The Porsche Boxster skidded to a halt outside the Honeycome drink and dance club. The doorman watched as long, slim legs snaked out of the car followed by the rest of the scantily clad body.
Carla Field uncurled in one sensual motion and smoothed down the skin-tight, lamé trousers. They left no contour of her shapely lower half to the imagination, nor covered much of it above the bikini-line. With a deft twitch and a wriggle, she adjusted the matching, narrow boob tube to make sure it allowed her small, firm breasts to bounce freely and to maximum effect. Her pert nipples stood proudly adding three dimensional outlines to the orbs of tempting flesh, flaunting a blatant and evocative message. She threw her car keys to the young flunky waiting by the door. ‘Put it where you can find it for me in a hurry,’ she said. She punctuated the order with a bump and grind of her rump and a beaming, wicked smile.
It was Friday night, Carla’s night, and there was no way she was going to let another of the Old Man’s arguments with brother Philip interfere with an opportunity to parade in her latest makeover. Urgent texts and phone messages, and the rest of the stupid cops’n’robbers and “We have a problem” family meeting stuff left her cold. Their childish melodrama interfered with serious talent hunting time.
A man-mountain of a bouncer shambled into view from the shadows and creased a stereotypically battle-scarred face in the remote semblance of a smile. He held open the bar-room door for her.
DI Frankie Burns looked up hopefully again from her drink of grapefruit juice and soda water. She was transfixed. There is good looking, there is built and there is sexy, but the girl who walked in was each and all of the above in spades. As with almost everyone in the room, Frankie was unable to resist watching as the stunning figure of the young woman appeared in the doorway and teased its way into the lustful depths of most imaginations as she crossed to the bar.
To say she walked into the room was doing an injustice to the hypnotic movement of limbs sculpted to feminine perfection. With each slow, sensuous step, she danced across the floor in time with the sultry voice of Amy Winehouse and the wailing rhythm of an accompanying saxophone, its syrupy sound oozing from every angle of the surround-sound system. There wasn’t a red-blooded male or bull-dike among the early evening drinkers whose gaze was not riveted on her, pouring all over her, as she made her entrance.
As the newcomer approached, the multi-coloured lights at the bar were at odds to set their reflection in her wild shock of flaming auburn hair.
Frankie’s guess that it was the Field girl was confirmed initially by the staff’s body language and enthusiastic greeting.
So this is Carla Field, thought Frankie. Okay? Okay – no! More like Jesus bloody Christ! This living doll, this breathtaking, perfect figurine of a woman was a Carla Field as never seen or imagined before by the DI. No description given, no photo she had seen among those taken by the guys in Vice Squad had given any indication of the girl’s physical grace and infuriating, naturally suggestive poise. Take a long, icy swig, girl, this amazing bitch has got enough sex appeal to give some of the poor stone-cold remains back in the morgue a hard-on. That Kipling guy might easily have had someone like this particular member of the female species in mind when he declared them to be deadlier than the male.
Carla surveyed the room, anxious to search out her night’s entertainment. Her gaze settled inquisitively on an unfamiliar, attractive face at the bar. It belonged to the just as attractive, well-rounded body of a blonde cutie. Her outfit was outrageously over the top and was a glaringly rushed, high street effort to glam-up. This appetising starter, main course and dessert for the evening unwittingly identified herself as one of the “Desperate Housewives” brigade out on her weekly night of escape from the fat, sweaty fingers of some overweight, balding bus driver. It was obvious, even though she was at least a rung or two up the ladder of thirty-somethings; she was straight as a newborn baby and as yet untouched by an experienced female hand. But it was exciting to see, beneath that glam crap she was only just about dressed in, the goodies concealed were as delectable as she was innocent. And if Carla gets lucky tonight, delectable she might well stay for many years, but innocent, not for too many more hours. The lonely looking bundle of sexplay was quite definitely, from the way she’d made up and dressed, just crying out to be unwrapped, pleasured till juicy, then given full speed licks of loving stick fucks till she screamed.
Carla threw a fleeting, friendly smile Frankie’s way and decided to attack, full frontal, from the stool next to her. When seated, she gestured to the too “mucho macho” Latino type barkeep. He minced over to her and leaned across to listen to a short, whispered instruction.
The DI was too absorbed with weighing Carla Field up, adjusting to the shock at the new arrival’s allure. An unfathomable feeling of want, a consequence of an unexpected liking for the girl’s looks, was a factor she had not bargained for.
She didn’t see the barkeep slip a tiny phial of powder into her soda water.
Frankie almost gasped as she exhaled the breath she had been unknowingly hanging on to. She gulped for another lungful of air, chased it with a large, icy draught from her refilled glass. Her mind, primed and resolved to the purpose of engineering her first lesbian liaison, now spun in a confusion. Her body tingled with eager anticipation coupled with the thrill of an unimaginable conflict of emotions during the inescapable abandonment of her hitherto rigid and very sacred taboos.
