climbed off him. “Some scrote at work.”
“Sangrin?” he quizzed, sitting up.
India gave a mirthless chuckle. “Sangrin’s stupid, not suicidal.”
As she turned her back on him to pull her jeans on, her long, tangled hair fell aside to reveal the damage hidden beneath. Deep angry bruises bloomed over ancient silvery scar tissue. The Latin motto she lived by, inked the length of her spine, reduced to nothing more than a cruel taunt. Fury had him on his feet and fastening his trousers before he could draw another breath. “Then who was it? What’s this scrote’s name?”
She ignored him and walked away. Filled herself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, silently staring out the window into darkness as she drank.
“India, what’s his name?” he demanded, grabbing her arm.
With a ferocious glare, she yanked her arm free. “You’ve got a nerve.”
Colt raised his palms in apology and took a step back, drawing a deep, steadying breath before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “I don’t know what happened. There’s no excuse.”
India shrugged. “It was rough sex, that’s all. I liked it. You liked it. Get over it.”
Colt swallowed hard, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he chose his next words carefully. “And those bruises,” he said, glancing up from her bare feet to meet ice-cold eyes. “What are they, India?”
“Work.”
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets where they could fist unseen. “Okay,” he said, evenly. “So you banged this scrote up, right?”
India looked away. “Yeah. You could say that.” She set the empty glass down on the worktop and headed towards the bathroom. “Shut the door on your way out,” she said, disappearing inside and sliding the bolt.
Colt stared at the locked bathroom door, fighting the urge to kick it off its hinges. When he heard the shower, he shook his head and left. He didn’t need her to tell him who it was – first thing tomorrow he’d get the details from her boss, Len. Then he’d pay this little scrote a visit and give him a taste of his own fucking medicine.
Chapter 33
Saturday, 10th March
Hampshire CID, Winchester
India’s arse had barely touched her seat when her guv’nor called her into his office, his bollocking face fixed firmly in place. She dropped into his visitor’s chair, hoping he’d keep it brief. Had a delivery coming this afternoon, a major clean-up operation to undertake, and a date with a pole dancer later.
“What’re you doing here? You’re booked off this weekend.”
“No, I’m not.”
“It’s your . . . never mind,” Firman said. “What happened to you yesterday?”
India pursed her lips and spread her hands, looking for a clue, unwilling to give an inch until she knew what he’d been told.
“There were no arrests on your sheet,” he said, peering at the scratches on her face. “But I have it on bloody good authority you had a scrap with someone.”
Someone. His information hadn’t come from Henderson. That only left Colt. “It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding.”
“With who?”
India tutted and frowned. “Just some scrote in Winchester.”
“Leave the scrotes alone.” Firman steepled his fingers. “Why have I got a note from the Home Secretary’s office instructing me to keep Officer Henderson in the loop on whatever you get up to?”
Knew he’d feature somewhere. Henderson didn’t drop her, but he didn’t waste any time connecting the dots either. And he’d gone through official channels. Her boss had always been fair, now was the time to spill. India wet her lips but nothing came out. Her gaze drifted to the calendar on the wall behind him – big red crosses marking away the days to his retirement, a big black cross marking the day of her exams. And she just couldn’t do it – to him, or herself.
“Well?” he pushed. “Why’s he interested in you?”
“Think he likes me.”
Firman sighed. “You’re a good cop, India, but you have a tendency to get under people’s skin. I’m weeks away from retirement and I’d like to get there with my pension intact.”
“You will. I’m not interested in that dick. I’ve got too much on.”
“Like what exactly?”
“I need to see the Preston boys and the Central Bank cashier, Melody Fletcher, again. The boys reckon the bloke who abducted Pocahontas is the same bloke who carried out the robbery.”
Firman laughed. “They’re spinning you a yarn. You’ve already established Pocahontas was under a bus when they said she was abducted.”
India tugged the photograph she’d taken from Nazreem Sinder’s house out of her jacket pocket. “There’s two of them,” she said, passing it to him. “Shayla Begum and Nazreem Sinder. Right now, I can’t locate either of them.”
“Where d’you get this?” Firman asked.
“Standard enquiries,” India mumbled before changing the subject. “The Preston brothers’ story checks out,” she said, sliding their sketch of the abductor across his desk. “This guy robbed the Central Bank last month and abducted one of those women in the picture. If Shayla Begum was the one under the bus, then Nazreem Sinder is probably our headless corpse.”
“The NCA’s headless corpse,” Firman corrected.
“Whatever,” India said. “Either way, it doesn’t bode well for Shayla Begum.”
Firman stroked his beard, took a deep breath and leant back in his chair staring at her. “If you think there’s a connection you should be speaking to Doug Henderson.”
“He’s not being straight with us. How can we find and protect Shayla Begum when he won’t even give us the dead woman’s name?”
“You’ve just given me both their names.”
“They don’t check out. I spoke with the tax office. Nazreem Sinder’s work history starts at the Tall Trees Care Home, and Shayla Begum hasn’t even got one. She’s been using Sinder’s details.”
“So he is witness protection,” Firman murmured.
India crossed her arms. “Not very good at it, is he? One of those women is still alive, and as she’s on our patch, keeping her that way is our prerogative. If we involve Dick Henderson –”
Firman raised his brows.
“Sorry, guv. Slip of the tongue. Doug. If we involve Doug Henderson we’ll be running all over the country playing match the body parts, and you’ll be retiring with blood on your hands.”
DCI Firman rubbed at his puckered brow and stared at the photograph of the two women. India knew she’d hit him where it hurt – a distinguished career going down the pan because of police politics would be a disaster. “Henderson could make life very difficult for us here,” he murmured.
“Guv, he’s a government arsehole,” India said. “Cut me some slack on this. Have I ever let you down?”
Firman raised his eyes to glare at her from under
his palm.
India grimaced. “I’ve been up all night googling universities, trying to find out where that garb she’s wearing comes from. When I do, I’ll be able to find their real names and find Shayla Begum before a killer does. All I’m asking for is a bit of time. This could be the cherry on your Bakewell, career wise. Nail Hampshire’s first honour killer and the brass will probably get it engraved on your retirement clock.” And I get to wipe Sangrin’s board clean, and the smug smile off his face, India thought.
Firman let out a hefty sigh and leaned back in his seat. “The cut and colour of the robes mean specific things. It was a right pain in the arse getting my girls sorted,” he said wearily. “The university outfitters in town did theirs, Sinclair’s. Pay them a visit and see what they come up with.” He pushed the picture back across the desk towards her. “But that’s it. Stick to Shayla Begum, be discreet, and don’t give anyone cause to complain. Keep me updated and stay the hell away from Henderson and his murder case. If you tread on his toes . . . you’re on your own.”
India gave a curt nod as she returned the picture to her pocket. “That’s just the way I like it.”
Had she been going back to the office, India would have walked the short distance to the academic outfitters in the city centre. But she wasn’t. So she drove. The traffic was atrocious. Everyone and their dog was in town, splashing the cash in the March Madness sales.
When she finally reached Sinclair’s, she flicked her hazard lights on and mounted the kerb, straddling the narrow side-street pavement outside the bunched row of boutique-style shops. A handwritten sign on the door declared the business: ‘Closed for Lunch’.
India peered through the window. An elderly gent, dapper in tweed and half-moon spectacles, with a tape measure around his neck, looked up from his lacklustre lunchbox. India rapped on the glass and waved.