Slade was enjoying himself.
What was not to enjoy? He was sitting next to his best buddy in a night club in Prague and he had his face in between the best pair of tits he’d ever set eyes on, let alone got his hands on. And he certainly had his hands on.
“Fuck me: this is more like it,” he mumbled, in between motor-boating the perfect breasts. They were large and full and tasted of some intoxicating oil that hinted at coconut and drove Slade wild. He motor-boated one more time, trying to get his tongue on an elusive nipple, but the girl deftly twisted away, swinging her lithe body on the table to face Trevor instead.
“Fuck me,” Slade said again. Trevor looked happy too. He sat back in his chair as the tall blonde leaned forward on the table edge to swing her tits in his face. His hands came up to stroke them. Slade fixed his eyes on her shaven pussy.
On the stage in front of them another dancer was sucking off a guy wearing biker boots and nothing else. Only in Prague, thought Slade. Hell yeah. He would come here every weekend if he could. Shame he had to be back to shitty England in a few hours. He could still taste the girl’s breasts. He tapped on her naked shoulder and she gave him a slightly disdainful glance which tipped into a smile as he pulled a batch of notes out of his pocket and flicked them between forefinger and thumb.
She was gorgeous, like so many Czech women. Sleek cheekbones, crystal eyes, slightly tapering at the corners, legs that could wrap both Slade and Trevor in their embrace, and tits to die for. Oh, he could literally have died for them right now.
He leaned forward and spoke into her lovely ear.
“How much to take you back to my hotel?”
She smiled. Eased the notes from between his fingers, pressed her breasts against his face one last time, then hopped off the table and picked up her clothes. “More than you can afford, I think.” She whisked off with a little wave and a last cheeky smile, leaving Slade with the taste of her tits in his mouth, a boner and a big gap in his wallet.
“How the fuck does she know how much I earn? Do I look like a loser to you?” He punched Trevor in the shoulder. “Come on, you twat. What are we doing wasting time and money in here? I’ve got to get this thing watered.” He patted his erection and stood up, finishing his beer.
“Where we going?” Trevor asked, following his friend out of the club. Hot Peppers flashed in huge neon letters above the doorway as they emerged onto the street. A tout homed in on them immediately like a well-tuned shark. Slade met him head on.
“You want girls?” the tout asked with a sneaky grin.
“You want me to punch you to death?” countered Slade, smiling viciously. He shoved the tout out of his way and beckoned Trevor to follow him.
He hailed a cab on the corner of Wenceslas Square. He told the driver the address and they were off.
“You serious?” Trevor asked when he realized his mate’s intention. “We’ve got to be at the airport in two hours.”
“Plenty of time,” Slade replied, admiring his reflection in the window beside him. Handsome bastard. Firm chin, wild eyes. Okay, the gelled hair was receding just a tad, but what the fuck. At least he wasn’t jowly like Trevor. “I’m only payin’ for half an hour. Plenty of time to shoot me joose.”
“You’re a classy guy, Slade.”
“You fuckin’ knows it.”
The taxi pulled up at the corner of another square, this one smaller and far more sedate than Wenceslas. Offices and sophisticated restaurants replaced night clubs and sleazy bars.
“You sure this is the place?” Trevor asked.
They stood on the corner, between a solicitors and a high class café. Well-groomed couples were dining outside in the warm spring evening. They paid no attention to the two drunk Englishmen peering at the door numbers of the nearby properties.
“Hang the fuck on,” Slade said and whipped out his cell. He dialled the number he’d used earlier and a female voice greeted him smoothly. “Let me in then,” Slade said, and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “You wait here and get the beers in.” He waved Slade towards the café tables. “Unless you wanna blow some gunk as well?” He chuckled lewdly.
Slade knew Trevor was thinking of his wife and kids when the other man shook his head. “Nah. I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“What’s wrong with you man? All you’ve done is let a tart stick her tits in your face. That’s just a warm up, you faggot.”
