by Limey Lady
Harry lay back and admired her as she did her best to banish his demons. And, although she was by now late-thirty-something, same as him, she was still a sight for sore eyes. She had long blonde hair, a so very pretty face, a dynamite body and a recently remodelled chest. There weren't many guys around who would say no. Harry never did, and he'd been screwing her for nearly twenty years.
Not today, though. Today he had worries so she was doing her thing.
‘Relax,' she said softly, huskily. 'Let your body do whatever it wants.'
Harry grinned. It was easy for her to say "relax" . . . she didn’t have a hot babe riding her cock and massaging her shoulders and neck. Or ten grand’s worth of tits in her face, come to that. He was more likely to erupt than relax.
‘I mean it,' she went on, sensuously grinding herself on him, 'don't bother about me; bother about you.'
‘I always bother about you,' he replied, more or less truthfully.
‘In that case let the tension go. All of it right now, Harry!'
Her voice never failed to do the trick. Harry stared up into her eyes and shot three bolts of hot liquid hyper-tension into her. She stared right back, emitting a couple of small, sexy groans before tossing her hair and laughing.
‘Now are you going to tell me?'
‘Tell you what?'
‘About whatever it is that's troubling you.'
Harry never discussed what he classed as "work", not outside his own closed circle of most-trusted colleagues, not even with his wife.
‘Something and nothing,' he said.
‘Harry . . .'
‘Okay, I've taken a small gamble. I'm waiting for it to pay off.'
‘I thought gambling was a mug's game?'
‘It's not that sort of gamble. It's a business thing.'
‘So it’s more like speculation, then?'
‘Yeah, that's it. I've speculated.'
‘When will you know? If it's paid off, I mean.'
‘I’ll find out anytime now. That's why I was tense.'
‘No Harry, you still are tense. More than I've ever seen you. No way can I let you go out like this . . .'
*****
Some two hundred miles away DeeDee had also been detained in bed . . . and Gavin's bed at that.
Who would have believed it, she thought. Where oh where did that come from?
Listening to him gently snore she smiled up at the ceiling. Last night had not been in the plan. In fact it had happened on even more of an impulse than that other time, when he'd so cruelly turned her down.
Not that she'd been the one offering last night, of course. Not her; once bitten and all that. Oh no, last night it had been Gavin who offered. She had merely considered . . . toyed with the idea of giving a tit-for-tat refusal . . . then graciously accepted.
Oh, all right then, victoriously. Restoring her hundred per cent record had been nearly as appealing as the urge to fuck.
Just now, however, she wasn't sure how wise a decision it had been. On the sex-side it had without doubt been a good call. Had she compared Gavin to Bristol Rovers? Well he'd definitely improved. That writer-woman must have been educating him. Or, better still, changing him: instead of clumsily trying to make love he'd very efficiently fucked her . . . and not just once.
DeeDee turned her smile onto the still-sleeping man next to her. Last night's encore had been even better than the opening performance. Maybe she'd catch the matinee before she left.
And a matinee encore . . .
Christ, talking about matinees, what time is it?
Moving stealthily, she reached down for her bag, pretending not to notice all the clothes strewn on the carpet . . . and deliberately not noticing her knickers, which were draped over the bedside lamp.
Her mobile confirmed it was quarter past ten. It also confirmed she’d a missed call from Pat.
Guilt struck her, if not remorse. She shouldn't have said yes. Shouldn't have persisted in seeing Gavin again after he'd spurned her . . .
Come to that, Gavin shouldn’t have agreed to meet up with her . . .
No, cancel that last one.
‘What time is it?' Gavin yawned as she eased herself out from the covers.
‘Early enough,' DeeDee replied. 'You’ve taken today off, remember?'
‘What about your appointment?'
‘It is hours away. You wait right there while I go to the loo.'
‘Do you want to borrow my dressing gown?’
‘I’d only be taking it off again. Wait for me.’
DeeDee shut the bathroom door before dialling Pat. Some things were better done verbally than by so convenient text. At least they were if the other party's freaking mobile was switched on.
She thought about it while she peed.
Pat hadn't directly replied to the text she’d sent yesterday, he had tried ringing late evening instead. But only once, though . . . not a dozen times: just once. So, no great urgency on his behalf, then; and still there was none, because his phone was off . . . even though he always kept his phone on during working hours. And he was supposed to be working today.
Could he possibly . . .
To her surprise she felt the sting of jealousy. Ludicrous as it was in the circumstances, the notion of Pat playing around bugged her. Oh she'd told him he could, within reason, but actually doing it . . .
Assuming he is actually doing it . . .
Sod it. She dialled Kings Cars, grateful when her call was answered by Joe Clarkson rather than that girl with the ridiculously large tits.
