A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1)

by Frank Westworth

  ‘You do look interesting,’ she said. ‘I’m Chas. How do you do, Dave?’

  She extended her left hand; her right held the dewy bottle. Dave Reve gripped that left hand with his own. Slapped it and shared a mocking high five.

  ‘Beer,’ he said, ‘is one great leveller.’

  ‘They were worse.’ Chas sank half the bottle, placed it on its mat, and looked seriously at the mirror. ‘The Levellers. Far worse than Chas and Dave. For a start they were serious. They took themselves seriously. It must have been hard for them to face such apathy and derision from the music-loving public.’

  ‘Never heard of them. Life’s too short to listen to music you know you won’t enjoy, so why do it? Chas and Dave, now, that . . . that was like purgatory for lapsed Roman Catholics; an opportunity to bear the weight of penance without actually dying first. Suffering is always popular with that Church. They encourage their millions to do the suffering while they’re alive; dead sufferers rarely contribute much to the earthly coffers, when all’s said and done. You can see their point. A clever bunch. Well sorted. Their toast always falls butter-up.’

  ‘So you’re that lapsed Catholic, married and joyless policeman, Dave!’ Chas was grinning at the unsmiling reflection of the slim man seated next to her, in life as well as in reflection. ‘Are you here for the cure?’

  ‘I’m drinking the cure, miss. Ms. Muzz? Missus? I was numbing my sorrows with overpriced and very dilute if entirely palatable alcoholic solution until a delightful apparition appeared both beside me and opposite me. I could write an entire Star Trek script about the temporal and spatial anomalies of characters reflected in bars, a sort of metaphor for the duplicities of life, if you like.’

  ‘You could. Brannon Braga would direct or produce it, or whatever people like him actually do to television, and the next generations of trekkies would pointlessly debate your creative genius well into the next century. You do have the strangest bar-side manner I’ve ever come across. As well as a good line in drollery and wit. Is it the marriage or the policing which produces this? Maybe I should get out to meet married policemen more? Maybe there’s a whole world of entertainment awaiting, and I was unaware of it.’

  Both beers were empty. Chas flagged for more. Dave raised a single eyebrow at her reflection. ‘It’s on me. These things always are, it’s a tradition.’

  ‘Traditions are just rules, and rules are made to break. My shout. Make me smile and I’ll stand for another. Make me laugh . . . and I’ll stand you a peanut.’

  ‘Oho!’ Dave smiled, meeting gazes through the glass.

  ‘Here it comes.’ Chas leaned towards her reflection. ‘I’m an unmarried woman. No one misunderstands me. I crave misunderstanding. I am bored to death with men who understand me. Legions of boring, middle-aged and married men understand me completely and know how to make me happy while at the same time caring not at all for themselves or just wanting to get laid. I crave meeting a man who misunderstands me and just wants to get laid ’cos his wife is off with their family jewels being witty and smart and beautiful and intelligent, and who loves his mother and his cat and shares a fascination with his rare collection of genuine 1950s Coca-Cola bottle tops and who awaits his every evening arrival with his favourite tea and who dotes on his every word.’

  ‘What exactly does dote mean, anyway? I’ve often wondered. That’s what my life is like, Chas; I waste it pondering subtle things, like the true meaning of . . . dote. It cannot be easy, but it isn’t really hard. Drink up. You must need to find better company by now!’

  Dave turned ninety degrees to his left, facing his companion head-on for the first time.

  She beamed at him. ‘What sort of policeman? You must be a top one. A detective? All rugged and . . . ah . . . misunderstood? I can try to do misunderstanding if you like. It’s plainly big in your life. Does your wife misunderstand you? Where is she, by the way? At home with the two-point-four kids and the Ford Focus? Mondeo? Volkswagen? Hold on, hold on . . . she takes the children to school in a Shogun? One of the really really huge ones which can hurdle mountains in a single leap. Am I right or am I right?’

  Dave signalled for a further round.