A light came on in a narrow glass door to their left, which Slade had initially guessed belonged to the solicitors. Peering through, he saw a flight of stairs, and a tall blonde descending them.
“Right. That’s your cue to fuck off. Unless you wanna watch.”
Trevor shuddered. “I’ll pass.”
“Pussy.”
Slade let the woman open the door for him and stepped inside. She smiled at him and held out her hand. He took it, staring her up and down. Thick blonde waves of hair, piercing blue eyes, nose slightly curved. Good tall body, tits jutting firmly out from the white dress. Long legs. He felt himself stiffen. He was gonna enjoy her.
“Are you Judita?” he asked as she led him back up the stairs. She nodded and smiled artificially.
She made him shower first, which he did, impatiently and reluctantly.
He left the bathroom wearing a towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom where she waited for him. She was standing by the bed. Soft music was playing. Incense burned along with two T Lights. A lamp glowed gently on the bedside table. She smiled at him and let the dress fall from her
“They’re nice,” he said as he stared at her naked breasts. He brought his hands up to them, a little perturbed by how rock hard they were. Not soft like the table dancer’s in Hot Peppers. A new boob job he guessed, and frowned. He squeezed them. It was like crushing two rugby balls. Oh well. Never mind. Tits were tits. At least they were large, if not exactly wobbly—which was how he liked them best. He dropped his towel as she knelt on the bed and he joined her, running his hands over her breasts, teasing the nipples, bending down to suck at them. At fucking last. Finally got a nipple in my mouth, for fuck’s sake.
His next surprise was that she let him kiss her. But he would probably pay extra for that later when she gave him the bill. He didn’t give a fuck about that right now. He slid his hand between her pussy lips and was impressed to feel moistness. Well hell, she must actually like him. He pushed her gently on her back, and thrust his penis between her breasts. She craned her head forward and darted her tongue over his head briefly before reclining again. He thrust harder, enjoying the sensation of firm breasts enclosing his cock.
Then he shuffled higher up her body on his knees and eased his cock into her mouth. She opened her lips wide to take it, swallowing him up to the hilt, sliding her lips up and down until he groaned and swore.
“How much extra to come in your mouth, sweetheart?” He withdrew from her to allow her to answer.
She reached for a laminated price list on the bedside table, consulted it for a second. “10 Euros.”
“Thought you would know that off by heart, love. Now lie back and open your mouth and let’s have a bit of fun.” He began furiously pumping his cock with his right hand.
“Don’t say I’m not generous,” he said as he mopped thick pearly drops from just below her eye with the towel after he’d finished.
He handed her 50 Euros and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Cheers, love.” He didn’t bother showering again. She watched him from the bed as he left the flat, giving her a cheeky wave as he did so.
Trevor was sipping a lager at one of the tables outside the café when Slade emerged. He chucked the used towel in his colleague’s face and checked his watch.
“We’ve got fifty fuckin’ minutes to make the airport. Get that beer down your neck and get the fuck off your ass.”
Trevor removed the come-stained towel from his face and sighed. He stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. “How you got where you are in the force will never fail to astonish me,” he said.
DI Slade guffawed lewdly and turned to search for a Taxi. “Yeah, yeah. Heard it all a fuckin’ million times before. Now stop whingin’ and get your wallet out. I’ve blown all my corona on whores and we need to get back to Blighty. Crime won’t fuckin’ crack itself, y’know…” He lit a John Player and winked at his DS. “And if you tell anyone down the station how I spent the weekend I’ll tell Flora what you been up to as well.”
DS Trevor Whitley shook his head and reached for his wallet. “I don’t need to say a word, guv. They all know what you’re like. It’s a miracle you keep your bloody badge.”
Slade laughed and waved at a Taxi rounding the corner. “They know how bloody good I am at my job, that’s why. There’s only one Howard Slade.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, and thank fuck for that,” Slade said before Trevor could as they climbed into the taxi.