‘Hi Joe, it’s me, DeeDee. Is Pat there?'
‘No, I'm not expecting him until later. He's in Leeds with your brother.'
‘Leeds,' she said, relieved, 'what are they doing there?'
‘They’ve been drinking, by the sounds of it.' Joe laughed. 'Sean rang a bit ago. He said Pat probably wouldn't resurface for a while.'
Suitably reassured, she switched off her phone and went back into the bedroom. Gavin was waiting as instructed. He didn't look sleepy anymore.
‘I don't know what to say,' he began tentatively. ‘I really did think we were finished.’
‘I'm not expecting you to say anything,' she countered, climbing in beside him. ‘And I certainly haven’t finished . . .’
*****
Sylvia's tension cure included a long and very soapy shower and did, eventually, work. It was lots nearer dinnertime than breakfast when they finally made it to the kitchen. By now totally at ease Harry, his balls scrubbed cleaner than they’d ever been, took a seat while she made toast and coffee. As always, she put the 24 hour news on while she did this.
‘It's my link with the world,' she said, as if he'd object. 'Besides, why have a flip-down TV if you're not going to use it?'
‘Why not indeed,' said Harry, staring idly at the screen.
‘About Mauritius . . .'
‘Yeah, yeah; I told you okay.'
‘What about next month? Easter is ages away and my tan's fading. I'll get Seasonal Affective Disorder if we don't go soon.’
Harry's stare was no longer idle. The TV had been showing an aerial shot of a biggish house with not a lot happening. Link with the world or not, Sylvia hadn't bothered with the volume, so the story behind the picture wasn't clear. There was, however, rolling text at the bottom of the screen and he'd just seen words in big letters saying "Bingley" and "murders".
Fucking hell, he thought, is this a Lottery win or what?
‘Harry . . .'
‘What?'
‘I’ll give you a penny for them.'
He forced his attention back to Sylvia. 'Mauritius,' he said. 'Next month. Book the very best hotel.'
*****
It was a relief to park up at the car-crushing yard, just off the M62. The Focus was probably hot by now and Sean was almost certainly still over the limit. He hadn't got back to his hotel until six this morning, and they’d both been firing them down. That was hardly surprising though, considering Pat's little rampage.
> And what a rampage! Pat had always been Mr Cool. It was unbelievable he'd lost it like that.
Thank fuck they'd got away with it so easily.
Assuming they had got away with it.
Sean shook his head. They had got pretty drunk last night. Pat had come out with all sorts of shit. He had confessed his love for DeeDee and rabbited on and on about Heather too . . . and lots and lots about Heather come to think of it. Anyone would have thought he’d been fucking her, or something; shame that it was all lost in a cloud of booze. He could have wound the mad sod up over that, pretended he cared.
Crusher Collins came over and grinned at Sean before looking at the car. ‘That’s a nice ice motor, Mr Dwyer. Surely not . . .’
‘It surely is,’ Sean said.
‘Nothing I don't want to know about in the boot, is there?’
‘No.’
‘What about the log book?’
‘I burnt it. Don't worry yourself. Nobody's going to miss this fucker.’
‘Okay. Is anyone going to miss the Sugar Puffs?’
Sean looked on the back seat and saw Pat had left his decoy provisions. As well as the world's most massive box of Sugar Puffs, there was a carrier bag that had spilled out a packet of bacon, some pork sausages and half a kilo of Wensleydale.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it's curtains for the Sugar Puffs as well.’
He watched the vehicle through the crushing machine then paid the usual fee before hitching a lift with one of Crusher's lads down into Drabford. The radio in the lad's car played nothing but news of last night's atrocity.
‘Sounds like a bad one that,’ the lad observed, ‘six dead, one critical.’
‘Where was it?’ Sean asked innocently.
‘Some well-to-do house in Bingley.’
‘What, Bingley near here?’
‘Yeah; it’s the one on the way to Keighley.’
‘Was it drugs?’
‘They're saying it was a robbery that went wrong. Apart from that they're keeping schtum.’
The City Hall clock was chiming one as Sean got out of the car. Back in Leeds Pat might be waking up. Sean hoped he had a hangover; he could have had one himself for two pins.
Not that he had any intention of waiting for the dog to bite him. He dropped into Jacobs Well and had a swift Tetley's before trekking across town to The Shoulder of Mutton. His first pint of Sam Smith's went the same way as the Tetley's and ended any threat of being imminently bitten.
Buying another, he decided some nicotine was in order and strolled out to the designated smoking area at the back. Before he could light up, his mobile rang.
‘Dwyer, it's me, Jason from Leeds. What the fuck's going on?’
