Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  The three women stood in silence for a moment, contemplating what was obviously an embarrassing and awkward situation back at the office. The ringleader carried on. “We’ve got to find a way to stop him. Otherwise, we won’t have a team – or a business, at this rate. Sexual harassment is not to be taken lightly; it’s a serious offence, for both parties. If Lisa leaves because of it, she’ll be marked a troublemaker, and if she presses action and wins, she’ll be labelled a troublemaker too. Meanwhile, Sleazeman gets to have a giggle about the whole thing and life moves on for him. Until the next one. And the next one. And I’m sick of trying to sort it out. Perhaps I should leave and leave him to it.” The other women watched as she slammed her empty glass down on the bar with a thud, catching the attention of Matt.

  The first woman said, “Let’s order some food and another round, and sit down and make a plan. You’re right: the problem won’t go away on its own. We have to do something.” The third woman nodded her agreement and gathered three menus. As the others moved to a table, she called to Matt for three more drinks.

  Stephanie had always believed in chance, in fate, in being offered an opportunity at the oddest of times and places. Listening to the women’s heated conversation had jogged something loose, something from the past that now swam in front of her eyes like it was only yesterday. That shark again, or something else as deadly. Open-mouthed, she ran through what she’d only moments ago realized, a piece of the puzzle from her past now making perfect sense.

  Her debt had been paid.

  She’d been the one being harassed by a director back then. He’d been the one to make her life hell to the point that she’d begun taking antidepressant pills. And then, just when she’d thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, it had stopped. Like someone had severed his hold on her, cut the cord with a knife. Nothing further had happened – no more quick touches as they passed in the corridor, no more lewd looks and sexual innuendos. No more chance meetings in the tearoom when everyone else had left for the evening. She shuddered at the memory, and what she’d done to him that night. He’d left rather suddenly and never said a word about it. At the time, she’d wondered why. And now she knew. Someone or something had intervened. While she’d been thankful it had ended, there was a question to be answered.

  Could she have ended up in someone’s debt?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  How could she have forgotten that important snippet? She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. He’d left suddenly, with no warning and no explanation, and she had felt relief like never before. It had all come to a head. All the flirty remarks and comments, and suggestions of dinner after working late – all the classic ‘want you in my clutches’ letch talk that she and probably others before her had endured – had finally flicked a switch in her mind.

  Late one night, she’d been finishing off a project. Most of the team had left for the evening and she’d been rinsing her mug in the kitchen. Quietly, he’d entered the room while she had her back to him and had locked the door. When she’d turned and seen him standing there, the look of ‘got you’ written on his face and his lecherous smile, her stomach had nearly emptied itself into the sink. It had been obvious what was to happen next. She remembered how he’d leered at her, taking in her long legs, licking his lips as he’d walked towards her, savouring his prize like she was an ice cream he was about to devour.

  But not tonight. Never again.

  She’d waited patiently for the right moment, for him to get close enough. Kicking him in the nuts wasn’t an option: he was already too close, and there was not enough room to swing her foot up. No, she’d had a better plan, one that could get her the sack, or even worse, a record for assault charges. But that didn’t bother her. He bothered her, and he had to be taught his advances weren’t welcome, ever.

  She’d fixed a ‘come and get me’ smile on her lips and stuck it out. He’d probably been surprised at her smile, and pleased that she was going to submit without a fight, that she had realized she couldn’t stop the inevitable. That bit had pleased her, because he was almost correct on that score. Except it was he that couldn’t stop the inevitable.

  As she’d leaned back into the kitchen counter and he’d made contact, pressing his body into hers, she’d stayed focused on what was to happen next. She’d turned to her right slightly and let him kiss her neck, all the time fighting the repulsion of his damp, hot breath on her skin. She’d tried her best to relax, to let him know he’d won and she was enjoying his touch. How far from the truth that was. Her right hand had clenched stealthily around her weapon of choice and with one strong movement, she’d thrust the fork prongs into his shoulder as hard as she could.

  It took him a fraction of a second to realize what she’d done and release her, but she was well ahead of his thought process. Like a firework, she propelled herself at the door and unlocked it, flying out into the main office and into the midst of the cleaning staff who were working there. Pausing just for a moment to grab her bag, she watched as he stared at her from the doorway, his face crimson with pain and fury. And a fork sticking out of his shoulder. That part had amused her, and she’d smiled mirthlessly as she fled the building, leaving him to it.

  At least she’d won on this occasion, though it wouldn’t be the end of it, she knew. Tomorrow, she’d be lucky if she still had her job, not to mention the police at her door.

  She’d hit 3 on her speed dial as she legged it towards her car. Chris had picked up quickly, his voice chipper, pleased to hear from her as always. They’d once had a serious thing but were now on and off regularly. She knew Chris wanted them to be permanently on.

  “I’ve fucked up,” she blasted out in a rush. “I think I may have gone too far.”

  “Slow down. And tell me what’s happened.”

  “Meet me somewhere?”

  “Anytime – you know that. Where are you now?”

