Eeny Meeny (15 page)

She raised an eyebrow. Then slid off to the bar to buy another round. So this clearly wasn’t just a quick drink after work then. Mark wondered how he should play this, but was none the wiser by the time she’d returned. Her cleavage winked at him as she placed the drinks on the table. Whether this was accidental or not was impossible to tell.

‘How about you? Why’d you join?’

A brief pause, then:

‘To help people.’

Brief and to the point. Was that all? Then:

‘When I walked into Ben’s house. Saw the carnage. And helped save that boy from a similar fate. That was it for me. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t walk away after that.’

‘You’re good at it. Saving people I mean.’

She looked at him intently. He hesitated, then continued:

‘I would have quit by now, if it wasn’t for you. I didn’t tell you this, but I’d written the letter. Was ready to hand it in. To give up. But you saved me. Saved me from myself.’

Said with passion and from the heart – for a moment Mark felt ashamed of his openness, his nakedness. But it was true – without her who knows where he’d be. She looked at him, suddenly earnest. Had he messed this up? Then she leant across the table and kissed him.

Outside, he smiled as he offered her the cheesiest line he could think of.

‘Your place or mi—’

‘Yours.’

47

Mark’s flat was a tip. He hadn’t planned on seducing his superior that day and the vestiges of last night’s meal were still in evidence. Still, he’d changed the bed linen that morning and it felt clean and crisp as they sank down on to it.

She’d never been one for small talk. And the same was true now. Usually the man sets the pace in these things – or tries to – but that was not the case here. Mark was both surprised and aroused by how firmly his boss took the lead.

The cab ride to the flat had been silent – expectation of what was to come made conversation irrelevant. They didn’t touch or hold hands, but the air was still charged. Once they’d buzzed in, he attempted as he always did (always? When did he last do
this
?) to break the tension with humour:

‘I’d offer you a drink, but …’

She didn’t bother to reply. She just crossed the flat and kissed him. Then dropping her coat on the floor, she asked him which direction the bedroom was in. Once inside, she shoved him down on to the bed and reached for his belt.

Mark had made love many times, but he realized that this was the first time that he’d been made love
to.
Angry at being made to submit, he tried to spin her round. Now that he was aroused he suddenly wanted to dominate her – fuck her, bully her – but she pinned him back down, straddling him forcefully.

Was she loving him or just taking her pleasure from him? Mark suddenly realized that this mattered to him. That even now as she was lowering herself on to him, causing a sweet shudder to ripple through both of them, he wanted this to mean something, rather than just be a bit of fun. Men were supposed to be disassociative about sex. Able to turn off their emotions and think with their dick. But Mark had never been like that.

Again he tried to manoeuvre her so that he could be on top, but she pushed him back down aggressively. Clearly she wasn’t ready to go there yet, so Mark decided to submit. The battle over, their lovemaking became more relaxed, more tender. Helen slowed the pace and finally their bodies moved in tandem. To Mark’s surprise, she seemed to be enjoying it. Enjoying
him.
Brushing her nipples over his lips, Helen slid her hand between her legs, pleasuring herself as she rocked back and forward on top of him.

Mark was fighting desperately now to hold off his orgasm. It’s one thing to screw your boss. Quite another to screw her badly. Or too briefly. So he fought, conjuring all sorts of dull and mundane images to suppress his excitement, but as Helen picked up the pace again (sensing his orgasm) it was only going to end one way.

He wanted to apologize. But wasn’t sure whether it was warranted. She helped him out.

‘That was nice.’

Mark once again felt all his doubt disappear. He held her close and warm and to his surprise she didn’t resist. She nestled into his side to dwell in post-coital happiness.

As they lay there, the sheet barely covering them, Mark ran his eye over her body. In the throes of passion, he’d felt scratches on her back, but hadn’t paid any heed to them. Now, less distracted and more curious, he looked at them in more detail. He was shocked. The rest of her was so soft, so clean, so … perfect.