The DI’s spiked drink was rapidly taking its intended effect. Combined with the music, the enclosed atmosphere and exhilarating aroma of Carla’s exquisite perfume, the drugs subtly overwhelmed the detective’s muddled defences.
Frankie panicked slightly. She almost uttered aloud, what the hell is happening to me? She glanced quickly at her reflection in the bar mirror. It was strange not to see the confident, career girl face she knew so well. Instead she saw one she would often see the likes of on the pull in any of the drinking clubs on her patch. She flushed beneath the expensive, protective layer of instant tan as her eyes were drawn to Carla in the mirror. There was no backing out now. Her target seemed to have taken the bait much easier than she had expected. But why the hell did she keep getting a bloody awful, uneasy feeling she was being reeled in?
The girl’s eyes were glued brazenly on Frankie’s heaving breasts, visibly conveying her appreciation of the generous cleavage exposed above the low cut of the detective’s almost transparent blouse.
The DI’s flush became a raging blush. Embarrassment scorched the length of her body. And, strangely, she was increasingly aware of an aching, pouting urge in the bottom of her belly for sexual gratification. Her nipples were hard and protruding, distinct in the full, soft contour of the diaphanous brassiere beneath the flimsy cover of the georgette blouse. Frankie wrenched her gaze from the mirror.
The temptress had, in almost reptilian fashion, wrapped her legs evocatively and quite unashamedly either side of the shaft supporting the back of the bar stool beside Frankie’s. She swivelled round to face the DI and indolently lifted the skewered black olive on its stick from her cocktail, placed it between her scarlet painted lips. It slowly disappeared, and then reappeared, balanced on the end of Carla’s moist tongue. It was an unambiguous gesture. Her eyes raked over the expanse of Frankie’s exposed thighs, almost as if they were trying to will them to part. The smouldering gaze moved upward, and lingered on the detective’s breasts again. Her eyes moved up again and engaged with those of her chosen prey. She plucked the olive from her lips.
‘You want me to kiss the nasty sting out of those gorgeous, tasty nipples, foxy lady? Little Carla would love to play papa to her new foxy mama.’ The words were very softly spoken, almost mouthed. And then, ‘Or perhaps my new foxy lady can play papa first? Little Carla loves to play mama too.’
A local buck sauntered up to Frankie. ‘Forget the bread and bread nonsense here, her and her stupid little cherry trick, baby doll. Let’s you and me have a few drinks and then go somewhere where you can sit on my face all night and munch on something man-size while I hang on to these.’ He tried to touch Frankie’s nipples.
He whined in agony as Carla grabbed a handful of his groin.
‘Piss off, now, spindle dick.’ Carla spat the words out with astonishing venom. Then her voice dripped with sarcastic charm, ‘If you don’t do one, real sharpish, I’ll introduce you to my friend Maggi there,’ she nodded in direction of the bouncer. ‘He’ll be happy to treat you to something man-size. He really doesn’t care whether he kicks arse or fucks it, or both, in any order – but I happen to know he’s always ready to oblige naughty little boys like you with a bit of colonic irritation. Do I get through to you, spindle-dick?’ She released her hold on him and gave an exaggerated wink.
The intruder threw a tentative glance towards the man-mountain with no neck, whimpered something inaudible and hobbled hastily away to make a grateful but terrified exit.
‘Maggi?’ queried Frankie. ‘That great big guy could hardly be accused of being at all effeminate – he’s the proverbial gorilla!’
‘DiMaggio, darling, he’s nicknamed after some old baseball player, apparently. Our Maggi doesn’t believe in second prizes. You have to see to believe just what a mess he can make of anyone’s balls with a baseball bat – the lucky ones, that is.’
Perfectly composed again, the redhead rocked on her buttocks, grinding gently backwards and forwards, mimicking copulative thrusts. The exaggerated movement continually exposed to Frankie’s field of vision occasional glimpses of a very fine film of down, the almost pubescent-like hair shimmering on the flawless skin covering the firm mound that marked the boundary of her pudendum. And above was the glint from a large diamond-stud nestled in the girl’s perfectly sculpted navel.
The DI marvelled at her companion’s extraordinary temperament. She was reluctantly beginning to find everything about the beautiful girl extremely captivating. She watched Carla spellbound. Her struggle to remember her mission and retain a hold on her composure was becoming difficult. Her imagination was running riot.
