Last Gasp (2 page)

Corinne Anderson is in her seventh heaven. She loves
Kubu like a second home and relishes the regular trips she makes to the famous Manchester
corsetiere to replenish her already bursting wardrobe. Not that she really
needs much more in the way of corsetry. Her collection of the
exquisitely-handmade satin, velvet and leather garments is one of the finest in
the country, or so Evelyn tells her.

Evelyn Merryweather is Corinne's, 'Kubu Personal
Shopper', and a real treasure. She seems, quite genuinely, to look forward to
Corinne’s trips and Corinne always makes a point of ringing beforehand to make
sure Evelyn is available. After enjoying the woman’s impeccably-mannered
services over many years, she often wonders what she would do without her.
Evelyn always seems to know her requirements even better than she does.

Having worked in the family-business’s shop long
before Corinne discovered it, Evelyn is an expert in the mysteries and
mythology of corsetry. She can tell immediately, which type of garment best
suits a customer’s body shape.

Take Corinne for instance. According to Evelyn,
Corinne is, 'pear-shaped'. Slim waist, wider hips. Not at all the classic,
‘hour-glass’ figure most women covet. Nevertheless, under Evelyn’s guidance
Corinne has discovered the right types of garment to wear and, more
importantly, the right way to wear them so as to achieve the effect she is
looking for.

But Corinne Anderson is not particularly interested in
the amazingly detailed technicalities, or the often bizarre history of corsetry
- despite the running commentary Evelyn maintains throughout her visits. She
simply enjoys the experience of browsing through Kubu’s stock, leafing through
the catalogues, running her hands over the items on display, and generally
immersing herself in what she refers to as, ‘The Kubu Experience’.

It is such a pleasurable, not to mention sensuous, way
of passing her time she always makes a point of allowing herself at least three
- sometimes four - trips a year. Even if she chooses not to buy any of the more
elaborate and expensive garments, the staff are always attentive and polite.
They never seem to mind if, after a couple of hours browsing the shop’s three
floors, she ends up spending only a few pounds on hosiery or other inexpensive
items. Not that that happens often. More usually, with or even without Evelyn’s
help, she manages to spot some new, exotic design, or something sufficiently different
to attract her interest. As she has this very morning.

Of course, she likes to try on her choices before
buying. In fact she usually tries on several before settling for the one she’s
had her eye on all the time. That is part of the fun. There is something
uniquely satisfying about the process of trying on a new corset, especially in
an environment such as Kubu. The Victorian décor and the old-world values the
staff show towards their customers, respect, patience and courtesy, mixed with
just the right amount of deference, combine to create an atmosphere which, on
the face of it, is impeccably, 'correct'. But below the surface run
frissons
which Corinne finds intensely arousing.

In fact, as she discovered during her early visits,
the act of being laced into a corset by a relative stranger but an expert in
the technique, while she holds onto the brass grab-handles provided for the
purpose in Kubu’s plush, velvet and leather dressing suites, is not too
dissimilar to some of the scenarios she occasionally plays out. Though at home
of course, the erotic element is rather more to the fore.

It is a strange paradox. For while she is the
customer, and therefore the person being ‘served’, either by Evelyn or one of
Kubu’s expert ‘dressers’, it is the dresser who is in charge of the situation.
It is she who places the customer’s body in this position or that; gives the
commands, 'Hold tight Madam,' 'Stand up straight Madam,', and pulls the lacing
tight, winding the loose ends round the customer's waist several times before
tying them off in the regulation bow. It is, Corinne thinks, symbolic. And more
than a little suggestive.

But Corinne doesn’t allow herself to dwell long on
such things. She just enjoys the experience for what it is. As she has been
doing for most of the morning.

As always, Evelyn is right. The black and scarlet
satin over-bust with the black lace trim - a recent addition to the,
‘Belladonna’, range - does indeed look wonderful on her. Just what she has been
looking for in fact. Something special for her forthcoming rendezvous.
Something to mark the occasion as the new departure she hopes it may be. An
opportunity to expand her horizons, for the relationship to take on a new
significance perhaps. Something that has been missing from her life for too
long now.

But even as her thoughts turn to the evening to come,
she cautions herself. She shouldn’t let herself get too carried away. Things
must be allowed to take their natural course. Nevertheless, she is hopeful.