She must have sensed his thoughts, because she pulled the sheet up over her back. Conversation closed before it had even started. They lay together in silence for a while. Then she turned to him and said:

‘This is between us and no one else. Ok?’

It wasn’t an order, nor was it fearful. No, it was beseeching, almost tentative. Mark was surprised again on this the most surprising of days.

‘Of course. Totally.’

Then she went off to shower, leaving Mark full of questions.

48

Helen marched across the street to her bike. She knew Mark was watching her from the window above, but didn’t acknowledge him. She wasn’t playing games – she just wasn’t ready for cheery waves or blowing kisses yet. Still it felt good to have his eyes upon her and she slowed her pace deliberately to enjoy it for a few seconds more.

She clambered on to her Kawasaki and turned the ignition. Her bike leathers and helmet were another form of armour for Helen, a space where she could exist alone and unmolested. But today, for the first time in ages, she felt she didn’t need it. That she didn’t have to hide from the world. What had happened with Mark had been unplanned and unexpected – which is probably why it had felt so right. When Helen had time to think, things often got overcomplicated and then didn’t happen at all. But today was just right. She wondered what Mark was thinking. Perhaps he thought she was odd – he wouldn’t be the first. Or maybe he found her intriguing. That was the best that she could hope for at this stage and she would definitely settle for that.

It was time to leave. The crazy fool was still watching, the curtain only vaguely hiding his naked form. For his sake as well as hers, she’d better go. So she revved the throttle and sped off down the road. As the wind whipped her body, she realized that today she was feeling decidedly unusual.

She was happy.

49

Martina pulled off her bra and thrust her naked breasts towards the other girl. Caroline – was that her name? – responded, licking her nipples with feverish, theatrical desire. Martina threw her head back groaning – and her eye was immediately caught by a dent in the roof of the van. How had that got there?

She’d done this so many times that it was impossible to keep your mind on the job. Whilst your body was bucking and cavorting for someone else’s pleasure, the brain disengaged and you found yourself wondering whether you could make it to the pub before closing time or whether you should go to Egypt on holiday or how much the other girl had paid to have her boobs done. It was amazing how mundane your thoughts could be really, especially when the girl – perhaps it was Carol, not Caroline – was going down on you. Martina moaned right on cue. The punters never guess of course. They are so consumed by the idea of what they are seeing – two large-breasted women devouring each other – that they don’t spot the tell-tale signs of ennui. Wouldn’t care if they did anyway.

Still this job was slightly different to most. Usually it was played out in front of a lonely businessman masturbating before his lesbian fantasy made flesh or more profitably in front of two rich guys who couldn’t wait to get involved. The lesbian bit was just the
amuse-bouche
for them – they couldn’t wait to get stuck into the girls, riding them in tandem, silently and mutually congratulating themselves on their wealth, imagination and depravity. They were tossers to a man, but they paid well, so those gigs were always welcome.

It was much rarer for a woman to hire two girls. Especially such a well-dressed one as Cyn. Rarer still for the woman not to get involved. Most women who hired female prostitutes were happily married, but sexually unfulfilled. Women who wanted the status and trappings of normal family life, but yearned to be touched by another woman. For them the show wasn’t important, but the contact was. But Cyn was different. This was her fourth time now and she’d never so much as laid a finger on them. Never touched herself either. Each encounter was the same – she’d pick them up in her van, drive them out to the New Forest and then watch as the two girls pummelled each other with strap-ons and more. They’d been a bit suss at first – was this some kind of pseudo dogging thing? – but actually she was totally harmless. Martina often wondered what was going on in that head of hers though. What was she getting out of it?

The final peculiarity was the payment. She’d established early on that Martina was a party girl, a clubber. And since then she’d never paid her in cash. Instead, she’d offered Martina drugs. She must have good access because the street value of what she gave easily outstripped the cash payment she owed. Somehow she must be getting them cheap – or free, lucky cow.

