Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (7 page)

She watched the careful dissection process. She had showered and had dressed in a one-piece disposable white suit and a plastic hair cover. Only her eyes were visible. The body lay like a discarded doll on a stainless steel table. What life had that poor child known? What tears had she cried? Had she hugged her mum and dad and set out for some dream of a new life? Was there a silent phone in a foreign place watched by a desperate boy?

The pathologist worked with two assistants. Methodically the information that added up to a human being was revealed.

Oriental female, moderately undernourished. Weight 42 kilos, height 160 centimeters. Age 19 to 22 years, all teeth present, no tattoos, surgical scars, or indications of pregnancy or birth. Sexually experienced. Menstruating at time of death. Weight of brain 1290 grams. Cause of death, internal bleeding due to frontal impact to chest and head. Large loss of skin on left leg and face. No indication of violent penetration. Stomach contents poorly digested.

Shannon’s ears pricked up. She had eaten not long before death. She watched the pathologist dip his fingers into the flesh, sniff, and separate the material into a bowl.

“Fish fingers and beans at a guess,” he said.

She felt an excitement. No way had she eaten that on board a truck! It was unlikely to be a restaurant meal. She had to have come from a location not too far from the scene.

The examination continued. The weighing of her little heart, the sampling of her blood and spinal fluid, the taking of scrapings from under her finger- and toenails. Her hair was combed into a large steel bowl.

The pathologist spoke again.

“Presence of foreign hair fibers. Will need further analysis, probably animal such as cat, dog, etc.”

Shannon took in the implication of these words. If these were cat or dog hairs there was a house with a link to this girl. She could taste and see that very house. She knew. She just bloody knew. The examination was coming to its end. The nameless discarded doll of a being was measured, recorded, photographed, sampled, and labeled. Plaster casts of her face and teeth were carefully made and the body slid back into a refrigerated compartment. A heavy click finalized the closing of the door.

“Do we have a name for her?” asked the pathologist.

Shannon thought quickly. Her own Spanish name was an accident of slavery and yet her name was her. No name meant no being. What was her own true West African name? In this moment she held the power to give this girl an identity. She remembered something she had learned on the immigration squad.

“Kakkada Song,” she said.

“’I like it. What’s it mean?”

“Kakkada means the month of July in the Khmer language. There was a bird singing overhead while she was lying in the ditch,” she said.

“That’ll be it then, forever probably,” he commented.

She got changed. As she went to leave she saw the pathologist putting on his shoes. He was older than she had thought, maybe sixty-five. She noticed a gold ring on his wedding finger. The inscription looked like Hebrew. His hair was more or less white.

“Thanks for taking that name for her,” she said.

“Thanks for your input. May I ask why you wanted to come?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t got anyone.... I don’t want to sound pious but I want justice for her.”

He looked up into her face and seemed to be appraising her.

“And you’re a sleuth right?”

“I’m the local bobby. I don’t get on the A, B, or C list as a sleuth.”

“Well, you go girl, all the same,” he said.

“Can I ask for your opinion, Doc?”

“Sure, relativity and evolution are opinions,” he replied with a cheeky sparkle in his eyes.

“Those animal hairs, what’s your guess?

“Dog. Short-haired dark dog.”

“Can you link dog DNA to a particular animal?”

The pathologist laughed.

“Well, humans are about ninety-five percent dog and vice versa. I’ve known humans who were more like dogs than dogs.”

“So you can?”

“Yeah. Homo sapiens, canine crapiens, it’s all the same stuff.”

She loved this guy and warmed him with her best smile. He reached in his jacket, took out a business card, and handed it to her.

“If you want any opinions or information give me a call. I’ll always try to help,” he said.

She glanced at the card. “Professor Max Strauss FRCPS. D.Path. DFM.”

“Looks like you’ve made all the A lists,” she said.

“You’ve made my A list for caring about a stranger,” he replied.

