by Nicole Dere
‘Don’t take any notice of the boss; it’s not true. You don’t have to go back again; all the way will do!’
She had tried to imagine what it would be like working here. She was gripped with anxiety, of course, but she had also been optimistic that she would be able to use her feminine charm, and if necessary, her sharp wit, as she had done plenty of times in the past with importunate males at university. But Benbrough CID room was a very different kettle of raw fish. Besides, she was not even the same girl who had striven to breeze through those doors three days and a whole lifetime ago. That wide-eyed little pretender had gone, been blown wide away, and she had the scars to prove it, throbbing under the neat summer suit. She felt more like a helpless child surrounded in a hostile playground by its bullying peers. It was almost as bad as those terrifying minutes when those harpies had borne her aloft and held her over the balcony railing. And to her further dismay she discovered that the incident, or some version of it, appeared to have been noised abroad, despite Jackie’s assurance that it remained a secret.
‘I hear you had a run-in with some of the bitches up at Westlands. That right? Sorted them out good and proper, did you? Good on you!’
Jill stood hopelessly at bay, her cheeks as hot and scarlet as those other cheeks hidden beneath her skirt. The leader of her tormentors was DC Tom Harris, a would-be Lothario with a head of yellow fuzz as short as the baize on a billiard table, a thin, pale moustache and silly little vertical trickle of hair from the centre of his full lower lip to the cleft of his chin. He had introduced himself with an absurd leer and suggestive wiggle of his all but invisible eyebrows. ‘Thomas Harris. But known universally as Chopper!’
There was a burst of bass macho laughter, while Jill blinked in mortified acknowledgement.
‘And not after the bike, either!’ another voice called, to even louder amusement.
After what then? she should have fired back acerbically, but she stayed mute, at bay, her toes curling in the smart shoes, while someone burbled on about some ancient footballer from the days when even her father was a school boy.
Her unlikely rescuer was the very pretty, yellow-haired girl she had nodded to on her first appearance three days before, who manned the desk in Chief Superintendent Sharp’s outer office. ‘Hello again. I’m Sandra Roberts. Ms Sharpe’s asked me to give you the tour - take you round and meet everyone. Uniformed branch and so on. She’ll be having a chat with you later on, when you’ve had time to settle in. She’s busy with your boss at the moment, so we’ve got all the time in the world.’
She was a breath of very fresh, dainty, feminine air in the heavy breathing masculine atmosphere which had hemmed Jill in so powerfully, and she was profoundly grateful as she followed the trim figure away from the lip-smacking, hot-eyed stares. It made her all the more appreciative of her saviour’s delightful appearance. She was wearing a light summer dress, sleeveless and moulded to her graceful bosom and slender waist before widening to a full skirt of a modest length identical to Jill’s. Her legs were bare, increasing the effect of an attractive pale honey tan which complemented the pale oatmeal colour of the dress. The magenta shade of the toenails was on display in the open, heeled sandals.
‘Thanks,’ Jill gushed impetuously. ‘For rescuing me from that lot. I’ll have to get used to it, I suppose.’
Sandra turned to her and tilted her fair head towards her in a touchingly friendly little gesture. She gave a breathy little laugh. ‘Oh, I’m sure you will. I’ve been here over a year now and they never give up. Especially that Harris. Chopper!’ She emphasised the word eloquently with a roll of her pencilled brows, and gave a girlishly smutty chortle that made Jill recall the countless similar shared confidences and innuendos she had known with Sharon. Though completely different in appearance from Sharon’s dark, volatile beauty, Sandra Roberts’ petite feminism reminded Jill so powerfully of her former lover that she felt an immediate empathy with her.
She was glad to be distracted by the comprehensive tour of the three-storey building, and the scores of new faces she met. ‘Fancy having to work permanently with that lot,’ a chunky girl with a broad Yorkshire accent declared, nodding in the general direction of CID. ‘Last bastion of sexism, that lot are. Fuckin’ tosspots!’
Jill was grateful for the sentiment, and hoped the forthright speaker had not noticed her instinctive, fastidious flinch at the expletive she could never quite relate to, even in this age of equality.
She and Sandra spent a long, leisurely break in the main canteen, bonded in exclusive femininity around one of the plastic topped tables, and at the end of it Jill felt a lot better, though she was glad to stand after half kneeling on the metal chair, and squirming to avoid her sore bottom coming into contact with its hard surface.
After a visit to the front desk and general office where a surprisingly large number of civilian workers, the majority female, were manning work stations and phone lines, and a look at the row of cells and interview rooms, they headed back at last to the CID rooms.
‘After all that coffee I’ll have to go to the loo again,’ Jill said. ‘Where are ours?’
‘I’ll show you. I’m lucky,’ Sandra confided. ‘Ms Sharp lets me use hers. She’s got a private loo and shower off her office. But there’s a small Ladies just on the left here, just this side of the swing doors. It’s for anybody really, but not many get down this end. But if you want a shower you have to use the main women’s locker room back there.’ She nodded in the direction they had come from. She steered Jill towards a door marked Ladies. ‘Here we are.’
