‘She fell for a surfer. And one with a willy at that. I was so outraged I almost didn’t turn up at the wedding.’
‘Was this in Spain?’
‘No, this was two years later, in Australia. And I fibbed about the wedding. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept me away.’
‘You forgave her, then?’
‘Of course I did. We both knew how it was going to end.’
‘With her finding someone with a willy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever fallen for anyone with a willy?’
‘Not significantly. I like willies, but I treat men as disposable assets. Two or three nights are usually enough for me with a new bloke.’
‘When did you find your orientation?’
‘I’m still looking.’
‘Are you getting warm?’
‘Warm? I’m boiling over!’
‘I meant about your orientation, Heather.’
‘Oh that. No. I don’t think I’ll ever find it.’
‘Do you want to find it?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. When did you realize you liked girls?’
‘At school. Although definitely not because of school.’ Heather fixed Vic with her amazing green eyes. ‘When do I get to ask some questions?’
‘All in due course. Tell me about girls first. What attracts you?’
‘You’re very mean.’
‘Never mind mean, what attracts you in a girl?’
‘Skill and staying power. Men are all talk. Girls walk the walk.’
‘I meant in the first instance. What’s your type?’
‘I don’t categorize myself or anyone else.’
‘I know that. I’m talking about appearances, not preferences.’
‘I can see something attractive in everybody.’ Heather smiled fleetingly. ‘It doesn’t always take big bazoomas to get in my bed. Some of the girls at uni were downright scary, but that never stopped me. I was like a kid in a sweetshop.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Victoria, I tried every variation going. Skinheads in red Docs, hairy armpits . . . the works.’
‘I thought you binged on men.’
‘I did. But only after I’d binged on every lesbian I could find.’
‘I don’t know how you dared. I’ve always gone for the pretty ones myself.’
‘I tend to do that nowadays. But I have very few new partners nowadays. It’s more coincidence than anything else.’
‘Did it excite you to go with skinheads?’
‘Every new partner excites me. So do some of the more familiar ones. Like you at this very moment.’
Vic kept stroking smooth, trembling thighs while Heather wriggled and writhed a bit. A thickening trickle of juice confirmed her excitement. So did her very erect clit. Higher up, her nipples were more bullet-like than ever.
Mmm, Vic thought, nice!
‘You’re tormenting me,’ Heather grouched. ‘I’m really holding back here.’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near.’
‘You don’t have to. I want to cum every time I look at you.’
‘Go on then, boost my ego.’
‘All in due course.’ Heather’s laugh was more of an intake of air. ‘I don’t suppose I can have a below job, can I?
Vic chuckled as she carried on teasing. According to Heather, “blowjob” came from the much more descriptive, less gender-specific “below job”. ‘Cunnilingus is an awful word,’ she’d said, ‘and most of the other names for it are even worse. Give me a good belowing every time.’
Not that she usually offered much opportunity, of course.
Except now she was practically begging for it . . .
‘Hang on a little longer,’ Vic said, ‘I need to tell you about Jack the Hat first.’
* * *
The killer had a secret room that no-one would ever find, never mind violate. This was where he kept his tools: three guns and boxes and boxes of ammunition; two hammers and several dozen stakes . . . useful things like that.
This was also where he kept his library, in hard copy. Although he would have liked to have gone paper-free he simply didn’t dare. There were supposed to be ways of hiding electronic files but he didn’t trust them. Not in a world where schoolboys routinely hacked into top secret databases. How could he expose his legend to such a risk?
So paper-based it was. Only two volumes to date: quite a mound of Micky Johnson clippings and a very modest heap of new ones.
He frowned. The Doncaster Star had been a bastard to get hold of. He’d been to an Internet café and found it online in two seconds flat. Getting an original, however . . .
Never mind that, concentrate on the article. Like all the others he’d clipped, this one spent more ink on the perils and pitfalls of prostitution than the girl herself. In fact the girl herself had made hardly a ripple.
