by Noel Amos
Now he eased his abused body out of the water and wrapped himself in a large fluffy towel. It was soft and perfumed and he was grateful she had left him something to wear. He set off along the corridor.
He opened the first door he came to. It was a woman's bedroom - he presumed it belonged to Julia. There were clothes lying in a heap on the unmade bed and on the floor. A river of shoes flowed out of the wardrobe and the dressing table was a muddle of cosmetics and perfumes and other aids to feminine beauty. Stephen found it hard to imagine the immaculate manager of The Blisswood Spa Hotel leaving her bedroom in such a mess.
'Are you out of the bath yet, Stephen?' Miriam's musical tones rang out along the corridor and he jumped backwards in answer to her summons. As he did so, he knocked over a cardboard box by the foot of the dressing table. He bent to set it upright and a wig of thick chestnut curls fell into his hands.
'Stephen!'
He quickly put the wig back in the box, pushed it under the dressing table and found himself staring directly into the half-open top drawer. It was full of old lipsticks and tweezers and mascara brushes - and dozens of butterfly-shaped transfers scattered like fallen leaves.
For a young man only recently acquainted with the full glory of the female form, Stephen's view of Miriam as he stood in her bedroom doorway was breathtaking. She lay on her bed on her stomach with her silk wrap drawn up to her waist. A pillow lay beneath her hips, thrusting her spectacular white buttocks up in cocky invitation.
'Come here,' she said, 'I've got a wicked idea.'
Stephen stepped to the bed, his loins on a level with her face.
'What have you done with my clothes?' he said.
She ignored him and pulled the towel from his waist. It fell to the floor and his half-erect prick swung inches from her lips. She closed the distance and swallowed him till her nose was buried in the curly brown hair of his belly. Then she went to work.
She licked his cock from root to tip and back again and skinned the hood to wiggle the point of her tongue under the rim. His organ was massive in her hand, the head a gleaming blood red.
Though the room was stifling, both of them were shivering like flu victims.
'Slap my bottom,' she said.
'What?'
'Slap my cheeks hard. Don't you want to?'
Of course he did. The generous white ovals were a tempting target, upturned and begging for a firm hand. He applied it.
'Ooh!' She sucked in her breath. 'Do it again. Go on! That's it. Harder!'
Then he needed no more urging. He stood by the side of the bed, his tumescent penis in her mouth, looking down her body as her great white cheeks turned pink then red under his open-palmed slaps. The rounds of flesh wobbled and quivered beneath the rain of blows and in the exposed valley between the shifting hills could be glimpsed the brown whorl of her anus and the gash of her pussy.
He pushed his fingers deep into her split. She was gummy with juice and the smell of her excitement was thick in the air. She took her mouth from his cock and said, 'How would you like to fuck my arse?'
The words shot through him like an electric current and struck him dumb.
She took his silence for agreement or, more likely, she was in no mood to take no for an answer. She rubbed thick white cream into the head of his tool and along the shaft. It felt cool and thrilling. Stephen's heart was pounding in his chest. His sexual education was taking an unexpected turn. Did every woman expect this? he wondered.
Her bum was big but firm, broad but shapely. He climbed between her backthrust thighs and savoured the dimpled contours of her outspread rear.
'Just hold it steady,' she commanded. 'Let me get it in,' and she reached behind to place the head of his cock against her anal ring.
Stephen didn't think it would work. He didn't see how the broad helmet of his glans could penetrate the tight pucker of her rectum. But he held his shaft steady and she rubbed the top of his stalk into her arse, deliberately relaxing her muscles as she pushed back. Suddenly he was in the breach and he gasped as the tight warmth enveloped him. He thought he was going to come just at the sight of his cock disappearing into the hole between her large pale buttocks.
'Oh God,' she muttered between gritted teeth.
'You're so tight,' he breathed.
'You're so big.'
'Oh, Miriam—'
'Now bugger me!' she commanded but there was no need. His well-greased truncheon was already pistoning up her bum to the manner born. In his zeal for this new assignment, there was no stopping Fantail of the Met.