'Will this be all Mrs Anderson?' Evelyn says as she
lovingly places the garment, wrapped in swathes of tissue, into one of the
black and gold boxes that are reserved for Kubu's most valued customers.

'I think so Evelyn.'

As always, Corinne savours the woman’s reverential
attentions. She has often wondered how she might react if Evelyn ever slipped
up and referred to her, not as, ‘Mrs Anderson’, but as, ‘Mistress’, - as she
knows she has come close to doing a couple of times.

Of course, Evelyn would have guessed her secret long
ago. But she is sure she is far from the only one of her kind Kubu counts
amongst its regulars. How many, she has often wondered? Perhaps one day she
will ask Evelyn outright. It would be interesting to hear what she has to say
on the subject.

'I take it you would like me to update your account
Mrs Anderson?' Evelyn says.

'If you would Evelyn, thank you.'

That is the other nice thing about Kubu. The words,
‘money’ and ‘payment’ seem to be regarded as being somehow vulgar; insulting
even. As though the business of monetary exchange is of secondary importance to
the shop’s main purpose, which of course is to give pleasure to their
customers. Something at which they excel.

Evelyn picks up the bags containing her charge’s
morning purchases and steps from around the counter. But before handing them
over she remembers to ask, 'Would you like some assistance to where you are
parked?'

'No thank you Evelyn, that won’t be necessary.'
Corinne isn’t done shopping yet, and the bags aren’t too heavy. Besides, she
enjoys walking around the city bearing the evidence proclaiming she only shops
at the most exclusive outlets. She wouldn’t be seen dead carrying Marks and
Spencer.

Evelyn hands her the bags. As the exchange takes place
a small, plain-white envelope finds its way, discreetly, from Corinne’s hand to
Evelyn’s from where it disappears, as if by magic, into her suit jacket pocket.
'Thank you Mrs Anderson.'

'Thank
you
, Evelyn, you’ve been a great help,
as always.'

Evelyn accepts the brief but no-less genuine
compliment with the slightest of nods. She knows that the contents of the
envelope - which she won’t open until she gets home that evening - will speak
louder than words. 'I hope your evening goes well,' she says.

Evelyn speaks entirely without irony, and Corinne
doesn’t need to check that she isn’t wearing a knowing look. The woman is the
model of discretion, and even if she has an inkling of the sort of evening
Corinne has planned, she would never show it. She could be referring to a
dinner engagement. Nevertheless, she flashes Evelyn a brief, conspiratorial
smile before turning away and heading for the door.

As she nears the front of the shop, a tall man in a
dark suit, appears from a doorway to her right, as she’d been expecting he
would. In his fifties with greying hair and a moustache that hides his upper
lip, he is gushing in his manner and wears a broad smile as he takes the hand
she proffers him.

'Have you had a successful morning Mrs Anderson?'
Always keen to demonstrate to his staff the standards he expects, he speaks a
little louder than necessary. Bowing at the waist, he brings her hand to his
lips, making ready to bestow on her his formal farewell.

'I have indeed James, most successful. Please thank
everyone for me.' The smile she sends him is one of her warmest.

'I will indeed, Madam.' His lips brush the back of her
hand. But he holds it there for a fraction longer than he needs to and, still
bent over, raises his eyes to hers. In a voice that is barely more than a
whisper and which he knows will not carry, he says, 'Mistress is most welcome,'
and gives her a respectful look.

'Thank you James.'

She also speaks in a low voice, but her smile makes
clear how much she appreciates his personal attention. It is a ritual that has
become a feature of her visits. It makes her feel a little special. And she
knows he enjoys it too.

With a final bow, he opens the door for her and she
steps out into the street.

As she gives him one last nod of farewell, she thinks
about where she has to go next. Ah, yes. Shoes. There’s a new shoe shop, so she
has heard, just opened up in The Exchange Building. She sets off down Deansgate
towards the Royal Exchange.

As she heads away, James Ollerenshaw, Kubu's
long-serving sales-manager, watches her, admiringly. It always fascinates him
the way women such as her manage to walk so gracefully in their heels, and
despite the pencil-skirt that in this case sheathes her fine legs. As she
disappears round the corner, his wistful look begins to fade. But before
turning from the window he allows himself one last self-satisfied smile. He
relishes the luck that brought him to a position where he can spend a good part
of his day serving women such as Corinne Anderson. If only he could do so more
often, and on a more permanent basis.