They finished – a frenzy of feigned mutual orgasm – then seconds later were slipping their clothes back on. Martina’s body was athletic and strong – she was tall for a girl – and Cyn ran her eyes over her form, before saying:

‘Something special for you today.’

Cyn held out a little transparent bag of pills. Martina took it from her for closer examination. It was full of large white pills with an eagle insignia on them.

‘Just in from Odense. I think you’ll like them. No need for an upper with these little beauties, believe me.’

Martina poured half into Caroline’s eager hands, then without hesitation they both popped one down. Unusual taste – almondy, sweet – then Caroline asked where they were going to go tonight.

Martina was about to brush her off – she was off to visit her sister tonight – but the words wouldn’t come out. She felt a sudden light-headedness. Martina swayed as if she’d got up too quickly, losing balance and coherence. She laughed and righted herself. Cyn was talking to her – checking she was ok – but already her voice was sounding muffled and distant. A hand was on her arm, which suddenly felt so heavy, in fact all of her suddenly felt heavy. What the hell was going on? And then there was Caroline lying prone on the floor of the van. How did she get there? What wa—

Then suddenly everything went black.

50

Helen made sure she was first in the office. Having abandoned herself so completely with Mark the previous day, doubts had subsequently set in. Helen’s default position of caution – the closed circle – was assailing her again. She fought it off – for once determined not to give in – but she wasn’t sure how her mask would be when she first saw him, so she got in early to give herself time to prepare.

Mark came in promptly and got straight on with his work. By now most of the team were in. Helen shot a surreptitious glance Mark’s way – she wondered if anyone else within the team noticed how much better he was looking these days. He’d lost weight, gained colour and the whole haunted look had completely disappeared. Helen wondered if it was going to be a day of politely tiptoeing round the subtle change in their relationship, but Charlie soon put paid to that. She came round early in the day to update Helen on the latest developments.

Helen had done her old trick – keeping the suspect in custody long enough to arrange a search warrant – so that Hannah Mickery had had no time to prepare her defences or dispose of any evidence. They’d taken her computer – she flipped at that – and most of her diaries, journals, etc. They obviously couldn’t touch her case files – these were confidential – but there were ways of getting information on patients if one had a mind to. But that was for later.

One thing was clear straight away. She knew an awful lot about these killings. She had all the cuttings about Sam’s death, Ben’s, Marie and Anna’s, but also pictures. And not just those culled from local papers (which had in turn been taken from Facebook, school albums, etc.). No, these were photos she’d taken of Amy and Peter
after
the event. Helen also found Amy’s phone number scribbled in her journal. Why did she have this number, when she had neither met Amy nor according to her testimony ever been allowed to talk to her?

She had Peter’s work details, email addresses and most intriguingly a work schedule for him, though irritatingly this was from after Peter had returned to work, so it couldn’t in any way be linked to his abduction.

The computer was a harder nut to crack. Hannah had been asked to volunteer her password, but had refused, so they’d had to do it the hard way. People think these things are secure but they are not and although they should strictly have waited for the relevant paperwork, Helen decided to press on and the IT guys soon opened up her system.

Charlie had done most of the legwork, so sat in as Helen navigated her way through the files on Hannah’s MacBook Air. Most of it was dull – business and home admin – but a treasure trove was lurking inside. Hidden away from view in the computer’s Finder was a locked file, simply named ‘B’. Tantalizing … but again it didn’t take long to open.

Helen sat bolt upright as she saw what it contained. A word-for-word transcript of Amy’s formal statement, as given to Helen in the custody suite. Helen’s eyes narrowed, disbelieving. She clicked on the RealPlayer icon that was also in the ‘B’ file and her worst fears were realized. There in perfect definition was the video footage of the traumatized Amy giving her statement to Helen. Whoever she was – whatever she was – Hannah clearly had a copper onside. A copper who had given her this footage. But for what end?

Charlie exhaled loudly. The investigation had taken an important, but potentially devastating, lurch forward. Was this corruption? Collusion? Or was a cop somehow involved in these killings?