Chapter 52
'What's she doing here?'
Franny Wintergreen sounded cross. She looked cross, too. Her pale lips were set in a thin line and two vertical creases furrowed the flesh above her nose. Her mass of dark curly hair shook as she spoke and her black eyes flashed. The shoulder pads of her navy blue business suit positively bristled with aggression.
Max had formed the immediate impression that dissatisfaction was Franny's permanent state of mind. She had treated Max with suspicion, examining his NUJ card in minute detail. She had even rung the Dog in London to ensure he was not an impostor. As he had explained what her fiance was up to and watched her eyes narrow with fury, he was surprised to feel a pang of sympathy for Craig Gammon. Franny's vengeance would not be pretty - on the other hand it should make good entertainment for readers of the Daily Dog.
Everyone in Franny's office had jumped to accommodate her once she had decided to take the rest of the day off. Her boss, the sheepish Arnold Dross, had fallen over himself to assure her that they could manage without her, given the circumstances. Now her anger had fallen on the luckless Marilyn.
'What's she doing here?' Franny repeated, subjecting Max to the full glare of her disapproval.
Adriana answered for him. 'We needed some help with the local liaison. Marilyn kindly agreed to help out.'
Franny almost exploded. 'Liaison! She can't bloody well spell it, let alone do it.'
'Oh, Franny,' wailed Marilyn, 'you're so mean.'
They were driving out of town and Adriana did not take her eyes from the road as she said, 'I'm sure you can find Mr Shaftesbury a coffee when we get to the hotel, Marilyn, and help him carry his bag.'
'Ooh yes,' said the girl. 'I'm ever so grateful, Mr Shaftesbury.'
'Call me Max,' he said, turning in his seat and marvelling at her formidable rounds of breast flesh bouncing with the motion of the vehicle as it sped down the narrow rutted road.
By her side, Franny Wintergreen sat ramrod straight and looked out of the window, her mouth as tight as a purse.
Nobody knew what happened at a real identity parade - at any rate no one admitted to such knowledge. So Robyn let Cliff have his head in setting the scene for the photo session. The result may not have been authentic but it was bound to bring a smile to the faces of Daily Rabbit readers and that was the point of it all, everyone knew that. Everyone apart from Craig Gammon, it seemed.
He watched the photographer arranging the line-up of girls with his mind in turmoil and a funny look on his face which was interpreted by all as naked desire.
Such an expression was entirely appropriate, given the personnel Cliff had assembled.
From the waist down, Mercy and Melanie wore their waitress uniforms - black mini-skirts, stockings and high heels - but Mercy had slipped a thin camisole strap down her arms to reveal the whole of one quivering breast and Melanie had allowed Cliff to pull both of her tits out of her bra.
Lucy Salmon had been summoned from the donkey sanctuary. She still wore her jodhpurs but had been given a sunshine yellow T-shirt which Cliff had carefully arranged so that it sat in a roll above her pouting pear-shaped breasts as if she had just yanked it up in a moment of violent exhibitionism.
And sixteen-year-old Mandy, keen to follow up her sensational appearance as a Gartertex model, wore a pair of scarlet hotpants and a cut-off T-shirt so tight and tiny that her nipples stood up like knobs on a hat rack.
&
nbsp; It had been easy to persuade these four to take part but four fake Brendas was not considered enough. 'We need at least six,' said Robyn and Cliff had thought hard.
The result was suspect number five, a curly-haired brunette with toffee-coloured eyes and a heart-shaped face. Her full creamy breasts were cradled by an underwired half-cup brassiere from the Louche Lingerie collection which thrust them out as if to say 'help yourself'. When reminding Fliss of her promise to pose for him, Cliff had expected howls of protest at the circumstances. But Fliss, who had hardly said a word to him since breakfast the previous day, had simply nodded and murmured, 'OK.'
At that point, Cliff would have settled for five girls but Robyn wasn't happy.
'Get your clothes off, Josie,' she'd said, 'you're in the line-up.'
'What!'
'Please, Josie, we need six women.'