Still, you never know, he thinks as he finally turns
away. If his plans work out, the dream may just come true, one day.

Carver thought that if he tried hard
enough, he could probably recognise the woman in the doorway as the one who had
greeted them earlier - just. In the fifteen minutes since, an extraordinary
transformation had occurred. While the woman in white had been striking, she
wouldn't have particularly stood out in a crowd, especially if the crowd were
well-to-do and fashionably dressed. But the woman now before them would have
turned heads at a Hollywood reception.

Slim about the waist, Megan Crane had a figure that would
fit well within the covers of a men’s magazine. Her shining, coal-black hair
was cut just above her shoulders in a bob that perfectly framed the oval of her
face. Her makeup was sparse, but effective, highlighting her prominent
cheekbones and the dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her lipstick was a shade of red
which, on someone else this time of day, might have seemed out of place. Only
on her it wasn’t. The black bodice with three-quarter length sleeves was tucked
into shimmering-white leggings that emphasised the length and shapeliness of
her legs. A gold belt with a round buckle encircled her waist. Standing tall in
a pair of gold, strappy heels, the effect was what Carver could imagine certain
members of his team describing as, ‘Sex On Legs’.

And Megan Crane knew it.

'There you both are.' The smile was the sort she might wear
to greet old friends. As she came around the breakfast bar, her heels
click-clacked on the tiled floor. 'I see you’ve found the coffee. Give me a
moment, then you can tell me what you’ve come to talk to me about.'

As he watched her move, gracefully and purposefully, around
the kitchen, Carver wondered if this was Megan Crane’s normal daytime look, or
if she’d dressed to reflect the credentials he'd alluded to, briefly, at the
front door. Whichever, in the setting of a domestic kitchen on a bright sunny
afternoon, the effect was unsettling. As he watched her frothing up a
cappuccino with an electric hand-whisk she’d conjured from somewhere, he felt
Jess's stare. Turning to his left, he caught something that reminded him of the
look on his mother's face that day she chanced upon his stash of adolescent
'reading material'. About to throw her a, ‘
What
’? their hostess
interrupted by purring, 'I’m ready for you now.' He sent Jess back as neutral a
look as he could manage, mindful that if the woman was aiming to make an
impact, it was working.

'Come through to where we can be comfortable and you can ask
me your questions.'

As they followed her cat-like saunter back into the hallway.
Carver was conscious that so far, almost her every word had taken the form of
some sort of order. He threw another glance at Jess, only to find her staring
again. This time he saw what he read as a hint of concern. It made him think,
Who
for?

The woman led them through to
the spacious front sitting-room. It was dominated by two brown and cream sofas
and matching chair. They were arranged around a huge ceramic coffee table, the
top of which rested on stone-plinths shaped as dragons. Other furnishings were
few and simple, and blended with the simple colour scheme. She indicated to
them to take one of the sofas, and settled herself in the chair. As she waited
for them to start, she sipped at her cappuccino.

As Jess settled next to Carver, she
took the opportunity to check out the woman opposite. Her sense was that
beneath the perfectly composed exterior, their hostess was enjoying some
amusement. Unzipping her document case, she took out the folder she carried
with her almost everywhere these days and passed it to her boss. Placing his
coffee down, he began rummaging through it. Whether intentionally or not, Megan
Crane mirrored his action, leaning forward to place her mug in line with his,
then sat back with her hands clasped in her lap. It made Jess ponder on how she
seemed able to convey a mood by the subtlest change in the way she carried
herself, or shift of expression. It also made her wonder just how much of what
she was seeing was the real Megan Crane. As she waited for Carver to begin, she
realised the woman was subjecting him to a more detailed appraisal than the one
she'd given him on the doorstep. As her eyes narrowed, Jess had the impression
she was gauging him in some way. She was wondering why such interest, when
suddenly the gaze switched and she found herself staring into two deep pools
that held her and refused to let go. Jess returned her the sort of quick smile
people use to cover embarrassment, but forced herself not to look away. For
what seemed minutes but could only have been seconds, it was as if the woman
was inside her brain, poking around memories, learning secrets, noting fears.