He wasn’t in the best of moods as he stood in the middle of a shitty wood in the dark in…Wales of all places! Couldn’t the Super have assigned somebody else? Wales wasn’t even his patch. The bastard knew Slade had just got back from Prague. But then Slade had the most experience…and a pretty successful track record, it had to be said. His phone had started blaring at him as soon as he boarded the Easy Jet flight, and hadn’t shut up until he touched down in Bristol. So much for a sodding early night. Murder most foul on a TV set in Wales. If he hadn’t have been so fucked he might even have found it interesting…
He let Trevor do most of the work. He knew the DS hadn’t put quite as much away as he had in the seedy clubs of Prague. And he had a much better temper. It wouldn’t do to go firing off at these Am Dram wankers, even if he did feel like pounding the pompous director who kept whinging about his fucking filming schedule. And as for that arrogant twat who played Arthur… Slade took a breath, tried to curb the rising fury. What was his name, his real fucking name? The actor had already told him once, but he was fucked if he could remember.
Oh yeah: Pyres. Justin Pyres. Piles, more like, judging from the expression on the scornfully good-looking actor’s face. He rubbed his brow to clear the haze. That had no effect. Maybe punching a pearly white peg out of that well-groomed mouth might do the trick. His fist clenched. “So how well did you know the victim?”
Pyres looked at him like he was insane. “Know him? He was an extra. I don’t socialise with extras.”
Fuck fuck fuck. This was gonna be hard. Luckily, Trev came to his rescue.
“Did you realize he was missing?”
“You’ve already asked Bertrand that. Why would we? It wasn’t as if he was an essential element of the show. Just a hired henchman for the day.”
“Okay, I get that he was just a piece of scum fouling your dainty nostrils, but maybe Bertrand could tell us if he had any particular need to be in the woods away from everyone else at the time he was murdered?”
The director shook his head slowly, wisely keeping his thoughts on the hierarchy of cast and crew to himself. He seemed a better judge of character than Pyres and could sense this particular Detective Inspector was not the best disposed towards theatrical types. He also looked white as a ghost, even three hours after being informed of the incident. This was way out of his league. His voice shook slightly as he spoke. “I think you would perhaps be better off asking his friends that question, Detective Inspector. He certainly wasn’t there for any scripted reasons. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you. I wasn’t even aware of his name until you told me.”
“Oh I will ask them, that’s for sure. But you can kiss your precious filming schedule goodbye for the next few months at least.”
Bertrand acquired a whole new shade of pale. “Is that really necessary, officer? I’m sure you can see this whole unpleasant incident was certainly nothing to do with the principal cast or crew. We have a tough itinerary to keep. Any delays to our schedule might be disastrous. Our American producers would be most unhappy.”
Trevor Whitley momentarily closed his eyes. Shiiiit. Stop right there, Bertrand. For your own good.
Slade actually smiled. “Bert. Bert, my friend. I’ll tell you who’s not happy here.” He took an evidence photo out of his inner jacket pocket and showed it to the director. “Besides me, that is. This poor fella, for one. You know, the guy whose name you’re not even aware of. The hired henchman with his guts round his ankles just over there in the trees.”
Now Bertrand looked sick, but couldn’t avert his gaze from the disgusting SOC photo. Pyres tilted his head back, not giving in to temptation. “Are these intimidating techniques really necessary, officer? We’ve told you all we know.”
“Shall I tell you what I know?” The DI stuck his red face right up against the actor’s. Pyres wiped a trace of the detective’s spittle from his cheek, and Whitley was just in time to catch his superior officer’s arm as he sensed what would follow. He swung Slade around and away from the director and his lead actor.
Slade was breathing heavily. “I was gonna twat ’im, Trev. Proper land one on ’im. I need some fuckin’ sleep, man. Can’t take this shit. I’ve still got come in me pants and a nose full of Charlie. I either get some sleep very soon or I start swinging.”