The killer wasn’t sure how pleased he was about that. Okay, nobody was supposed to make the connection, but Doncaster had been brilliant. Smooth as clockwork from start to finish. And that cosh had been his piece de resistance.
Fancy nobody noticing that. He’d half a mind to tip the Pigs off.
Not that he would, of course. He had the whole mind of a genius, not the half-mind of a halfwit.
He looked from heap to mound and frowned again. What shit sort of society was this? A fucking tramp got a hundred times the publicity of a poor, down-on-her-luck girl from a decent family; a girl who the press hadn’t as yet given the dignity of a name.
She’d had amazing legs, too. He wished he’d shafted her before she died. That johnny would have been protection enough.
Spilt milk now, though. And the real urge had gone anyway, the strangling urge. He probably wouldn’t include girls in his work again. Stick to tramps; he fucking hated tramps.
Hogging the limelight, that was tramps for you.
Next time he would plan more thoroughly. If the nameless girl’s dispatch had been brilliant, Johnson’s had been no better than sketchy. He’d thought he’d prepared well, but Johnson could have yelled out at any moment.
Spoiling the fun.
Next time he’d cater for that.
Next time really would be perfect.
* * *
Heather looked as if the last thing she wanted to do was hang on. She was, however, the ultimate competitor. Knowing this, Vic decided to be the ultimate tease . . . even though the urge to go for a hearty belowing was huge.
‘I’ve never told anyone,’ she said softly, ‘and I really need to share it.’
‘Jack the Hat?’ Heather panted.
‘Yes.’
‘From The Kings?’
‘Yes.’
‘You look bashful, Vic. What happened?’
‘Bashful? I’m supposed to look intriguing and seductive.’
‘Trust me, you are very seductive. But bashful with it.’
‘I am not bashful.’
‘Yes you are.’
Vic let her hand brush Heather’s glistening, swollen sex, as if by accident. Heather jumped as if she’d just taken fifty thousand volts. An even thicker trickle of juice came out of her but, gritting her teeth, she somehow held off the seemingly inevitable.
‘I know it was terribly unprofessional,’ Vic said, keeping a distance again, resisting the temptation to lap up all that juice. ‘But I slept with him after the meeting.’
‘Him?’ Heather gasped.
‘Jack the Hat.’
‘A man? With a willy and everything?’
‘Yes Heather, very much a man.’
‘What meeting?’
‘His mortgage application flagged up issues, so we invited him in. The fraudsters are usually no-shows. He did show and passed at a canter, so I signed it off there and then.’ Vic laughed. ‘I never expected to send me an invite to his pub-warming party. When I didn’t reply he sent me a dozen red roses and another invite.’
‘And?’
‘Turned out he’d invited me to th
e follow-up event at his home. Just me.’
‘So you went?’
‘I did. And I got the most rigorous fucking a man’s ever given me.’
‘Victoria! Do you really have to swear so much?’
‘On this occasion, yes. No other word describes what we did. Not adequately, anyway.’
Heather gasped and panted a while. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I must have. I kept going back for more for over a year.’
‘Was he . . .’ Pause for yet another gasp. ‘Was he your mysterious last man?’
‘No. He was third from last. And he may well be my next. He still sends flowers from time to time. He’s also the only man I ever dream about.’
‘Must be good.’
‘Heather, his staying power is incredible. He once did me for three hours without missing a stroke.’
Heather took that as her cue to cum violently. Afterwards, with Vic still caressing thigh and avoiding fanny, she shook her head in admiration.
‘Three hours? That’s incredible for a man.’
‘I take it you’ve never known such considerate service?’ Vic smiled. ‘From a man, I mean. You could probably do twice as long yourself.’
‘Six hours is pushing it, even for me. As you’re aware, I do tend to get carried away.’
‘Do you ravish men like you ravish women?’
‘No, I’m far worse with men.’
‘Yet again I wonder! Why I am not surprised?’