  “Just left work. Headed home.”

  “Then jump in a taxi instead and come straight round. I have wine.” Chris always had wine; they’d drunk a fair bit of it together in the past.

  “On my way. See you in ten.”

  He was waiting at his front door and walked down to the pavement as she pulled up. In the back of the taxi she’d had time to calm herself down a little and wasn’t so frazzled. Chris paid the driver as she got out and he turned to her. His arm slipped across her shoulders in comfort like close friends do. Once inside, she’d told him the whole sordid story. Of how her boss, William Botham, had tried valiantly over the previous months to make her his prize. Of his disgusting habits and ways of speaking. Of how she knew she wasn’t the only one going through this, though no one had dared make a formal complaint. And of how, tonight, she’d finally had enough and decided to beat him at his own game. He’d set her up in the kitchen by locking the door, and she’d set him up by having the fork ready at her fingertips. The only reason she’d chosen a fork over a knife was because a knife really could have been termed a weapon. A fork? More opportunistic, less premeditated. Though it had probably hurt just as much. She’d certainly hoped so, and his yelp, like a wounded dog’s, had confirmed it.

  Chris had sat quietly taking it all in but couldn’t help himself smiling proudly as she described the scene just before she’d fled. The wine was helping her relax.

  “I felt like Sarah Connor stabbing the Terminator – strong, in control and damn hard,” she’d said, and they’d both laughed. Her tension was easing.

  “Did you wear jeans and a vest covered in sweat? And big boots?”

  She knew when he was taking the piss, but it felt good to laugh at the whole scenario before the inevitable shit set in. He’d held her close as their laughter had died down and they both thought of the possible consequences. It was assault, after all, and she’d no proof of his wrongdoing – and Botham was in a better position to persuade the authorities if he chose. Getting her fired wouldn’t have been a problem in the slightest.

  “Look, stay here
tonight,” Chris had said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa and you have my bed. In the morning you’ll feel better and be ready for whatever the day brings.”

  Stephanie had agreed.

  He’d hugged her tight, and she had felt glad of his friendship.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Fifteen years before

  Chris Meeks had never been much of a sleeper. He’d regularly operate on four or five hours per night and often wished he could sleep for longer. His body just didn’t need it, and the many physicians he’d consulted as he was growing up had all come to the same conclusion – he was just wired differently. They’d advised him to just let it be, and as a result he read huge amounts at night or listened to audio books as he lay in bed ‘resting’ his body, with his mind whirling round digesting the words. Late-night radio bored him senseless but podcasts on various topics filled the gap; he’d found they were a good alternative to fiction.

  It was during all this spare time, when others slumbered and snored all around him, tucked up warm in their beds with loved ones, that he had taught himself how to code and to set up a business. But his business was a little different from the conventional ones a client might find listed on Google. His business lived in a secret place, a dark place, one accessible only by invitation to select and affluent clientele. When he’d first had the idea and begun to put the bones of it together, he’d been surprised at the custom that had come his way – not so much the volume as the customers who had seen the opportunity for him to expand his offering to so much more and had been willing to put money into the venture.

  Of course, he’d started small, and had done the majority of the work himself with the help of actors looking to pay bills of their own. He paid much better than waiting tables. Some of those early actors were still with him today, though times had changed with the advances in technology. Still, Chris’s business wouldn’t work without the humans involved; not everything could be left to technology. No, humans were the very essence of his group. And they had their needs.

  Back in 2004, there had been only a handful of sites like his, and he’d had to use the common web to get things going. That and dank basements where others involved in illegal activity did their trading. It had reminded him of prohibition and illegal underground bars: secret locations, secret access and secret clientele that could be trusted.

  Trust.

  Trust was essential for a business like his to operate outside the norm, and he’d come up with a foolproof way to ensure nobody blabbed.

  Self-incrimination.

  In order to gain entry, a member had to supply proof of their desires and proof of themselves satisfying those desires. That way, if anyone felt like snitching, there was evidence of their own full involvement – and who would be crazy enough to drop themselves in it and report him to the authorities? So that’s what kept his service running smoothly, without aggravation from law enforcement. Even if an undercover officer managed to gain entry with an invitation, they were never going to supply their own proof of incrimination, and Chris would sniff them out immediately.

  The other built-in security measure he’d added was the constant merry-go-round of site addresses. He used these like squatters use derelict homes, moving from one location to another at regular intervals. A short time before the group went live for the evening, a link would be sent out to his client base with the address where the gathering would be held encrypted in the message. Illegal dog-fighting rings did the same, except they met in the woods in person, while Chris’s group met in the cloud under pseudonyms.

  Sat at his desk as Stephanie slept in his bed, Chris entered the group under his usual admin login and sent a message to the rest of his ‘management team,’ those who co-owned it. He had an opportunity lying fast asleep in his bed next door, and he knew there would be the perfect match-up for her somewhere. He just needed to find out who. He stepped back into his bedroom and took a picture of her lying fast asleep, her beautiful hair on show and her sweet face in blissful repose, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. He knew otherwise. He typed a short message and attached the image, then hit ‘send’ and waited while it pinged across various servers around the world. It wasn’t long before the first response came back.