The spell broke as the eyes moved away, only to be replaced
by another as the searching gaze now travelled down her body to her feet, then
back again. The open scrutiny reminded Jess of how she'd felt that first day
when she’d walked into the Major Incident Room and Chris Duncalf, one of those
DCs who thinks he's God's gift, had turned in his chair to ogle her, quite
blatantly. As he stared at her, she'd felt him, mentally stripping away layers
until she was sure that in his mind, she was standing naked before him. She’d
hated him for it, but got her own back that night at Evita’s, when she’d
responded to his drunken groping by thrusting a hand between his legs, and
squeezing hard, at the same time smiling a warning to keep his hands to
himself.

But Megan Crane’s inspection was different. On this occasion
Jess felt less invaded, than buoyed by the thought that someone whose lifestyle
was, by all accounts, 'unconventional,' seemed to find her so interesting.
Nonetheless, Jess was uncomfortably self-conscious - the second time since
they'd met - and shifted in her seat. Uncrossing her legs, she leaned over to
see how Carver was doing, just as he began to speak.

'As I mentioned Ms Crane, we’re investigating the series of
murders the media are calling the Worshipper Killings.' The woman's eyes
narrowed. 'We’re following up a line of enquiry which may involve your posting
in this.'

As he dropped the A5-sized booklet onto the table, Jess
again found herself caught out. She’d been expecting he would spend time
loosening her up before getting to the potentially embarrassing matter of her listing.
She hoped it was the right approach.

Megan Crane threw only the briefest of glances at the
magazine, with its single-word title, ‘DOM!’ emblazoned in thick, black script
across the top, before returning to meet Carver's gaze. Staring out from the front
cover was an exotic-looking red-head. Pictured from the waist up, she was
wearing a black bustier that pushed her ample breasts up and out. Between her hands
she was flexing a crop-whip. Retrieving her coffee mug, Megan Crane sipped at
it.

'Go on.'

He opened it at a point marked by a paper clip. The page was
divided into segments. Each contained a photograph of a woman posing and
dressed in a way that was in keeping with the cover. Each picture was
accompanied by a few lines of text. Carver pointed to the bottom-right segment.

'This is you, I think?'

She didn’t even bother to look. It showed her dressed in a
black basque made of some shiny material, cut away to expose her breasts. A
studded collar was around her throat and she was holding a crop similar to the
one on the cover. Looking directly to camera, the expression on her face was
stern, yet at the same time, Jess had thought when she first saw it, inviting.

For a brief second, the tip of Megan Crane's tongue darted,
snake-like, from between the glossed lips. And though she’d done little to
merit it, Jess couldn't resist.
Got you, you cocky bitch.
Like Carver,
the difficulty Jess had been having matching the picture to the woman who
greeted them at the door had disappeared the moment Megan Crane appeared in the
kitchen. And Jess didn’t need to re-read the text accompanying the photo to
remind her of what it said. By now she knew it by-heart.

'E
x
perienced, independent, lifestyle Mistress,
(n/s), willing to administer to the needs of discerning, (and deserving),
gentlemen and/or ladies who have already discovered their true natures. Owns a
fine collection of dramatic outfits and a range of equipment and accessories
designed to heighten the experience. If your intentions are honourable then
write, with photograph, describing your preferences, interests, and
circumstances.'

An identifying code, ‘DW12987’, was printed beneath the
photograph.

Megan Crane crossed one leg over the other and clasped her
hands over her knee. 'And if it is me?' She couldn’t have been less
self-conscious were Jess and Carver selling insurance and they were discussing
levels of cover.

'You’re a dominatrix.' He said it the way a traffic cop might
tell her he’d caught her doing forty in a thirty zone.

She pursed her lips. 'I’m not sure what the term,
‘dominatrix’ means to you, Chief Inspector.’

Her use of his official title reminded Jess that he hadn’t
yet invited her to, 'Call me Jamie,' the way he usually did. Nor had he given
her first name when he introduced her as, ‘DS Greylake.’ Megan Crane continued.

 'Admittedly, I pursue a lifestyle that some might consider…
unusual. And yes, it sometimes involves themes of sexual domination and
submission.'

'But you usually take the dominant role?'

She thought about it. 'Not always, but mostly.'

'Do you advertise yourself in ways other than this
magazine?'