'I can't. Suppose Gavin sees it.'
'He'll be proud of you. He'll come out of hiding to marry you and if he doesn't he's not worth it. Don't argue.'
And Josie hadn't, believing that she had to support her friend.
'You're the prettiest of the lot,' whispered Cliff as he helped her on with a rhinestone-studded denim shirt, which was all she wore above jeans cut off at mid-thigh.
'I feel out-titted,' she said.
He arranged the shirt so it fell open, revealing one shallow-scooped breast with an upturned nipple. He pinched it gently between finger and thumb and it stood up, cherry pink and perky.
'Well, he likes you as you are,' he said, indicating an open-mouthed Craig Gammon. 'He looks like he's going to cream his leathers.'
'I don't think he's looking at me, Cliff.'
It was true, he wasn't. His eyes were flicking from Melanie to Mercy and back again, devouring their golden bodies, their ripe curves, their identical swollen tit globes... It was her, he was sure of it. Yet which her? There had only been one yesterday and, anyway, the robber was hardly going to turn up here for a press photo was she? He must be going a bit soft in the head...
'He's got a sodding great hard-on,' muttered Melanie to Mercy.
'Mmm, yummy,' said Mandy who had overheard.
'I love the leather,' said Lucy, pointing her bazookas at him.
Clifford clapped his hands. 'OK, girls, give us your best. Let's start. I don't need you yet, Craig, so you just relax.'
Craig didn't think he'd ever be able to relax again. In his leathers, in this small room under the fierce lights, he was a mass of sweating tumescence. But he'd not have left for ten times what he was being paid. Twelve pretty breasts swivelled and pointed in his direction. The pain in his cheek faded away. If one of them was the real Bra-less Brenda then good luck to her, he wouldn't have missed this for the world.
Chapter 53
Monk was late for his appointment with Julia. This was not, as she assumed, a deliberate ploy but the result of an ill-timed telephone call. And so, when he took his seat on the other side of her desk, she was a nervous wreck and he was hopping mad.
The call had been from Superintendent Hatter whose own anger was ill-concealed. 'You've got twenty-four hours, Monk. Nail that woman down by tomorrow morning or you're back in Traffic.'
'That's unfair, sir. I'm close to a breakthrough but I can't guarantee an arrest to a deadline.'
'Tough. I'm the one who decides what is unfair. And in my book that's the hotel bill you and Fantail are racking up at the taxpayer's expense. Not to mention the insults I am exposed to every day in the gutter press. The press with whom, I believe I am correct in saying, you appear to be hand in glove.'
'Sir?'
'Or should it be hand in knicker? I'm told that Robyn Chestnut of the Daily Rabbit is also a resident of this country-house hotel for the randy rich.'
'Superintendent, I can assure you that my relations with Ms Chestnut have been entirely professional.'
'If that means you're paying for the pleasure of her company just don't put it on expenses.'
'Sir, I protest—'
'Don't bother. If I were you, Monk, I'd make the most of the next twenty-four hours. That's if you don't want to be counting traffic cones for the rest of your career.'
So it was no surprise that Monk's face was grim as he waved away Julia's offer of coffee and laid his notebook on the table. He gazed at the woman on the other side of the desk, his face like thunder.
It was the allegation of sexual impropriety, more than anything, that so upset him. It was well known that he was no womaniser - he hadn't so much as kissed one for fifteen years. And the notion of a liaison with Robyn Chestnut was a joke. Make love to that Yankee ball-breaker? Preposterous. If he were going to fall for a girl she would be the opposite of Robyn. Warm and submissive, soft and feminine, someone who would respect his rough edges and aim to please. No tall dark skinny chain-smokers for him. He wanted a curvy blonde with pink pouting lips and huge sky-blue eyes...
'Inspector?'
The red mist in his mind cleared and he looked into a pair of huge sky-blue eyes. His eyes feasted on Julia, checking her attributes against his requirements. She fulfilled them all, and then some.
'How can I help you, Inspector?' She was shifting unhappily in her chair. She looked vulnerable and, he couldn't deny it, very desirable.