The idea of trying to infiltrate the Field family by enticing their hussy of a daughter into a sexual relationship had seemed straight forward enough in the cold light of day, even if it were slightly beyond the call of duty and held obvious risks. The blonde hair and beauty treatment and total body tan, the tight fitting suit with its short skirt, her whole new image was designed with the seduction of Carla Field in mind. She had spent the day psyching herself up to adapt to the challenges of striking up a lesbian liaison, and told herself she had everything taken into account, everything was under control. But this thing was tearing along out of control, like a runaway train. The most erogenous parts of her screamed out for someone to start stoking the fire raging below. And more frightening, more unnerving, was the knowing she had not yet felt either need or obligation to object to the brazen attentions of this consummate mistress of unexplored passions.
Frankie gave a startled gasp as Carla reached over and rested a hand on her thigh.
Twenty-four hours before, such a move would have seen its perpetrator belly down on the floor, with her hands manacled behind her back. But now, the policewoman didn’t offer any protest.
The girl’s slender, manicured fingers disappeared beneath the DI’s short skirt. Pushing determinedly between nervously relenting thighs, the foraging fingers teased, squeezed the smooth skin, testing the firmness of the warm, bare flesh above Frankie’s expensive silk stockings. When the tantalising fingers could wander no further, they dallied. They pressed delicately then more firmly, enticingly and inquisitively on the contours of the moistening gusset of Frankie’s minute thong.
The DI’s eyes were shut tight, teeth clenched to avoid making the squeal threatening to escape her lips. But the fingers stopped their delicious torment, and traced lazily back down the thigh and gently rested on her knee.
The young siren’s tortuous affront went unchallenged, was relished even. The brief episode removed any former preconceptions, erased Frankie’s lifelong sexual prejudice and inhibitions. Amphierotic, dormant nerve ends tingled to the exhilarating onset of myriad, long awaited signals waking delight in every part of her body. Her heart pounded out a demanding, crazy beat to the sweet ache that throbbed deep and warm in the pit of her abdomen.
Carla withdrew her hand, brushed it lightly under her nose, slim fingers momentarily hiding her scarlet painted lips and smiled wickedly. ‘Mmmm, a little eau-de-Coitus tells me you definitely got to be mama first. I think that settles it.’ She sipped her cocktail, ran the tip of her tongue meaningfully around the rim of the glass, her eyes fixed on Frankie’s heaving breasts.
A distant part of Frankie desperately wanted her to shake her head wildly and wake up. It was like someone was inside her head, trying to tell her she was trapped in some inappropriate, adolescent wet dream. But she was wide-eyed and awake, sat in a dimly lit room, a room filled with people.
Within minutes she had become totally obsessed and was almost in pain with desire for a girl whose touch and scent she suddenly could not get enough of. For the first time in her life she understood the coarse, intolerant instincts displayed by many men when totally aroused. She peered into the semi-darkness of the room, at the other drinkers sat around at the tables. Many envious eyes darted from her to the girl beside her. She couldn’t stop a feeling of superiority over these onlookers, being the focus of this beautiful girl’s attention and physical desire. Something had to be said, but she could not think what. Before she could stop, she blurted, ‘But you haven’t asked me my name – you don’t even know my name!’
Carla said, ‘All we both need is for me to know the name of the game. I do, and I make the rules as we play. And you will help me make the rules to our game so very soon, foxy lady…’ Carla’s face lit up. ‘That’s it! You are all that and so much more, so your name is, definitely and for all time, Foxy.’ She slid off the stool and sidled up to Frankie. She spoke again, softly. ‘Well, Foxy, Carla wants to make you her mama now, and there is somewhere cosy and quiet she can take you, where maybe we can relax – and compare our Brazilians?’ With a giggle and another wicked smile, she stood up and ran her hands down the skin-tight trousers; stroking and smoothing her belly and hips to emphasize the many curves the sheer material hugged so tightly. ‘I don’t want to devalue any memory of our first union by suggesting we make it in one of the horrid upstairs whore’s nests, because I hope ours shall be a really memorable coming together.’ Her teeth sparkled as she smiled her wicked smile, and then she held out her hand for Frankie to grasp.
DI Frankie Burns never had a prudish thought. Since her late teens she’d offered her perfectly healthy erotic itches to a succession of virile, eligible sires that had been only too eager to do the scratching, and too often failed to do the trick. Apart from the teenage sleepover, high school friendship type of thing while still living with her parents, she had neither desired nor envisaged tongue-wrestling, tit-nibbling, scissors wrestling kind of pussy rubs, or any other exchanges of sensations or body fluids with members of her own sex. Now, in too few minutes to seem possible, a lifetime’s values had been blown away on a whirlwind of lust. She just wanted to hit the bed, pouring her juices all over this irritating, sensual bitch.
‘Please don’t tell me it’s too soon for us to go, Foxy?’ The expression on Carla’s face was a picture of feigned childish anxiety.