“Do you want me to finish off here, guv?” DS Whitley looked at his boss a little worriedly.
Slade breathed deeply. Then fished a JPS from a battered pack in his jacket. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, spat in the grass. A female production assistant watched him with open disgust.
“We’re not making any friends here, guv,” Trevor said in a low voice. “If we want them to open up, we need them on our side.”
“Trev…you’re fuckin’ right as always. Fuck knows what I’d do without you to keep me on the straight. Look, don’t worry. At least I got me end away in Prague. Things ain’t so bad. Tell you what, you interview the extras, find out what the fuck that twat was doing in the woods on his tod in the first place. I’ll finish my nice little chat with these lovelies…”
“You sure, guv? I can help you.”
“Sergeant, just go ask your questions. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Whitley shrugged and made for the collection of tired and scared-looking extras, now wearing regular clothes—their costumes had been confiscated by forensics. They were huddled miserably around a gas heater rigged to a gen. The woods behind the clearing were taped off. POLICE DO NOT CROSS—blue letters on yellow plastic. As he approached, a scene of crime forensic officer emerged from the trees, ducking under the tape. He saw Whitley and made his way over. He was clutching an item in a plastic evidence bag.
“What have you got, Jim?”
Jim Tavell pushed the white forensics hood back from his head. He raised his eyebrows and nodded in the direction of Slade. “Is he alright, Trev? Looks a little woolly to me. But then, doesn’t he always…”
Trevor decided to ignore the jibe. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Wouldn’t be the last. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. He’s still the best man for the job.”
“The only one they’ve got, you mean. He really should watch his back, Trev. There’s a lot of shit being talked about him back at the department.” And not all of it shit, either. Trevor Whitley was not oblivious to his superior’s reputation. How could he be? He had seen things that would have got Slade fired instantly, and earn him a sentence to boot. But the fact remained he got results. He hit targets. Sometimes a bit too violently…
“Yeah, I know. DinoSlade. I’ve heard it all. He may be a T-Rex in terms of police procedure, but sometimes…that’s what you need. But he’s always got me to hold his hand, keep him just this side of the law.” He pulled a pair of forensic gloves from a bag in his jacket pocket and put them on, then took the bagged item off Tavell and examined it. Arc lamps had been erected in the clearing, reflecting off the shiny video box inside the bag.
DS Whitley shook it. The box rattled. “Don’t Go in the Woods,” Whitley read aloud. He looked up from the garish cover art. “Mean anything to you?”
Tavell shook his head. “Looks old. Eighties probably.”
“Prints?”
Tavell shook his head. “Nothing obvious. We’ll check it out properly back at the lab.”
“The tape inside might reveal something. Practical joke, maybe. Or an allusion of some kind.”
The SOCO shrugged. “If it’s a joke, it’s a very vicious one. Allusion to what?”
“Who knows…?” Whitley buttoned his jacket as the late April night grew perceptibly colder. “I suppose I’d better chat to this bunch of sorry bastards.” He turned towards the extras, some of whom had actually been provided with chairs. The rest of the cast and crew, make-up girls, wardrobe, hair stylists, were all seated a little distance from the costumed extras, and Whitley noted wryly how even in the midst of a horrendous crime such as this one the signs of hierarchy were still in place.
“When can we move the body?” Tavell wanted to know as Whitley began to move towards the medieval henchmen.
Whitley stopped, looked back. “When Slade’s finished with the top boys. We’re gonna have one last look at it and then we’ll give you the okay.”
The extras—all men ranging in age from about 19 to their late forties—looked at him with something like resigned horror as he approached. It had been three hours since the murder had been discovered, and they were all desperate to get away from this awful place. Whitley could hardly blame them.
He’d already spoken to the two who had found the body. The statements were uniform. They’d discovered the corpse of Andrew Hill at 4:30 that afternoon. They hadn’t realized he was missing until the runner, Alex Dunning, had sent them to look for him. Nothing to suppose either of them were lying, though Slade hadn’t been too keen on them. But then, right now, DI Slade wasn’t keen on anyone.