She could hardly contain her excitement as she drove back to Fleetworth-Green. The girl had eaten a meal. There were dog hairs on her body. She hadn’t fallen from a truck! She knew top detectives would receive the same information. No one expected her to solve it. Her job was simply to pass on any intelligence. No one would want to hear any maverick theories from a uniformed cop with a record for drama. She needed just a little bit more. Maybe she had seen that girl before? There was perhaps a way to settle her doubts—and she felt lucky.

She checked her iPhone. There was one message and it was merely a line of four xxxx. It was enough to swell her heart remembering their kiss. He was thinking of her and in every single space between her work, she was thinking of him. She replied with a screen full of xxxxx!!!!

Thursday night was parish council night. She booked on for an afternoon shift and went out on foot to make herself professionally visible. The citizens were quick to remark on one thing. She was not PC Flowers. She drank tea at the village shop and met the landlord of The Hunter’s Inn, the very traditional pub. By seven o’clock she was footsore and glad to sit down for the meeting in the village hall. The chairman of the parish council was Colonel Robertson CBE, DSO. He was in his mid-seventies and clearly a man of military heritage.

He opened the meeting and welcomed Shannon. The minutes of the last meeting were approved and  followed by a discussion about the public purchase of a further red telephone box. A younger lady councillor suggested that no one used telephone boxes any more. It was unlikely the phone company would install any equipment.

Colonel Robertson blustered to his highest point of oratory.

“This is not a matter of trivial telephony. It is an ancient principle of the traditions of England!”

There was a murmur of assent around the table. It was agreed that a phone box would be installed without a phone inside. Citizens could then stand in the box to use their own mobile device, pod, or pad. The colonel thanked everyone for demonstrating the wonderful value of British compromise.

Next an elderly lady complained that her cat had returned home soaked with water on several occasions.

“Probably a gardener. Didn’t want vermin shitting on his onions,” said a middle-aged guy dressed totally in corduroy.

“Perhaps Constable ‘Ag-Where-ee’ could keep an eye out for wet cats,” said the colonel. “I wonder if you have any further news about that ghastly business of the dead body.”

“I’ve no special inside information. A team of detectives is on the case.”

She certainly couldn’t release news of any leads.

“Thank heavens it happened outside the village. I believe it’s at least a mile from the parish boundary. The nearest place is that vile housing project with those vulgar flags,” said Colonel Robertson.

It was clear that anything outside the Fleetworth-Green frontier may as well have happened in Antarctica.

“I would ask you all to be aware of the incident and pass on any information to police. If you hear or merely suspect something please come and see me or just call 101. Something that may just seem like gossip can be very important,” she said, trying to sound formal.

“We don’t want a bloody Gestapo state,” boomed a fruity male voice.

Shannon looked down the table to see a large, bearded man with a long pony tail. He sported a gold earring and was dressed in what looked like a lilac-colored caftan. An enormous bling watch hung from his wrist. Before Shannon could respond Colonel Robertson stepped in.

“Constable ‘Ag-Where-ee’ please forgive our member. He’s our resident champagne-socialist.”

“I love champagne,” she said.

“And I bloody well don’t,” said the large guy. “I’ve spent my life struggling to expose on film the exploitation of the proletariat by the capitalists, Comrade. It’s a working man’s pie and a pint for me.”

She resisted the temptation to suggest that his appetite for pies was obvious.

“I’ll keep an eye open for wet cats and Gestapo,” she said.

“Thank you, Officer. I’m sure we’ll all help,” said the colonel.

The meeting closed. She made a show of recording matters in her notebook. She drew a cat wearing a Nazi hat. If ever anyone looked in her book, she’d be in trouble. She shook hands with all the councillors. The guy in the caftan squeezed her hand tightly.

“I can see by the look of you that you’re a comrade underneath,” he said.

“I’m a comrade on the surface as well.”

He let out a bellow.

“I knew it, Comrade. That bloody Flowers was an old-school fart you know. More Tory than Thatcher. He used to inform on me to Special Branch.”

“How did you know that?”

“The old bumbler told me. Got him pissed and he let it slip. After that I used to feed him false info about where the barricades would be going up. By the way I’m Vandervell O’Brien.”

Shannon knew the name.

“You made ‘Red Flag of the Grimethorpe Zombies.’ It’s a cult classic.”