  ‘I’ll skip the next beer; get me some expensive water, there’s more profit for the bar in that. I think only of others. You? What do you drive? You’re a cop so you’re forced to drive super-safe Volvos all day, projecting an image of calm power and protection to keep Mr and Mrs Joseph Citizen reassured and sleeping through their lives in a peaceable way. You probably don’t drive a car at all. You probably go everywhere on foot and ride a huge motorcycle with no silencing at all at the weekends. You spend all your days chasing felonious drunks and your evenings pretending to be the fond family man. At the weekend you don mirror shades and a lot of dirty leather, then head out on the highway like some fearsome dude. Brother. How’m I doing?

  ‘No! I suddenly had that walking-over-my-own-grave thing. You don’t do that at all, do you? At weekends you dress up in a frilly flowery frock and take ballet lessons. So sorry for the stereotyping. You can tell your Aunty Chas. You’re safe with your Aunty Chas.’

  Dave Reve rolled his eyes, help up his hands in surrender. ‘If that’s what drinking water does, then I’ll stick to beer. Speaking of which . . .’ There was no need to call the barman; two bottles of beer and a bottle of water appeared together.

  ‘I’m a detective. A sort-of accountant detective. I detect fraudsters. I do big sums and catch clever chaps who prefer not to pay their social dues. Or who move money which does not belong either to them or to the guys who claim to own it. It’s called laundering. I chase laundry. A tough life, but amusing enough. It’s more legal than nicking knickers off clothes lines and possibly even more entertaining.’

  ‘Arnold Layne.’ Chas tipped bubbly water from bottle to throat. Sank the bottle in one and belched like a stevedore. Covered her mouth. ‘Sorry. Arnold Layne. The knicker nicker. Sorry. I should stick to beer; water is too strong for me.’

  ‘Pink Floyd? You’re older than you look, then. Hang on, hang on. That was not at all gallant. Your grandkids play Pink Floyd and force you to listen to it under threat of death?’

  ‘No kids, Mister Policeman. No kids. Never had time. Never had inclination. Too selfish.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dave Reve paused. ‘My wife drives a Jaguar. An estate. It’s very nice. It has a diesel engine and a wooden steering wheel and its seats are made of leather. It’s got a CD player. She chose it because she wanted something to carry around the dogs she’d decided to have instead of children.’

  ‘And then? Nature ran its throbbing course?’

  ‘Yep. Kids. No dog. Car’s old now, has no value. No one wants cheap thirsty cars with leather seats and permanent puke stains. She’s not great on cleaning it. Why are you interested in the wife? Is this a new ploy? Chat to distressed-looking bloke in bar and offer him only stratospherically expensive marriage guidance services?’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. What do you drive? You can tell a lot about a man from the car he drives. With women it’s the clothes they wear. Possibly perfume. I could kill a Scotch. Or possibly a Scotsman.’

  ‘I . . . um . . . I don’t have a car of my own. I just borrow one if I need one. I’m a policeman. Policemen can always borrow cars. I don’t really care about cars. Or about football. Does that tell you a lot about me?’

  ‘More than you could ever imagine.’ Chas pulled a large watch from a pocket. ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘Am I supposed to offer you an escort to your room? That would be normal at this point, I think. I could invite you to mine, although that might be a mite challenging on the domestic front.’

  ‘Do you swim?’ Chas peeled money onto the bar, waved away the change. ‘This place has an excellent pool. And, do you know what? No one swims in it. It also has an excellent gym. No one uses it. The place claims to be a health spa. Because it’s a spa it can charge a small fortune to stay he
re because it offers guests and their guests free use of the excellent fitness facilities. Guests of course prefer to ignore the free facilities which they’ve already paid for and sit drinking in the bar, where the prices are unusually elevated because they need to pay for the gym equipment which would be free to anyone using it if they did which they don’t. Fancy a swim? Fancy taking the plunge, Mister Policeman?’

  As she said, the pool was huge and glowed a pale blue in the night. And it was empty. She kicked off her shoes and dipped a toe into the water, pronounced it perfect. Started to unbutton her shirt.