There was only one cubicle and one washbasin, with a small mirror above it. Sandra gestured towards the lavatory and smiled. ‘Go ahead, you first. I’m not so desperate.’ Jill swung the metal door closed, but didn’t slide the bolt across.
‘Hey, is it true what they’re saying about Westlands?’ Sandra asked through the door. ‘That one of those girl gangs had a go at you?’
‘Yes,’ Jill answered tersely.
The voice came again, still a little diffident. ‘Did they really hang you upside down over the balcony?’
Jill stood, carefully drew the thong back into place, and adjusted the suspenders, which had twisted a little out of line. ‘Yes. I suppose everyone thinks it’s hilarious. Certainly those pigs back in CID were sniggering over it.’ Her voice quavered a little. She turned and thrust the handle down to flush with an extra degree of force. She shook out her skirt and pulled open the door. She made her way to the basin, washed her hands then dried them on a paper towel, and delved for her make-up in her shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Sandra had taken her place and was relieving herself. When she came out Jill was still working with her lip pencil, and she moved aside to let Sandra at the basin.
‘Listen,’ the blonde girl said, brushing against Jill. ‘I’m not laughing. It must have been absolutely terrifying. I think I’d have died on the spot.’
Jill pulled a face that was meant to indicate humorous regret, but was nearer to tragedy. ‘I really thought I was going to. I literally have never been so frightened in my life.’
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Her hands came up, rested on Jill’s shoulders, and stayed there, her bare arms bent. They stood only inches away, and suddenly their eyes seemed to lock. Jill stared at the candid blue gaze, brimming with sympathy and compassion... and something else, which Jill’s dizzy mind could almost but not quite grasp. She found herself staring at the glossy lips, which were very slightly parted, showing neat white teeth and which, she discovered startlingly, looked extremely desirable. She could feel the hands on her shoulders, the fingers digging in slightly, increasing their pressure, not letting her go. The lips were moving. Jill’s heart was hammering now, the feeling of giddy breathlessness increased. She had to concentrate hard to understand what Sandra was saying.
‘You’re with DI Barlow now? Is it... is she all right? Is she good to you?’
Jill could only stare. She could sense herself trembling under Sandra’s touch, feel the hot shame flowing up her throat to her face. She knows! She knows about us! The words drummed in her brain, yet she could not move, could not even look away from those huge blue eyes, alight now with tenderness, luminous with it.
‘I know about it, about her.’
The words were so close to those echoing in Jill’s head that she thought for an instant she must have imagined them, put them into that lovely mouth only inches away from hers. It moved closer; the fingers hooked on her shoulders drew her in, until their breasts were touching.
‘Are you happy with it? With her?’
Jill thought about her sore bottom, the tenderness of her vagina, the bruises of love dotted about her flesh; the chafing of the dog collar, the hours of solitude chained in the silent flat. Her own brown eyes filled with tears but she said nothing, only nodded.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ Sandra whispered. ‘I want us to be friends. I want us to be good friends.’ The mouth was nearer, its warm breath fanned softly over her face, then the lips touched, settled over hers, and they kissed, their heads turning slightly, accommodating, their noses brushing, their teeth gently nudging, tongues caressing, flickering in and over and under, and the kiss grew harder, they strained to make contact.
Then the main door suddenly opened and they sprang apart, gasping, crimson-faced, dishevelled, ablaze with guilt, shoulders touching in front of the basin. It was the chunky Yorkshire girl. Jill felt crucified on a burning cross of shame, but the WPC gave a throaty little chuckle and went past them into the cubicle.
‘So this is where you’re hiding out!’ she called through the half closed door, out of their line of vision, and Jill and Sandra stared at one another in subsiding fright and relief. ‘I’ve just been over to you lot. Your boss is looking for you, Jill. You’d best get back there quick. Something’s come up. She wants you right away.’
Chapter Five
To Jill, Jackie Barlow’s hold over her seemed to extend far beyond the mere sexual or physical. In no time at all the older woman appeared to have seen deeper into her personality than even Jill herself had been willing to look. Jill’s mind was still reeling from the bizarre episode which had just taken place in the toilet with the pretty girl at her side. She felt that all that uncertainty and guilt must be written as plainly on her features as the red which coloured her cheeks when DI Barlow said, ‘Where the hell have you two been hiding?’ But her next words, delivered at the same hurried speed, showed that she had other more urgent things to distract her. ‘Come on, sweety, you can start learning your job. Come with me.’
In the car Jackie glanced across at her and gave that shark-like grin, which Jill found so disturbing. ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she, our Sandra? Or rather, I should say, Moira’s Sandra. Nobody else gets a look in there. Not even her husband.’
Jill had not failed to notice the double rings on Sandra’s left hand and alarm bells rang once more in her brain, but Jackie made no further reference to her. Instead, her left hand dropped from the wheel and clutched Jill’s thigh, just above the nylon clad knee. It slid quickly over the smoothness, clamped possessively over the fuller thigh before retreating back to the steering wheel again.
‘You can study the file when we get back to the office,’ she went on, back to business, ‘but we might have the beginnings of a juicy little case here.’