He spoke to them again, asking if they knew of any reason why Hill should have been targeted. Were they particular friends of his? He mentioned the VHS tape, and asked if it might have any significance for them, or relate to Hill in any way? Did they have any ideas why he was in that particular part of the woods alone?
Mark Hamm took the questions in his stride, even the ones he had already answered an hour before. Tommy Wallace seemed a little more reserved. Something to hide? Slade would find the pressure points. But in the meantime, there was nothing else that could be said, or asked. They were all tired. Probably best to send them home.
Slade appeared at his elbow, red-faced and huffing slightly. He lifted his right shoe and examined a smear of excrement on the sole with no small amount of disgust. “I don’t fucking believe it… Who the fuck let dogs in these woods?” He glowered at the two extras belligerently as if they might be to blame.
“Any luck with Pyres?” Whitley asked him, leading him to one side gently.
Slade sighed. Whitley could still smell the stale Czech Republic alcohol on his breath, despite the mints he’d swallowed. “Stuck up twat. Right fuckin’ Eton Rifle. I only just stopped myself from lampin’ him, Trev… But I don’t think he’s got anything. I leaned on all the likely pressure points and he seems squeaky. Clean as. That limp wrist of a director looked scared shitless too. But I think he’s far too worried about his precious shooting schedule to risk interrupting it to slaughter a fuckin’ extra. Shit. This is why I never go to the movies anymore. Way too much bollocks.”
“Do you want to speak to Hamm and Wallace again, guv? Or any of the others? They all look done in. Maybe we should send them home.”
“To their nice cosy beds? Fuck that. Their mate’s impaled to a tree wearin’ a fuckin’ animal trap as a fashion accessory and they wanna go home and have a hot chocolate. You are way too fuckin’ soft, Trev. Besides, there’s something about these two I don’t fuckin’ like.” He snorted phlegm, hawked it into the grass.
He stepped up to Mark and Tommy
“So is someone going to tell me why your pal was in there on his own?”
Mark levelled his gaze on the detective. “I assume he went in there to urinate, officer.”
“To urinate?” Slade considered that. “Do all you extras normally take a piss with a great big spliff in your hands?” He watched their expressions carefully. Not a flicker. Had they seen the doobie lying in the grass along with their mate’s intestines?
“You…” he jabbed Tommy in the chest. “Did you know he was a smoker?”
Tommy shrugged. His eyes were wide. He looked scared, which was fine by Slade. They should all look scared. But was there something else there, that the scruffy-haired man wasn’t telling them?
“Don’t know. Maybe. I think he said he liked to have one on his way in every morning.”
“Well isn’t that a nice routine? Pull over in a lay-by for a quick read of The Sun and a toke on a doobie?”
Tommy shrugged again.
“Was he a particular friend of yours?”
Tommy paused. “I liked him, yeah.”
“You liked him.” Slade rounded on Mark. “What about you?”
Mark continued to meet his gaze. “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Like him.”
The fucker continued to eyeball Slade. “Really? Why was that?”
“He was a Geordie asshole.”
Slade laughed. Turned to Whitley. “Isn’t your old dear from Newcastle, Trev?”
Whitley nodded. “Yes she is, guv.”
“Now see what you’ve done. You’ve gone and offended the DS here.”
Mark shrugged. “He was an asshole. I’m not going to lie, officer.”
“Did he give you any particular reason for disliking him?”
Mark hesitated, considering the answer. “He swore a lot.”
Slade smiled at Whitley again. “That’s fucking awful. But then, so does DS Whitley’s mum, eh, Trev?”
“Like a trooper, guv.”
“I think you’ll find it’s a vital part of their dialect, son.”
“Is this discussion going anywhere, officer?”