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous to swim when drunk?’ Dave was standing by the pool steps, fully dressed, attempting to look much more calm than he was feeling. ‘Doesn’t it give you cramp or something?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Chas had piled her clothes neatly, revealing a subtle taste in the underwear she still wore. She stood looking steadily down the length of the pool, touched the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes and dived smoothly into the water. Surfaced a surprising distance away and settled into a lazy crawl to the far end. Reve peeled to his shorts and followed. By the time he’d reached the turn, Chas was back-stroking her way to the shallow end. They were both good, strong swimmers. They swam in silence. Never together. When Reve reached a turn, she was halfway down the pool. He swam faster. Failed to catch her. Swam slower. She failed to catch him. Pleasure for both. Companionable.

  She was sitting on the edge in a corner at the shallow end. Dripping in her underwear, smiling at him. He pulled himself out. Sat facing her across the corner, separated by tiles. Both of them breathing harder than their exertions demanded.

  ‘You do look good, Ms Chas. You do swim good, too. You swim a lot, then.’

  Not a question.

  ‘You too, Mister Policeman. Mister married Policeman. I’m going to swim a little more before turning in. Think carefully before answering this. You have a lady wife who drives a Jaguar. I love to swim naked. If you’re going to share in that with me then you will need to be naked as well. In nudity lies honesty, even in the water. Are you undressing me or are you leaving now?’ She rose from the pool and stood before him. ‘It really is your call.’

  No hesitation. No hesitation at all. Reve pulled himself up and out, walked to her, hooked his thumbs into her unfrilly sports briefs and pulled them down, kneeling so he could take them all the way to her feet. She stepped from them and stood before him, legs slightly apart. At ease. She was hairless. Entirely hairless below the neck. Not even the shadow of stubble. Armpits nor belly. He leaned a little forward and kissed her on the bud of her sex. First contact.

  He rose. She hooked her fingers into the elastic of his shorts and dropped with them to her knees. His reaction to her was more obvious, less deniable, than hers to him. She kissed him on the tip of his sex. Second contact. He stared at her, transfixed. She looked up, rose to her feet, turned her back to him. Reve unhooked her bra, held her shoulders and turned her to face him. The straps hung at her side, her breasts holding the clothing in position; an interesting reversal of roles. Interesting at another time, perhaps. Reve pulled the garment away, kissed the nipples of both breasts, already standing as proud in their own way as he was in his.

  She stepped away from him and smiled at his urgency. Reve was past smiling, fresh out of smart conversation, clever comment.

  ‘Race!’ And she dived cleanly and was gone.

  He stood and watched as she crawled a length, turned and backcrawled towards him again. He dived. They passed in the middle, their eyes met, their strokes steady.

  Another turn, another length. This time, as if by a signal, they both stopped in the centre of the pool, paddled together. She reached for his head and pulled his lips to hers; he drank in her chlorine, beer, whisky, and she his. His hands found her breasts, floating between them, his right hand traced a steady line past her navel towards her sex. Before his hand met its target, Chas sank, took him in her mouth and trod water, arms out from her sides, feet controlling her depth. He could breathe; she could hold her breath for a longer time than he would have imagined. Her mouth worked on his cock for an impossible time and then was gone.

  She surfaced yards away, heading for the deep end at speed. He followed, confusion and lust and longing clouding all of his thoughts. When he reached the edge she was already sitting out of the water, just her feet submerged, her legs spread, her own desire obvious. He planted his lips upon her more private lips, lips set in their quizzical vertical smile, and dived into the heart of her, all else lost to him. She leaned back, bracing herself on her arms and spread her legs as wide as wide can be, the easier for him to submerge, to soak himself in her. And when her climax held her, she gripped his head between her thighs, and he worked his face into her more, her pleasure the only thought active in his head.

  Her climaxes grew in both frequency and intensity. He attempted to pull back, but her legs, strong swimmer’s legs, held him in place. Not that he was unhappy there. Far from unhappy. Her shuddering and her cries were more compelling than any whisky. She came over and again, until with a long loud sob she slid from the poolside into the water, his head clamped between her legs, his mouth open only to her sex, and sank into twelve feet of bright blue, gently heated water.

  He struggled, but he could not break free.