She turned left, off the busy main road leading to the city centre, into a shabby area of narrow streets all intersecting at right angles. Originally the estate had been built before the First World War to supply accommodation for the artisans and other skilled workmen, as well as clerical types, who came to the growing town in numbers as its industry flourished. It had come down a little in the world since then. Most of the terraced houses, with doors opening off the pavement, or with postage stamp bits of gardens fronting them, were now rented, comparatively cheaply by today’s standards, many to students or young couples too hard-up to get a foot on even the first rung of ownership.
‘Not usually too much bother round here,’ Jackie told her. ‘Far worse out at the flats, as you well know,’ she added with a chuckle which made Jill’s cheeks blush once more. ‘But this might be interesting. Gresham Street, we want. Down here I think. Ah, yes, here we are.’
Humble or not, the street was lined both sides with considerable numbers of vehicles, so that there was room for only one car at a time to travel down its centre. Jackie managed to find a space at the kerb to park in, which she did with practised ease in spite of its tightness. They unclipped their seatbelts, but Jackie made no effort to get out of the car. ‘There’s more than one of these places that set up as what the magistrates like to refer to as “a house of ill repute”. We don’t bother them till things get a bit blatant. Usually because of the druggies - young kids flogging themselves for money to buy their fix. Then you get the kerbside crawlers, and the pimps, and the OAPs who’ve lived here since Magna Carta get all het up. “Streets aren’t safe to be on no more”, you know the kind of thing. We step in and clear them out, things quieten down. Something like that’s happening here, but not too bad yet. Just one or two complaints so far. We’d wait a hell of a lot longer normally, but there’s something else going on. Just about this whole street’s owned by a certain Mr Jack Palmer. Now he does interest us. And not only us. He’s quite a big fish for our little pond and into more rackets than you’ve got frilly knickers. We want to know more about him, so we’re taking our chance.’ Jackie took a small ring-binder notebook from her jacket inside pocket and flipped it open. ‘Mr and Mrs Edwards. Number seventeen. Senior citizens, salt of the earth. Outraged when their granddaughter, who visits them regularly, was stopped outside and asked by some tool in a car how much for a hand-job. At least they were when the girl explained what the bastard meant. Apparently there’s a lot of it going on round here these days, and if Jack Palmer’s mixed up in any of it we want to know. So come on, watch and learn, sweety.’
Jill tried to do just that. She was a trifle over-zealous and jotted down practically every word the indignant, elderly Edwards spoke, while she sat perched on the edge of their lumpy sofa and strained to hear them over the Australian twang of a lunchtime soap on the TV.
‘Don’t mention our little visit to anyone, will you?’ Jackie told them. Cleverly she made them feel part of an undercover investigation. ‘We’ll be making a few more discreet enquiries. We’ll keep in touch.’ She tapped the side of her nose significantly.
Back in the car she chuckled. ‘Right little Dalziel and Pascoe, aren’t they? Just like me and you!’ She leaned close. Jill felt the hand slide up her skirt again, but this time it went farther and stayed longer. The fingers toyed with the ribbon of suspender, and the cool skin against which she snapped it playfully, before moving on to ferret in the tiny silk triangle of the thong, and the fleshy fold which lay beneath. Jill sighed softly and banged her knee sharply against the dashboard as her limbs jerked in response. She was nibbling her bottom lip, disturbed in several ways, not least by the contrast between the balmy normality of the scene outside and the hidden caresses stirring her more and more.
It seemed a long while before Jackie reluctantly withdrew her hand. ‘You stay in the car, sweety. I’ve an idea you’ll be more use if we keep you out of sight for the moment. No one knows you around here, not even the old lags. You might just turn out to be our ace in the hole - if you’ll pardon the expression. You just sit and amuse yourself while I make a few more enquiries.’ She blew a suggestive kiss at Jill before she eased herself out of the car onto the sunny pavement.
Nearly two hot hours later they were sitting in a quiet corner of the lounge of the Woodsman, a roadhouse on the edge of town. ‘There, feel better now? How’s your arse?’
‘Sore,’ Jill muttered, reddening, both at the question and the approach of the waiter with th
eir drinks.
‘Everything to your satisfaction, ladies?’ He leered, with what he imagined was a suggestive, cheeky smile. ‘Anything else I can get for you?’
Jackie beamed her shark’s grin at him. ‘Nothing you can do for me, son. What about you, sweety?’ She transferred her amused gaze to the uncomfortable figure opposite. ‘Has he got anything you need?’ Jill shook her head, stared down at her lap as she felt the tide of red rising. Jackie turned back to the waiter. ‘In that case don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ He kept his smile pasted to his features as he hastily retreated to the safety of the bar.
‘Why do you enjoy embarrassing me like that?’ Jill asked.
‘Because I can,’ came the confident reply.
The tears sparkled in the brown eyes, hovered on the long curl of lashes. Jill stared at her boss mutely, shaken by the arrogant self-assurance with which the reply had been made, and by her own private admission that it was so.
‘I can do whatever I want with you,’ Jackie went on. ‘You’re my toy-girl, my chick. And we both know it, don’t we? Don’t we?’ she hissed with a sudden force that made Jill flinch back visibly, in spite of the low table between them.