“Comrade! Comrade! You’ve seen it then?”

“I’ll never forget it.”

Her mind sped back to a spotty intense guy she’d once dated at art college. He’d bought her a Fidel Castro T-shirt and given her a year’s free membership of the Socialist Workers Party. He’d taken her to see the movie.

“It was my introduction to Socialist Zombyism. The only way to release the capitalists from their captivity of conformism was to eat their brains. I thought it was a masterpiece. It’s a true honor to meet you sir,” she said, watching his eyes burn with delight.

“Comrade! Together we can bring the revolution to Fleetworth-Green. I assume you’ve infiltrated the police in the same way I’ve infiltrated the parish council. Our time is coming.”

“We’ll rise up like zombies together,” she said, raising her clenched fist in a worker’s salute.

“That girl in the ditch, Comrade—a lot of those girls are trafficked you know. They’re victims of a system that sees only profit in the poor and powerless.”

“I’m with you there,” she said, sensing he wanted to say more. He was a movie director. He would have shone lights into some dark corners in his time. He was playing Mister Big. She was happy to play Miss Small. “I’ll look forward to hearing about that business.”

“I’ll pop round. Maybe we could meet up for a pie and a pint?”

“Give me a date,” she said.

He smiled and returned her clenched fist salute.

“See you at the barricades, Comrade,” he said, striding off towards the pub in his flapping caftan.

A Land Rover was parked outside. Her heart leaped. Colonel Robertson strode towards it. For a second she had thought it was Spencer’s. Her spirits sank. Then the driver’s door opened and he stepped out beaming a huge smile over the head of the advancing colonel. Then he brought himself to attention and saluted. Both men stood facing each other, stamped feet, and snapped their hands back to their sides. She kept a little distance, both amused and impressed by their military discipline. Her own police career had nearly ended in an insolent comedy on the drill square at the Hendon police college.

“Still good for Sunday?” said Spencer.

“Absolutely! Absolutely!” replied the colonel in a stentorian tone.

“Top man,” he said, waving for Shannon to join them. “The colonel will be our other umpire at the match. He’s a first class chap.”

“It’s an honor.”

“We’ve had a couple of players cry off on world affairs and maternity matters. Shannon has saved us.”

He reached out and took her hand and brought her to his side. The colonel’s eyes widened and he appeared to gasp for breath. Clearly he had never seen the earl holding hands with the village cop. Spencer took mercy on him and let him go with another round of stamping and saluting. Then he put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, smiling happily. “I hope you didn’t mind me—you know—being here.”

“I think you shocked the poor chap.”

“Maybe a little. He’s my superior officer. I only made it to major.”

“He’s a sweet guy.”

“Yes....”

She sensed his awkwardness. He longed to be spontaneous and had come to find her. Now his reserve left him not knowing what to do. She watched his face, his eyes on hers pulling her in. She was dying to kiss him. She let his gaze brush a thrill through her body. She pressed the button on her police radio.

“Three-eight-eight to Zulu Delta off duty Foxtrot Golf.”

“Roger.”

“See, just like that, I’m all yours.”

“Are you? Are you?” he said with such a compelling shyness that she hugged his waist as his arms folded around her.

“You’re my hugga-bear man,” she said.

For a while he simply swayed her gently holding her to him. One hand had moved to her head that rested against his chest. She breathed in the maleness of him, letting a small switch click in her core. He stroked her hair. Pins and needles shot through her. She kissed his chest through his shirt.

“I wanted to see you. I had to....”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Glad I wanted to or glad I actually turned up.”

“Glad you saved me from inventing some way to see you.”

“You just say what’s in your mind, don’t you?”

“If I can, I’ll always give you what you give me, Spencer.”

She heard herself saying these words. It was what she wanted to say simply because she knew it was true. She knew she was signaling a bond and commitment to him. She was falling for this man and she was losing things to cling to.

“Shannon, can we talk a little?”

“I’ve just finished my shift. I’m in uniform and grubby.”

“Come up to the house for supper. You must be hungry.”

She thought for a moment. She wasn’t prepared but she had no will to fight against the flow of the moment.