  15

  THE PURPLE RAIN

  ‘I feel so happy that I almost died, And then he hit me . . .’ The Hard Man’s singing was as tuneless as it was unwanted and inappropriate. Stoner stopped walking, sharply. Stood statue-still, eyes half-staring, fists half-clenched. He had not expected to walk straight into the Hard Man, leaning casually against the wall of the hallway in his own house. ‘Who’ve you been beating up now, JJ? Did the other guys get away, or do they look worse than you do at the moment? Why are you ignoring me? You returned none of my calls. None.’ He was all seriousness, now, the pretence of levity discarded as painfully as it had been employed. ‘That is not the way it is.’

  ‘I ran . . . into Shard. Harding. He had things on his mind. We discussed them. After our long, friendly and constructive debate, I needed to think, so I switched off my phones.’ Stoner unclenched his fists. Talking with the Hard Man could feel like a fistfight sometimes. ‘I still need to think. He and I will need to talk again. In any case, what do you want? I have a business to run and something like a life to lead. This is my house. You’re not supposed to break into my houses. It’s against the law. It’s called breaking and entering.’

  ‘I shall forgive your unkindness, JJ. Any in-depth conversation with Harding could prove fatal for a lesser man. Let’s simply say that I was worried for you. You never switch off your phones. You may ignore them but you are way too paranoid to switch them off. It’s possibly burglary but not actually breaking and entering. I broke nothing and I entered no one. I only entered the house as far as the hallway, and only then because I wished to be clear of the rain.’

  ‘It’s not raining.’

  ‘Yet. But it may. I am, as you know, a cautious man, as well as considerate to my friends and implacably, relentlessly unforgiving to my enemies.’

  ‘Then pretend to be my friend. Let me earn my living and let me think. There was much to learn from the conversation with Harding, and chats like that always repay a replay. Unless you’ve more gems of intelligence to share with me? You do? Oh for fuck’s sake. Not another body? Let’s go somewhere quiet.’

  The big old house was divided into four apartments, all of which were let, one of them to the dirty blonde. Stoner was a gentle and undemanding landlord, but rents needed collection and buildings always required repair. In any case . . .

  ‘She’s not in. So we might as well go eat.’

  The Hard Man plainly could read minds.

  ‘Or at any rate, she’s not answering her door. To me. Does she have a spy hole? CCTV? I do sometimes get the subtle ghost of an impression that I am not entirely top of her must-invite-to-tea list.’

  ‘
She’s not answering her phone, either. Would it hurt you if I asked you to wait here while I check she’s OK? See how I do consider your feelings, even in delicate matters like this. She hates and detests you, of course. I cannot deny that. She is a lady of taste. Discrimination also.’

  The Hard Man raised the edges of his mouth in an expression more like that of a man licking a drain than one sharing a great time with a friend, but he nodded and leaned against the door-frame. Nonchalantly.

  ‘You do nonchalance very badly. Back in a moment. I’ll call your cell if I’m going to be unavoidably delayed.’

  ‘She’s not talking to you either, JJ. Bet?’

  ‘If she’s at home, she’s talking to me.’

  Stoner pretended a levity and a confidence he did not feel. The dirty blonde was not answering, door or phone. Stoner considered letting himself into her apartment to check that she wasn’t lying bleeding or incapacitated somewhere inside, but decided that his respect for her privacy was more pressing than his concern for her wellbeing. Their relationship was an unusual one, but part of the agreement which had resulted in her renting an apartment from Stoner involved his recognition of her profession and of her need for privacy.

  ‘Not home, then? She’s left you, maybe?’ The Hard Man was as deliberately tactless as he felt the situation demanded. ‘Can’t you just stick your neck around the door? Reassure yourself that all is well within? Or are you a true bloodsucker of a landlord and in the best vampiric tradition require an invitation before you cross a threshold? I saw a TV programme once, and . . .’

  ‘Just shut it. OK? She’s either out or she wants quiet. Both are fine. If anyone had hurt her in there the others would have told me.’ Stoner tapped a two-handed pattern on the door to the apartment opposite the blonde’s. A roundly expressionless Asiatic face appeared around the door.

  ‘Mr Stoner. Rent is paid.’