by Nick Oldham
‘Not a problem, but what I’m trying to say is that. . . I wanna sound you out about something, if I may?’
‘Sure - fire away.’ He was intrigued.
She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t know where to begin. I feel all weak and shaky when I think about it. You know all those years ago when we made love?’
Oh God, he thought desperately. His face dropped aghast. ‘I didn’t make you pregnant, did I?’ At the same time he said it, the idea of being a father gave him a warm glow.
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ She waved her hands dismissively.
He was relieved, but yet. . .
‘So, yeah, we made love and well, even before we did and certainly afterwards, I was - am - in love with you, John. I know it’s all silly and stupid and juvenile - me, a woman who runs call girls - but it’s true. I’ve always wanted to tell you, but never had the courage and it never seemed the right time. Until now.’
She stopped abruptly. Whilst speaking she hadn’t had the bottle to look at him directly and when she did, the look of what appeared to be abject horror on his face stopped her dead in her tracks. She gasped, ‘I’m sorry, John! I shouldn’t have said anything. What an idiot I am! I’ve been holding a torch for you all these years. . . I’ll go and head back home tonight. We’ll still do the club, sure. I’m sorry - what a stupid fool I am.’
She stood to leave, tightening the belt on her robe.
Rider had been lounging back in the bath, laid out full-length in the deep enamelled tub. Now he rose into a sitting position, water surging off him like a wreck being recovered from the deep. He held out a wet hand. ‘No, don’t go,’ he said with a weak smile.
‘Don’t laugh at me, John, or I’ll punch your lights out,’ she warned him.
‘I’m not laughing,’ he said sincerely. ‘Come here.’ He wiggled his fingers in an encouraging manner. ‘C’mon.’
She took his hand with a degree of hesitation. He pulled her gently towards the bath so that she was standing right next to him. ‘Come down here,’ he murmured. Slowly she knelt next to the bath until their faces were on a level, eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth.
‘This is my last try at getting a normal sort of life,’ she said hoarsely. ‘At least as normal as it can be for people like us.’
‘And you love me?’ he whispered.
She nodded. Her lips parted slightly. ‘Desperately.’
He ran a hand around the back of her neck and eased her face towards his and kissed her on the mouth. Softly at first. Tentatively. Then, as their mouths moulded together and both realised they had found each other at last, the kiss became more urgent and wanting.
Henry was never completely sure how he achieved it, but by the time Siobhan hit the landing he was back in the main office, standing nonchalantly next to a notice board, pretending to read an intelligence bulletin.
He tried to look surprised when she bounded in through the door bearing a gift in the form of a covert VIP protection vest, designed for discreet use. In other words - underneath a shirt. Henry cringed when he thought how uncomfortable and hot it would be.
‘It won’t stop a sniper’s bullet,’ his partner declared, ‘but according to the manufacturer it will prevent small-arms from inflicting wounds. It’ll stop knife-slash attacks too.’
‘Won’t stop anyone blowing your head off either.’
‘Don’t be picky,’ she said.
He took it from her and held it up between forefinger and thumb like it was a dirty nappy.
‘We all wear them.’
‘Even you?’
‘Even me - but I wear a specially designed one.’
‘Like a Basque?’ asked Henry, rather naughtily.
He regretted the comment briefly until she retorted, ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. ‘Right - a gun.’
She led him back into the corridor and to a door marked Store. She unlocked it and behind it was something the size of a broom cupboard with a squat, grey safe set securely into the back wall. Siobhan bent down to it and whizzed out a combination on the wheel which Henry could not follow. It opened easily.
She reached in and removed a revolver with the cylinder hinged open to show it was empty, and gave it to Henry.
‘Not much choice, I’m afraid. This is the only one available. Most of us have Glocks.’
‘Oh, I’m quite happy with this one,’ he said generously, a statement which did not tie in with the tremble of his hand. Once again, he realised just how uncomfortable he was around guns. This was a Model No. 12 Smith & Wesson Military and Police with a two-inch barrel, weighing 18oz when empty. A good, reliable firearm. The .38 special ammunition with which it was loaded could travel over 1500 metres, and in Henry’s hands was probably accurate up to about two metres. A trickle of sweat rolled down his spine and one or two demons stirred ominously in the pit of his bowels.
Siobhan gave him a box of ammunition and two speed loaders. She filled in an issue form, then asked Henry to sign it. Again, like the radio book, it recorded the issue and return of equipment - this time firearms. Henry scrawled his signature in the required space. There was another gap after his name for the authorising officer to countersign - in this case Tony Morton. Siobhan explained he would do that at a later date.
Henry looked quickly at Saturday’s entries.
Geoff Driffield had signed a gun out. As had four others. 1700 hours. Everything was countersigned and approved by Tony Morton.
‘Do you want to load up?’
He went back to the office. With nervous fingers he loaded the revolver and the speed loaders, fumbling the bullets and dropping one or two in the process. By the time he had completed the task, Siobhan had returned with a shoulder holster for him.