Jason was Sean's prime contact for cars. They'd known each other a while and had always got on . . . up until today. Today Jason sounded pissed off beyond all reason.
‘What's wrong?’ Sean ventured.
‘What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. I'm getting major grief from my gaffer about this fucking Lexus.’
‘I didn't know there was any rush for it.’
‘It's not wanted in a rush,’ Jason yelled. ‘In fact it's not fucking wanted at all. My gaffer's spent this morning convincing the Filth it wasn't being nicked for him. He is not happy. Someone's going to have to croak for this.’
‘I don't understand,’ Sean said, wondering where the fuck this was all suddenly coming from.
‘Are you trying to tell me you had nothing to do with those killings last night?’
‘What killings?’
‘I mean all those killings last night in Bingley. You know: that place where you live; the one that’s been on the national news ever since.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me. I was in Leeds last night. I'm still on my way home, as it happens.’
‘Are you now; how very convenient.’
‘It's not convenient, it's the truth.’
‘Of course it is. You say you’ll get us one of the rarest motors around. You specify the mother-fucking colour. Then someone goes ape trying to nick it and it's nowt to do with you. Fucking right, it’s you and my arse!’
Somehow Sean kept his composure. ‘I'm still not with you,’ he said. ‘Everyone's saying those killings were a robbery that went wrong.’
‘Yeah, it was the robbery of that fucking Lexus. Whoever you sent to nick it switched the plates on the bastard thing. Even the Filth couldn't miss a clue like that. That's why they were round quizzing the gaffer. There's only a few like him who can move that sort of vehicle.’
Shit! The fucking plates!
‘Okay,’ Sean managed. ‘It might have been one of mine while I was away. Honest to God Jason, l didn't know those killings were in the same place as the motor. It wasn't supposed to get lifted until next week.’
‘Might have been? Cunting might have been?’
‘Okay. Probably was. Now I know what’s happened, I'll do something about it.’
‘What do you propose doing?’
‘I dunno. What are you looking for?’
‘We want the twat who did it dead. But not before he's convinced the Filth that he did it a hundred per cent single-handed. And we want it like yesterday.’
Right, Sean thought. I’ll sort out the Gaza Strip while I’m at it. Aloud, he said, ‘Give me a few days. It’s going to take a bit of planning.’
‘Within a week,’ Jason growled. ‘Listen Dwyer, the gaffer thinks you've lost it. If you fuck this up, he's going to take it on himself. The way he sees it, your lads don't exist. The trail goes Lexus to Dwyer; Dwyer to Jason; Jason to gaffer. He can break that trail by taking out either you or me. And I'll tell you this for a fact; it sure fucking-well isn't going to be me.’
He rang off without saying goodbye. Sean had a mouthful of beer and wondered if he could possibly bring himself to sacrifice Pat to save his own skin. No way. There had to be a clever alternative. He’d best hurry home to the Kings and start working on it, soon as.
Sean went back in the pub and asked the barman for another pint and a taxi. While he waited for the cab he consoled himself by thinking that at least things couldn't get worse.
There was an early edition of the T&A on the bar. No prizes for guessing the lead story.
The headline screamed: OUTRAGE!
Right, he thought bitterly. Stick ‘em on a council estate and nobody would give a toss.
Reading down the report there was no mention of the Lexus. Probably wouldn't be for some time to come. The police didn't like just anybody sharing their best clues. Otherwise it didn't tell him a lot he didn't already know. Apparently the deceased couple had had four kids; three of them now also featuring in that scandalous deceased column. There had been a sleepover going on, hence two extra kids: one dead and the other critical. The couple's fourth kid (a seven year-old boy) had slept through everything and come out completely unscathed.
And that was it. Sean started to flick through the rest of the paper and stopped when he saw:
SECOND CANAL BODY IDENTIFIED
Second, he wondered. When did that happen? Then, after skimming through the article, Okay, so it happened on Monday.
Disinterested, he glanced at the unflattering mug shot and nearly died. He'd been wrong: things just had got worse.
The second canal body was called William Peckover. He was also known as Sean's mole.
Chapter Forty-One
(Sunday 11th January 2009)
‘You can’t see it so well for all the snow,’ said Jamie, ‘but this is it: the famous Druid’s Altar.’
Natalie could see the formation of flat rock perfectly well, snow or no snow. And it didn’t at all stretch her imagination to picture ancient priests performing sacrifices here. There was something majestic yet pagan about the place.
‘The view is amazing,’ she said.
‘Yeah, just don’t go slipping off the edge. Admire the view; don’t become part of it.’
She laughed shortly but let Jamie take her hand and stoo
d there with him, looking out across the valley.
‘Bingley at its best,’ Jamie said. ‘All the dirt covered in a lovely white cloak.’