“Supper, eh? We never had supper in our house.”

“It’s a simple snack with a shy posh bloke.”

“Decision made. Let’s go,” she said, vaulting into the Land Rover.

He drove round into the stable yard and parked in a garage.

“Not going out again tonight then?” she said, kissing his cheek.

He let out a sigh.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I must seem very presumptuous....”

“Relax, Spencer. I wouldn’t have said yes if I’d thought you were gonna throw me out.”

He looked at her, leaned forward, and brought his lips to hers with such a tenderness that she felt as much emotion as desire, as if he had kissed her mind.

He took her hand and led her through the orangery where they had had tea just two days before. A corridor led to an enormous old-fashioned kitchen with a flagstone floor. A scrubbed wooden table big enough to seat twenty was set with two plates, two glasses and a bottle of wine. She stared up at the old oak beams high above her head. Spencer went to the fridge and took out plates of meat, cheese, and salad. She wanted just to look at him and feel his eyes on her. Just for these last normal moments of her life she made some conversation to give her some control.

“There was a fantastic character at the meeting. Vandervell O’Brien—do you know him?”

“Good gracious, yes. He’s one of the luvvies you know. He was some sort of media guru to the prime minister’s wife. She got him a knighthood. He’s harmless and quite famous for some film....”

“Red Flag of the Grimethorpe Zombies,” she said. “I’ve seen it, and I told him.”

“Yes, that’s it. God, he’ll love you forever.”

“That’d be wonderful,” she said.

He stopped and stared at her.

“Wonderful if Vandervell loved you?”

“No, to be loved forever.”

His eyes stayed on her. She’d known him for less than a week. “I wouldn’t want to be loved for any other length of time by anyone. Would you?”

“No, it wouldn’t be love, would it?”

He pulled his eyes away and went to a cupboard. He returned with a loaf of crusty bread. He seated himself opposite to her.

“Do you have a preference in wine?”

“They do three-for-ten-quid in Walmart. They suit my budget. You guess what three colors I like.”

“Red, red, and red,” he replied with a quick shy glance.

She laughed and leaned back, holding out her arms. She’d wanted him to be right or funny because she could feel him tuning in to her and she didn’t want to lose reception.

“I’m a right old open book, aren’t I?”

He opened the wine and poured it. Her heart was suddenly banging as she took a sip. It was deep rich and smooth.

“Not a Walmart bargain special, I guess?”

“Um ... no.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance. She tried to relax as the wine spread pleasure in her belly. So far they had filled the time with words. He had said he wanted to talk to her and that conversation lay between them like an unopened letter. She had no doubt that on the other side of this time with him lay the rest of her life, either because of what would happen or because of how she would feel.

“It’s silly. I just had to see you,” he said.

She didn’t think it was silly but she was desperate not to say anything flippant. She looked into his deep dark eyes and let him try to express himself. She wanted him. She didn’t need too much explanation.

“Things have come along very quickly, haven’t they?” he said

“These
things
can be that way.”

He cleared his throat before trying again.

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t—you know—be like this.”

“This is what I like being like, you know—when this sort of thing comes along.”

“Shannon....”

“Spencer....”

“I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect you. I haven’t had the chance to catch my breath.”

She watched his face. He was looking down into his wine as if trying to rescue his drowning words. She knew she was letting him struggle. She also knew he was a man who would need to explain himself to her. He would not take her for granted even though she was wantonly granting herself the joy of being with him.

“You feel it’s improper to be at this point after just a few days?” she said.

He smiled and jumped into the warmth of her understanding. She was a woman. She was at least six weeks ahead in this conversation.

“Yes, exactly, but I don’t want you to think I’m right to think that.”

“I promise never to think you’re right. Unless you completely agree with me of course.”

He shook his head.

“You’re amazing. I had to see you and I’ve brought you here and I’m just bumbling about.”

She took both his hands in hers across the table. This great dam of a man was ready to burst. He was strong, chivalrous, and proud. She would draw out the essence of him and swim in it.

“Shannon ... I did something today. I’d like to show you later.”