He slid his jacket off and eased his arms and shoulders through the webbing straps. Siobhan moved close to him and assisted him to adjust it so it fitted snugly. She was only inches away from him, fussing around like a loving wife might do for a husband who was getting ready for a special occasion. He could smell her warm breath.
‘There you go,’ she declared. ‘How does that feel? Not too tight?’
‘Fine.’
He could see the flawless complexion, the finer than fine silky hairs.
‘I like webbing,’ she said throatily, a smile playing on her lips. She eased her fingers around the straps of the holster, pulled herself onto tiptoe and kissed his mouth quickly, then drew away.
Henry was dazed into statuesque immobility.
She hoisted herself back up, kissed him again, and whilst doing so, sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, drawing a small squeak of pain/pleasure from him. His arms looped around her, crushing her body into his. Their groins ground together and her slinky wet tongue slid into his mouth.
It took a few seconds before reason triumphed over lust.
‘Whoa ... hold on.’ He pushed her firmly away.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry, that shouldn’t have happened.’
‘Why? Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘On the contrary.’ In fact the surge of pleasure he’d experienced was almost overwhelming.
‘Because you’re a married man?’
‘That’s one reason.’
‘Any other?’
‘We’re work colleagues. I’m a supervisor. Recipe for disaster. I don’t want to do anything foolish.’ Like I’ve done in the past, he did not hasten to add.
She looked disappointed, but gave him a rueful smile and nodded. ‘All right, I accept that.’ Unoffended. But before she turned away she gave him an eye-to-eye which said, in no uncertain terms, there was unfinished business here.
Henry picked up the gun and slid it into the holster - only it didn’t go in as he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised it was an upside-down holster - a type he had seen, but never used before.
He gave himself a mental warning to remember that, if he had to draw the weapon.
&nb
sp; Otherwise he might shoot himself in the heart.
They made love twice in the following hour. The first time was fast, with little style, completely driven by desire. It lasted only minutes as they tore desperately at each other, biting, sucking, pushing, shoving, basically devouring each other in a frenzy. They came together in a tangled, panting, damp mess, then picked themselves up from the bathroom floor. Clinging tightly, not wanting to let go, they stumbled through to the main bedroom where they simply lay together, holding each other and realising their love in small murmurings.
When they were ready, the second time was much slower and considered. They explored each other, caressed, probed, rubbed and brought each other to the height of ecstasy.
They reached their second orgasm with Isa on top, riding slowly, her full breasts swinging gracefully above his face, until she felt him become harder and harder and his thrusts became more urgent. Then she ground herself onto his pelvic bone, taking him deep inside, and they both came with a long, deep climax which shook them to the core.
Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him, head buried in his chest; he stayed inside her, running his fingers up and down her spine, making her quiver delightfully.
‘That was gorgeous,’ she said languidly, breathing in long and pleasurably through her nose.
‘Mmm,’ he managed to reply.
They both drifted into a contented sleep until they were interrupted rudely by the shrill phone next to the bed. She rolled off him and he answered it.
It was the cops.
Bad news. Could he turn out? Now. The block of bedsits he owned near to the Pleasure Beach was burning down. People were trapped. Some could be dead. It looked like arson.
There were four fire-tenders, three police cars, a couple of ambulances and the road had been cordoned off. The noise of the engines of the tenders was deafening, a sort of roar and whine combined. The sound of radios transmitting and receiving, people shouting to each other and running all over the place simply added to the cacophony.
By the time Rider arrived the building was a shell. Massive amounts of fire and smoke damage had been caused to the ones on either side. The windows were all missing, blown out by heat and flames, and dense black smoke billowed out into the night, accompanied by the occasional flash of flame, though generally the fire was under control.
The fire brigade relentlessly pumped gallons of water into the building. Two people had been unable to get out.
They had died.
One had burned to a crisp. The other had died through smoke inhalation.
Rider pushed his way through the crowd of enraptured onlookers and ducked under the cordon tape. A uniformed cop approached him to block the way. Above the din of the incident, Rider introduced himself and asked to be directed to the Chief Fire Officer at the scene.
The cop pointed. Rider thanked him.
He trod carefully over several layers of hose pipes which lay across each other like a convention of boa constrictors.
The CFO was removing his breathing apparatus. Rider waited until he removed his face mask which left a clean area of skin around his nose, eyes and mouth. The rest of his face and neck was smoke-charred black.
‘Deliberate,’ the CFO told Rider confidently.
‘Can you be sure at this stage?’
‘Yes,’ he said with authority. ‘There are several seats of fire throughout the building. It looks like whoever started it worked his, or her, way down from the upper floors, lighting fires as they descended. That’s not official yet, by the way, but I can tell. I’ve been to enough fires to know.’ He wasn’t bragging. ‘Any clue who might have done this?’
Of course I fucking have, Rider wanted to scream. He tried not to let his face mirror his thoughts. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well, this is a matter for the police now. Two people dead and deliberate seats of fire. It’s a murder enquiry - as if they haven’t got enough on this week.’
Chapter Sixteen
Friday. 6 a.m. They were all in position.