Slade straightened to his full five-eleven, spread his hands wide. “Where do you want it to go, son?” A wild look came into Slade’s eyes. He pushed his face in Mark’s, just like he’d done to Pyres earlier. “I’ve got news for you, my friend: I don’t like you. I don’t like what you do for a living either. None of you are fuckin’ real. You play. And I grew out of playing a long time ago.”
“Inspector, if you continue to swear I shall have to speak to someone about police harassment.”
Slade smirked. Not as if he hadn’t head that one before. “Ok, son. I’ll make it easy for you. I ask you a question, you give me a straight answer. Do you think you can manage that?”
Mark shrugged again, face impassive. Giving nothing away. Pity it wasn’t you hanging from that tree with your tights full of shit and your guts in the grass. Slade cleared his throat, fetched another cigarette. “This is for both of you to answer.” He looked up at Tommy suddenly, as if to catch him not paying attention. Wallace—in his late thirties, possibly even early forties, Slade guessed—looked too worried to do anything but, however.
“This is my last question for now, and then me and my good buddy DS Whitley here are gonna go back in those woods and stare at your mate again. Examine the dried blood all over his face, maybe step on some of his intestines by accident—it is dark—and smell the defecation he dropped in his pants. Think you’ll both agree that’s not a nice job. Certainly didn’t expect to be doing that when I woke up this morning in a bright clean hotel room in Prague. So I think you can forgive me if I’m a little fucking out of sorts, and don’t think too badly on me for expecting you to be a little fuckin’ forthcoming with your answers… But please keep ’em nice and simple. No more than two syllables if you can help it.”
“I’m sure we can manage that for you, officer,” Mark answered wryly. Tommy nodded.
“Good. Excellent. Well then, here it is…” Slade took a deep drag on his JPS. “Don’t Go in the Woods Alone. Great title. Catchy…don’t you think? No? Maybe I have different tastes to you fine thesps. I can’t be arsed with high concept bollocks and arty shite. Nope, give me a trashy-flashy, brain-dead flick anytime. Something like Don’t Go in The Woods in fact. But what about you two? Are you familiar with this particular classic?”
Mark pursed his lips. Tommy looked away into the trees.
Slade cupped his right ear. “Don’t hear you…”
“No,” said Mark. “As you say, it’s not my sort of thing. And your assistant has already asked this question.”
“Tough titty: I’m asking this time. What about you, Mr…er.” He glanced at Whitley.
“Wallace, guv.”
“Thanks Trev. You’re my rock. Wallace. You ever see Don’t Go in the Woods, Mr. Wallace?”
Tommy cleared his throat. Slade’s cigarette smoke seemed to be getting to him. Good.
“Can’t say I have, sir,” he said.
Mark held his hand up, like a primary school kid in class. Slade frowned aggressively at him.
“Now I’ve answered your questions officer, can I ask you one?” His face unbearably smug, not intimidated at all.
“Go ahead. Anything that keeps me from that corpse is a welcome delay, son.”
“Are you a big fan of Life on Mars, by any chance? The TV series, not the Bowie song. You know, the one about the dinosaur detective out of synch with the modern age, and raging against it. Always calling his female colleagues ‘love’ and bashing the crims when he’s supposed to be interrogating them. He swore a lot too.”
Slade laughed, and this time it was a genuine one. He nudged Whitley who winced, fearing where this would take them.
Slade scratched his cheek, looked down, brushed ash off his beige trouser legs. He put his arm around Mark’s shoulder. “Never watched it, son. Sounds like a bit of a fuckin’ pussy to me.” Then he placed his right shoe on top of Mark’s instep, and carefully smeared the dog shit he’d trodden in all over the extra’s pristine white trainer. Trevor looked away. Tommy’s eyes got wider. Mark didn’t react. Not a word.
“I’ve changed my mind, son. I do like you after all.” He patted Mark’s back and then beamed at Whitley. “Now then, Trev. Haven’t we got a mutilated corpse to look at?”