She frowned. A first outward sign of impatience. 'May I ask
what this has to do with these-’ She paused, as if reluctant to acknowledge a
connection. 'The murders you referred to?'

Carver sat forward. 'There’ve been four murders over the
past fourteen months. We’ve discovered that all the victims were listed in
editions of this directory.' He pointed down at the booklet. 'Their postings
were similar to yours. We think the killer may be selecting his victims from
it. We think he could be intending to target you next.'

Her response, when it came, was in keeping with the image
she'd been working hard at portraying. She stared at him for something close to
half a minute. Then, uncrossing her legs she rose and, with slow deliberation,
crossed to a drinks cabinet that stood against the far wall. As she moved, the
material covering her legs made a silky, ‘swishing’ noise. From a crystal
decanter, she poured a measure of amber liquid into a tumbler then tossed it
straight back. As she did so, her hair swung, smoothly, around her shoulders
before settling back, not a strand out of place. For several seconds she
remained facing the wall, letting the injection do its work, before turning
round.

'Okay, Chief Inspector, you’ve succeeded in scaring the shit
out of me. Now tell me. Why would I be a target for this... this lunatic?'

Suddenly Jess felt guilty for having revelled in the woman’s
earlier discomfort. When it came to being murdered, it seemed Megan Crane was
no different to any potential victim. Confused. Scared. She sensed the need for
a lighter touch and threw Carver a glance. He nodded.

'You fit the victim profile, Ms Crane. And you live within
the area where he’s been operating. Basically the Northwest around Liverpool
and Manchester. As Jess spoke, the woman returned to her seat. 'We believe the
killer may be approaching his victims through this magazine, posing as a
prospective submissive. We think he probably arranges an encounter, possibly
more than one. At some stage it appears that he takes on the dominant role, at
least we are assuming he does, then he kills them.’

Megan Crane looked at them askance. 'I find that a little
hard to believe. Some tops do switch of course, but not with someone they’ve
only just met.'

'We’re not sure how he does it. So far we’ve found no signs
of any sort of struggle, and the way he leaves his victims suggests they were
compliant, at least in the early stages. It’s something you may be able to help
us with.' Jess paused then added, 'It’s possible he may already have tried to
make contact with you'.

Megan Crane looked from Jess to Carver and back again, as if
gauging if they were exaggerating things.

'If he is-.' Her voice cracked. She started again. 'The
magazine is only available on direct subscription. If he’s using it then surely
you must have his details, or something?'

Carver stepped in. 'It seems the magazine is popular in
certain circles and gets passed around a fair bit. It wouldn’t be that hard for
him to get hold of a copy. We only found out about the connection recently and
again, we’ve found no trace of any correspondence at the victim's homes. We’re
assuming he removes it after.’

'But what about the people who run the magazine? Can’t they
tell you anything?'

Carver shook his head. 'They simply forward on the envelopes
that come in addressed to the subscriber’s code.’ He pointed down. ‘In your
case, DW12987. As you know, they don’t check to see who, or where it’s from.
They claim to be hot on privacy. All they do is record that they've forwarded
correspondence.'

She gave a huffy look. 'Yet they gave you my details.'

'Yes, well,’ He glanced at Jess. 'In your case, they didn’t
really have much choice.'

Jess suppressed a smile, remembering their visit to
the cramped office above the industrial unit on a business park south of
Birmingham. To begin with, the older of the two women, the matronly one who
looked like she’d been around a bit, stalled, going on about, 'Client
confidentiality,' and her, 'duty of care’ to subscribers. Carver had turned to
Jess and said, 'Ring it in. Organise a search warrant,' before talking about
seizing files and computers and taking maybe a couple of months to find what
they were looking for before they could be returned. He wasn’t at all
threatening, but Matron got the message straight away. Crossing to one of the
grey metal filing cabinets that had seen better days she produced the
information they were looking for in seconds. He thanked her for her
cooperation and promised to tell her clients she’d been forced to disclose
their details. But as they were leaving, he'd stopped. 'I’d advise against
contacting any of them before we speak with them. It might be bad for
business.' This time the threat was clear. Jess knew now it was the way he
sometimes worked. Soft, then hard. A variation on the old, good-cop-bad-cop
routine everyone's heard of. But he did it all on his own. Jess remembered his
promise.