Henry, Siobhan and two members of the firearms team - Dave Bevan and Jack Philpot - were ensconced very uncomfortably in the back of a surveillance van parked on St George’s Quay, Lancaster. The van was, purposely, a rather careworn Ford Transit, bearing the logo of a fictional electrical company.
All four officers were perched on narrow wooden seats in the rear of the van, squirming in an effort to keep the blood flowing to their extremities in the cramped conditions. It seemed the seats had been designed to make arses numb within minutes. They were certainly not made for comfort and relaxation.
Their combined breath condensed on the inside of the van and because it was so cold, froze in tiny globules on the metal surface. Henry guessed it was only a matter of time before stalactites formed. The heater had packed up and the extractor fan wasn’t working. The joy and glamour of surveillance work, Henry thought gloomily. He hoped that the target, Terry Anderson, would do the honour of appearing soon.
Henry looked at the small chemical toilet and speculated as to who would be the first person brave enough to use it.
The van was parked about one hundred metres away from a converted warehouse in which Anderson was supposed to have a small flat. Through the one-way windows which allowed them to look out and no one else to peer in, they could see anyone entering or leaving the flats.
Four other officers were covering the rear. They were hidden behind a wall and Henry was extremely sorry for them. They must have been really suffering in the cold. The outside temperature was below freezing, but at least it wasn’t snowing or raining. Hardly a comfort, though.
The remainder of the firearms team were parked in an unmarked van, tucked away in a mill yard about a quarter of a mile away down the quayside.
It was assumed with reasonable certitude that Anderson was not at home. The surrounding streets had been scoured for any signs of his Shogun.
Henry hoped that if he did turn up, he wouldn’t drive in by the route which would take him past the mill yard. The firearms vehicle, albeit unmarked, had a definite aura of ‘police’ about it. Any self-respecting villain would clock it immediately.
There were two other routes to the flat. One from the main road which ran through Lancaster, the other around the perimeter of a nearby housing estate. Observers in unmarked cars were parked unobtrusively on these routes, watching for Anderson’s arrival.
Henry was under no illusions about their prey.
Anderson was a very violent, professional criminal. He was very shrewd and ultra-suspicious. It wouldn’t surprise Henry if he spent some time reconnoitring the area, checking for any signs of police activity, before he thought it safe enough to stop. If anything seemed out of place or spooked him, he would bolt and they would never catch him. Henry hoped the man wanted to get home desperately - for a shit, or something - anything which would make him less switched on.
The fact that the surveillance van was parked in such an exposed position, in eyeball contact with the front of the warehouse, didn’t help matters. Because of the geography of the location - right on the riverside - there was nowhere more subtle to position it. Fortunately it looked a pretty genuine electrician’s van and didn’t stand out like too much of a sore thumb.
Henry glanced at his companions.
Dave and Jack, the two firearms officers, sat in thoughtful silence with bored expressions on their faces. They were dressed in dark blue overalls, body armour, ballistic caps and black lace-up boots. Each had an HK MP5 across his chest and a pistol in a holder around the waist.
‘OK?’ Henry enquired.
They both nodded, said nothing. Strong silent types.
Henry looked at the far more appealing Siobhan Robson, his partner.
She was in tight jeans, a tracksuit top and a fleece-lined zip-up jacket. Her hair had been pulled into a pony tail and tucked under a dark green woollen cap. With her hair thus taken up, her ears were going blue with cold. It didn’t stop them being nice ears, t
hough. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at Henry and smiled with her eyes.
He responded with a quick grin, then raised his eyebrows and looked out through the window, mulling over the plan of action if Anderson turned up. It had been decided that he should be allowed to park his car, get out and walk to the front entrance of the warehouse. There he had to key a number into a pad to gain entry to the building. The teams should hit him just as he was doing this, grab him, flatten him, cuff him, search him, arrest him.
At least that was the plan. Everyone seemed to understand it and that in itself was a bonus.
He shivered and clamped his teeth together to stop them making a clattering noise like badly adjusted tappets.
Of course there was a good chance Anderson would never turn up. Ever.
It was five past six.
At which time John Rider was climbing into bed, having spent the night at the scene of the fire. He had made a comprehensive statement to the police, being as honest with them as he thought necessary. Yes, he had recently fallen out big-style with someone, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. What had happened was beyond the ability of the law to deal with. It was for him to sort out now, once and for all. To put an end to this madness with perhaps one more act of madness.
Munrow would have to die.
There was no other option now, he believed.
Isa had been with him throughout the night, watching him closely, trying to judge his mood, guess his intentions. But Rider was good. He showed nothing, kept a straight face, kept his anger controlled. Turned inside himself.
They had returned to the basement flat a little before six, both gritty and grubby from the smoke. They shared a shower in which they soaped each other down and washed each other’s hair. Shortly after six they climbed into bed and Rider made ferocious love to Isa in a way which brought her to a wonderful multi-orgasm, but which also left her feeling slightly afraid.
Afterwards, before they fell asleep, Isa asked him the big question.