“You finished welding the Jaguar.”

“No, nothing like that.”

She knew that he hadn’t invited her to see his car-mending skills. Her mind flicked back to the jolt she’d felt when she’d first seen his chest through his open overalls. She just had to stop teasing him! For a couple of seconds he fell silent, then stood up and came round to her side of the table. He was behind her and let his hands fall on her shoulders. She felt his kiss on the top of her head as he massaged her flesh. Added to the warmth of the wine, the sheer maleness of the man, and the exquisite sensation of his hands on her, this was a moment of paradise. She groaned in pleasure.

“Sweet, sweet woman. I’m so stiff aren’t I? There’s never been anything like this and no one since....”

She put her hand on his. She couldn’t tease him now. How must it feel for him here, on the edge of a relationship with a new lover? His last few years had been a homage to memories. Probably he hadn’t thought of another woman until she’d barged into his life. Maybe to him this was a kind of goodbye to Saskia and he was stepping out alone with burdens of guilt as he left her at last. She would hold him firmly but he didn’t know that. He was a complex man. As a wealthy aristocrat he had a natural self-confidence. Yet, here with her he was shy and stumbling. He made sudden advances and then drew back in fear of his desire, emotion, and hopefully, lust.

“Spencer, we’re in the same place. If you built a perfect clock, it would just have the word NOW written on its face. I’m here with you now because I want to be....”

He continued to squeeze and soothe her shoulders. She resisted a temptation to mention Saskia. She didn’t want to tread anywhere on sacred soil. A time would come for that.

“I want you so much,” he said in his deep, considered voice. “I don’t think of anything else.”

“I don’t want you to think of
anybody
else. I don’t mind the odd random thought about the rest of the world.”

“That’s a deal then. How the hell did you come to me?”

“There was a vacuum in nature,” she replied.

She pushed her head back against his body and tilted her face upwards. She sensed that he too was bursting to kiss.

He moved to her side and knelt down, taking her hands in his. She swiveled to face him and brought them up to her breasts as their lips met. The joy of the kiss flowed from his hands into her body. An erotic charge released inside her. Still seated, she slipped her hand from his and opened the buttons of her police blouse. His lips found her soft, warm flesh. Any restraint had burned up in the heat of her flowing desire for him.

“This is your woman if that’s what you want,” she said.

“God, how I want you.”

She folded her hands around his head as he kissed her still captive breasts. The tease thrilled her. His tongue reached down for her nipple. Her belly twitched in mini shudders.

“My lovely man, my lovely man,” she groaned.

“You are beautiful.”

“You’re a gorgeous hugga-bear.”

His lips returned to a kiss as he fumbled open the remaining buttons of her blouse. Then he kissed down her belly. His hot tongue found her navel. She sighed and pushed into him. Around him was a scent of sexy male. Her need was flowing out and he was sensing it. He kissed on down to the waistband of her skirt. She felt his strong hand edge along her thigh and reach the lace edge of her panties. His lips pressed over the fabric of her skirt seeking her hot juice. She longed for that touch but needed to prepare.

“Too many clothes,” she murmured, just about grasping the last chance of preserving a little of her mystery. He pulled back and kissed her lips. His eyes were fixed on hers.

“I’m like a bloody teenager,” he said.

She smiled.

“I sure hope so, now that you’ve boiled me over.”

He stood up and drew her into his arms as she joined him.

“I was telling you about something I wanted to show you. I wasn’t sure, I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do.”

“Were you thinking of me when you did it?” she asked with a grin.

“Yes, it’s about you. That’s why I did it.”

“Then it was the perfect thing to do.”

“I fear I might seem a bit forward, a little presumptuous.”

“I won’t know if you don’t show me!”

She could tell he was still hovering on some kind of inner ledge. He poured the last of the wine and she slugged it back. He was such a handsome man. Even in his conservative shirt and plain trousers he could have been a model. She could only guess what was running through his mind. He was a peer of the realm. She was a street urchin from one of Europe’s roughest estates. Much could be made of their social differences, she knew that. She could have many motives for seeking such a man. She let the wine speak a little for her.