‘I suppose I don’t pick enough macho types,’ Heather went on, temporarily sated enough to be philosophical. ‘I usually go for blokes who seem to promise something different. They nearly always let me down, though. I haven’t nearly enough Vikings or cavemen on my Sexy CV.’
‘But you do like a rigorous fucking once in a while?’
‘Mais naturellement. That’s why I’m regretting the shortage of Vikings and cavemen.’
‘Do you want me to fix you up?’
This was a first! Heather taken aback! ‘What?’ she said, practically gaping.
‘You and Jack the Hat. I think you’re made for each other.’
‘I’m not looking for a new boyfriend.’
‘I’m suggesting a marathon fuck, Heather, not boyfriends and girlfriends.’
Now Vic did touch more intimately, not at all accidentally, making her only-too-willing victim shiver.
‘Is this some sort of test?’
‘No,’ said Vic. ‘I just want you to have fun. And to let me know how good my judgment is. I may even come along and watch.’
‘To see how it should be done?’
‘No. To see who blinks first. My money’s on him, but it might be close.’
Heather’s stare was curious. ‘Why did you stop seeing him?’
‘A year for me’s like a lifetime for anyone else, even when it’s only occasional. And there were gangster rumours floating about. I was up for promotion, so I had to cut him out.’
‘Is he a gangster?’
‘Probably not. But it adds to the excitement pretending he is.’
‘Three hours without missing a stroke sounds exciting enough.’
‘It is. Want to try?’
‘Maybe some other time.’
‘Chicken.’
‘Cluck, cluck.’
* * *
That unfurnished backroom was as echoey as ever, although nobody had been laughing tonight. The nature of the discussion hadn’t encouraged laughter, nor had the front page pictures of Bunny Burrows’ bullet-ridden Astra. Expressions had been grim from the outset. It was only now, as Harry finished outlining his plan that the first faint smiles were showing.
Bigger attendance, he thought. Extra two seats. Harder to loosen ‘em up.
‘Right,' he said aloud. 'You all know how I'm thinking. Chew on it over the weekend. Jonjo . . . you speak to everybody we can trust. Two o'clock Wednesday, in The Black Horse. Be nice about it, but make sure they all turn up. Know what I mean?'
‘Don't worry. I'll make sure they understand.' Jonjo inclined his as-good-as-bald head. 'Anyone you don't want me to invite?'
‘Use your discretion. Just remember that lots of questions will be asked afterwards. I don't want to see anyone who crumbles under pressure.'
‘Okay. Leave it with me.'
‘Good man.' Harry's scar stretched as he grinned. 'The six of us are going to get there early. Let's make it half twelve. I want to run though everything again and appoint team leaders. You all know the teams. Try to decide which one you think you'll get. We can have a few quid on it, can't we?'
‘I'm not betting,' said Kev, getting to his feet, 'you'll have me cleaning out the shitholes if it wins you a fiver.'
Harry grinned even wider as everyone followed Kev's lead, eager to be away before the pubs and clubs closed.
‘Don't give me ideas,' he said. Then, gesturing to Barney, 'Hold back a minute, won't you.'
Barney sat down again, watching the others leave.
‘I need a favour,' Harry said once they were alone.
‘No problem. Just say the word.'
‘I’ve got four teams, five potential leaders,' Harry went on. 'If you want one of the four, you've got it. I've a job that needs doing tomorrow, though. You can have that instead. Or as well . . . it's up to you.'
‘Whatever,' said Barney.
‘It’s potentially nasty.’
‘Whatever.’
‘How about you do tomorrow, then decide?'
‘Fair enough. What is it?'
‘Something a bit special. Listen up, you'll like this . . .’
PART THREE
That same year – late October
Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.
Niccolo Machiavelli
Chapter Twenty-six
Joanna ran her eye down the bill before signing with a flourish.