Monk shook aside inappropriate thoughts and began to question her. Julia Jarvis was his number-one suspect. Her car had been spotted at the scene of the last robbery. She had no alibi for yesterday afternoon. And there was no doubt she looked the part. What's more, if he could crack her, she was his passport to glory. The fact that he found her physically disturbing was irrelevant.
'Ms Jarvis, can you tell me what you were doing on these particular days?'
He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. On it he had written some half a dozen dates spanning the previous two months. Monk did not say that these were the days on which Brenda crimes had been committed. He did not need to.
Julia checked them against her desk diary, frantically searching for an entry that would prove her innocence. Surely, amongst the myriad notes about Rotarian dinners and staff holidays and ladies nights at the health club, there was something that would dispel suspicion? If she could just prove that she was on duty when one of the crimes was committed then she must be in the clear.
'I was here on May the eighth,' she said. 'It was Mrs Clegg's silver wedding and there were eighty-five for dinner. They had salmon en croute and the young Cleggs got drunk and pushed each other into the swimming pool.'
There was a pause in the interrogation. Monk had become distracted by the play of sunlight on the side of her face. Her complexion was flawless, he noted.
'What time did you start the preparations?' he said at length.
'I came on duty about four. The kitchen staff were at it all day, of course.'
He was finding her perfume distracting. It invaded his senses and lured his thoughts from the matter in hand. Was this some cunning ploy to throw him, literally, off the scent? If so, it wouldn't succeed.
'What did you do before that?' he asked.
'I - well - I can't remember exactly. I should imagine I went for a walk then had a bath. I generally rest before a late night.'
He said nothing and she realised she hadn't helped her cause.
'Are you sure you can't recall what you did? You didn't go for a drive, for example?'
Her eye fell on a pencilled note in the column headed May 8 and she said firmly, 'Oh no, I couldn't have done that because...'
She stopped and suddenly began to page through her diary comparing entries.
'Because?'
There was a strange expression on her face, as of someone counting the pennies as they dropped. 'Perhaps I did go for a drive.'
'Where to?'
'I really can't say.'
Monk was puzzled. He changed tack. 'Get around the country much, do you, Ms Jarvis?'
'Not really, I don't have time.'
'Just the odd trip, then. Like the one you took to Bristol on
the twenty-sixth of May.' Julia turned the pages.
'If you say so,' she replied.
'That would account, then, for the Bristol car-park sticker of that date which is still adhering to the windscreen of your car.'
She smiled and lifted her chin high, it wobbled slightly but her voice was firm as she said, 'Quite.'
Monk closed his notebook. He knew just about all he needed to know. She could have done the robbery in Skipton on May 8 and driven back in time to go on duty at four. She hadn't denied being in Bristol the day the Clifton branch of the Bristol Bountiful had been turned over. She hadn't come up with one alibi. The case was in the palm of his hand. So why didn't he feel elated?
He stood up. 'Thank you, Ms Jarvis, that will be all.'
'All?' The sun streaming in the open window lit up her golden halo of hair. To Monk she looked like an angel - a beautiful and plucky angel staring her fate in the eye. A thrilling realisation struck him: here stood the master criminal of his dreams. He felt significantly affected and the effect was indeed significant - his penis was burning a hole in his trousers.
She walked to the door as if to show him out. Then she turned to face him.
'You'll need to examine my breasts, I suppose. I mean, given the nature of these robberies.'
'Please don't worry about that, Ms Jarvis. We have the most sympathetic female officers. I'll make sure it is dealt with as discreetly as possible.'
'No!' Her blue eyes suddenly flared violet and her cheeks flushed pink. 'This is between you and me, Inspector Monk. I want you to examine me. Now.'
'Ms Jarvis, please. That's not necessary. Please don't—' But Monk's protests were already being ignored. With one hand, Julia was pulling her blouse from the waistband of her skirt; the other was unbuttoning the starched white cotton at her throat, her shiny pink nails slipping the tiny buttons free of their constraining holes.