  Hair for a hijack, read one.

  A beating for two pints of red, read another.

  Feet for finances drained, read the third.

  Chris smiled at the devilish delights his clients were willing to give in order to get what they wanted. While he himself would have liked to put a hit out on the man who had upset Stephanie, the rules of the group were clear: no one got physically hurt. No one would die, no feet severed, no eyeballs collected. Nothing to cause physical pain was ever to happen. That was not the business he was into. His role was arranging pleasure and fulfilling sexual fetishes for one group in return for something the providers would appreciate or enjoy themselves, and ensuring that neither party realized the two parts of the transaction were connected.

  As he put it, he offered a dark service.

  Since he himself was the client in this particular scenario, the ‘hair for a hijack’ offer stood out to him now. Stephanie could cope with losing her hair, he decided. It would grow back, and setting up the perfect hijack would be fun: William Botham would be scared out of his sleazy mind when the time came to throw a sack over his head and manhandle him out of his home.

  He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled together in thought as he quickly worked out the logistics. He wanted it done tonight. He glanced at the clock on his computer: it was just coming up to midnight, which gave him around five hours tops, and since he knew nothing about the target as yet, he’d have to work quickly to get the pieces in place. While he felt sorry for Stephanie, since she’d undoubtedly be upset for a few days, he knew she wouldn’t be harmed in any way. Using a hijacker who demanded only money for the service was not how these exchanges worked: Stephanie needed to frighten Botham into silence, so there needed to be a forfeit in return. So there was no way around it: Stephanie would have to give up her beautiful long locks.

  He got to work with his plan. First was a background search: his client’s location, activities and finances, both company and personal. It made him smile as he dug into what the man had been up to; his credit card statement read like a porn library and it seemed he had more than one property listed to his name.

  “Which one are you sleeping in, Mr. Botham?” he said to the screen as he typed. He sat back and looked at the current power consumption of each of them. “Ah, I guess one is a bolthole for ‘special occasions.’ I wonder if your wife knows about it. Shame you’re not there in that flat. It would make the job a little easier later on.” He searched on and was pleased to discover Botham had a regular gym session with a personal instructor at 6 am each workday.

  Well, he wouldn’t be going tomorrow.

  He walked into his bedroom and bent at the side of the bed, kissing Stephanie lightly on the cheek. She really was a beautiful woman, and her long brown hair fanned out gloriously over the pillow.

  “It will grow back, my love,” he whispered, “and your problem will be solved.” He slipped into bed beside her and stroked the very hair that would soon be appreciated by someone else.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  His shoulder throbbed. Was there any wonder? William looked at the red and now quite swollen skin in disbelief. Four little dark bloodied holes seemed to glare back at him, and he did his best to ignore them.

  “Bitch,” he said to the reflection in the mirror, then peered more closely at his wound. His pyjama top had kept it concealed from his wife in bed; otherwise she’d have been asking awkward questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. How exactly do you explain that you were stabbed by a woman at work whom you were teasing? What was she on, anyway? Couldn’t she take a joke?

  “Bitch needs an orgasm to release her pent-up frustrations,” he grumbled. “Probably not had one for years. Stuck-up cow – who does she t
hink she is, attacking me?” He roughly lathered his face in foam and began to shave quickly, all the time cursing inwardly at the woman who’d taken him aback the previous night. He’d have to deal with that little problem later today: nobody got one over on him. In frustration, he swept his blade over his chin far too quickly and nicked himself. Claret mixed with creamy white, like strawberry coulis on vanilla ice cream.

  “Shit!” he cursed out loud as he watched the red drop travel south. “Bitch,” he added again, and kicked the wall to vent his annoyance at something that wasn’t going to fight back.

  Twenty minutes later he was on his way down to the underground car park and an hour punching a bag with his instructor at the gym before work. Still seething, he unlocked his car as he approached. It beeped in response and he flung his kitbag on to the back seat. As he got into the driver’s side, a figure slipped into the passenger side next to him, startling him. Even in the dim light of the garage he could see the person was wearing a black balaclava. Adrenalin poured into his bloodstream.

  “What the fuck? What is this?” He turned to the figure and his face met the muzzle of a gun.

  “Shut the hell up and drive. Head for the gym – as usual.”

  It wasn’t lost on William that the ‘as usual’ meant whoever this was knew his movements. “What do you want? I don’t have any cash if that’s it. But I can get it later. Just leave me alone,” he said, his voice quivering.

  Chris smiled inside the balaclava. This one was going to be too easy. It always amused him, when he undertook this role, how people reacted, how they’d start spilling their guts, what they started offering. And sometimes who they offered. He shook his head and tutted softly; this guy would probably sell out easily. He was tempted to ramp things up a notch. But he wasn’t there to harm the man, just scare him shitless. He spoke with a practiced fake Irish accent that even to his own ears sounded menacing.