‘Not too bad for starters,’ she said to the bar manager. ‘It’ll be a rush at halftime, so I’ll approve in advance two pints each for WYB fans. Just serve them and keep a tally. We’ll do the ordering after the final whistle. Me and Heather, I mean . . . the same arrangement as just now. All right?’
‘Very all right,’ the manager replied, grinning. ‘I wish we played you every week.’
Joanna smiled at him then turned to her young colleague. They were the last customers in the bar and their glasses had finally run dry. Heather tilted an empty champagne bottle and made a rueful face.
‘All gone,’ she said, ‘it must be time to watch some clashing male bodies.’
‘If that’s what tickles your fancy.’
‘Oh, it is. This is the first rugby match I’ve been to in ages.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Do I keep asking you to make sure I behave?’
‘Yes Heather, you do.’ Joanna chuckled. ‘Relax, for Goodness’ sake. We’re here to enjoy ourselves and talk up the Bank. It’s supposed to be a perk, not a minefield.’
‘I know that. But I must have had a bottle of champers already. And I’m starting to worry about etiquette.’
There was a decent-sized crowd watching the Battle of the Banks, predominantly supporting the home team, who were sponsored by Bradford and Bingley. Joanna and Heather were supporting the visitors from Shipley, who were sponsored by WYB. This was a local derby in every sense of the word and, given little hope of success on the playing field, their mission was to shine in the clubhouse. Hence their early arrival and generous entertainment budget.
And even earlier trip for hairdos and manicures.
Personally, Joanna hadn’t felt this good in years. She’d gone for Sophisticated Cougar, letting Heather talk her into extravagant nail extensions in a blue which allegedly matched her “sexy peepers”. Heather’s equally extravagant extensions were in a green that certainly matched her sexy peepers. Green and blue between them . . . Shipley’s playing colours.
Cue complimentary drinks for everyone with matching scarves.
Also
cue many admiring glances. Feeling good, looking good and buying all the booze? They were the most popular girls in town.
Not that they were excused from watching the match. It had kicked off ten minutes ago. A fresh air break was definitely next on the agenda.
‘Don’t bother about etiquette,’ Joanna said as they made their way outside. ‘There isn’t anyone else here from the Bank. And Jane Austen couldn’t make it today. After we’ve done our duty you can let your hair down, if you want.’
‘Joanna! Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’
‘I think I possibly am.’
Heather’s eyes flashed . . . startlingly so. ‘What about the players? Are they fair game?’
‘I don’t see why not. WYB provide the sponsorship when it comes to rugby, not the actual playing talent.’
‘That’s nice to know. I’ve always had a thing about men who play rugby.’
‘Now there’s a surprise.’ Joanna chuckled again. ‘Without backtracking too much, it might be best practice to go for one from our side, rather than theirs.’
‘Only one? I was planning on joining the winners in their bath.’
‘That’s very close to my secret fantasy.’
‘We could do it together. Spread the workload . . .’
‘Nice idea. But we’ll be at the bar, celebrating with more bubbly or commiserating with halves of mild.’
‘Better get some more bubbly in at halftime then.’ Heather was pointing at the scoreboard.
Joanna frowned. ‘17-0 is quite bad, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not promising.’
‘Okay then, we’ll settle for bubbly at halftime and just one player each after the match.’
‘You as well! Is this Hot Lips I’m hearing?’
‘More like a vat of Moet. But I will if you will. Assuming anyone will have me.’
Heather caught Joanna’s hand, stopping her a few paces short of the first cluster of spectators.
‘Ms Jones, you are beautiful. They’ll be queuing up for you.’
‘I wish.’
‘Bet you 50p you score.’
‘Huh! You already owe me a fiver in losing bets.’
‘Okay, pull after the match and I’ll give you a tenner. That should cover taxis and condoms, shouldn’t it?’
‘I only do bets in 50ps.’ Joanna squeezed her colleague’s fingers, liking the sight of their colourful nails so close together.
UNCONSECRATED GROUND Page 31