‘You know damn well I’m ready to come, and too soon might be too fucking late if we don’t get out of here, you pussy-teasing bitch of a witch,’ Frankie hissed, startled at her own words.
But there was no hint of annoyance in her answer, just a fury of excitement and no small measure of impatience.
Frankie looked into the eyes of the young woman beside her. Det Supt Tommy Cowper was a hazy memory. He and all the rest of them can go to hell, along with the case, right now, she thought. The job was of least concern. What she wanted, above everything else and at one and the same time if possible, was to eat and fuck the arse off this beautiful, atrociously horny bitch. Or would it be even better to be fucked to a standstill by her? She smiled, took hold of the irresistible coquette’s hand. The excitement in her was a fire the beautiful bitch had fanned, to infernal heights, fiercely, without restraint. And it would only be quenched by the juices warming and pushing at those strange, sensitive valves trembling in the bottom of her belly. She couldn’t wait to surrender her body and emotions to Carla in celebration of the mysterious and as yet undisclosed rituals of unrestrained, lesbian lust. She prayed that soon she could appease the excruciating longings, impatient, ready to burst from behind the sluice-gates in the pit of her loins.
Carla was looking beyond the imminent, inevitable and pleasurable conquest of Frankie, at the realising of a more sinister ambition. In a couple of hours time, after a good look at one or two of the right video shots of Phil at work with his enormous cock, she was sure this sassy little, built-to-fuck, oh, so malleable bitch would be desperate to help her lure her deliciously hung brother to their bed. And then, after her immensely pleasurable diversion of further broadening Foxy’s sex edification, with Phil looking on, he could warm up Cyclops with the all too stupid, tasty little bitch as his aperitif. His technique for delaying ejaculation was brilliant and his cock always insatiable. Cyclops would be fully aroused after a look inside Foxy, of that there was no doubt.
When Phil’s blood was hot and blinding him and his angry flesh throbbing in the rage of invading fresh territory, a change of partners would be easy, providing Foxy could be persuaded to “ride a cock horse”. Phil fucked with his eyes shut most of the time, concentrating to hold back his cum. Once he was inside her, she knew she could take her beloved Cyclops’ all consuming passion for pussy, any pussy, to the highest level. When he opened his eyes, the horror of his act would be magnified by the sweet embrace of her pussy. At last, at her leisure, they could indulge desire and taste the ferocious pleasure of life’s most forbidden fruit, the lust of a sibling. She groaned at the thought of the realisation of the precious dream, of the moment of submission to Phil’s beautiful cock.
*
‘Where the hell is your sister?’ Freddy Field looked at the mobile phone in his hand, then at Billy and Terry. ‘Two hours, four of them fuckin’ text messages you’ve sent to her for me an’ still not a bleedin’ peep from her. Why is she deliberately ignorin’ me? Someone gonna try an’ tell me that, eh?’ he fiddled with his eye patch.
‘She could’ve rung the house, maybe?’ Terry nodded in the general direction of Field Manor, the family abode, just visible from the window of the summerhouse in which they sat.
‘Jesus – an’ just what the fuck is that there?’ Freddy pointed to the phone station hung on the wall. ‘Maybe I don’t know so much about these gismos,’ he waved the mobile, ‘But I know that one rings when somebody makes an outside call! Alright?’
‘Wind it in a bit, boss, I reckon she’s just ’avin herself a bit of girlie fun. Maggi’s seen her leave the club for her flat less than hour ago with a friend.’ It was Trigg, one of the firm’s “captains” answering Freddy. The nickname was hung on him for his similarity in appearance and personality to that of the TV comedy sitcom character in “Only Fools and Horses”. He and three other of the family’s soldiers had been stood at the doorway, tactfully waiting for the correct moment to enter. ‘She’s not doin’ no one no harm, it is Friday night, after all, guv.’
Trigg edged into the room, followed by the other three leading soldiers in the firm, street names, Sheff, Moser and Chute. Any other form of address had long since been regarded as formal and assigned as useful only to the forces of law and order.
Trigg was in charge of the firm’s entire site sanitising activities, his loyalty to Freddy stretching far beyond the point of being a danger to even himself. Although prone to stating the obvious with inimitable naivety, he was astute enough not to elaborate on the sex of Carla’s friend or what Freddy’s daughter envisaged as a “bit of fun”. Everyone in the Field firm, and many outside it, knew what a lascivious package Carla was, except Freddy and Tina. No one thought there was any future in sticking his neck out to enlighten the couple. Freddy did not like bearers of bad news.
‘Why the fuck don’t somebody tell me these things?’ Freddy said, shaking his head.
Billy thought Philip’s predicament was of more immediate importance.
‘Who’s picked up anythin’ up off the street – an’ where are these Knishovos bastards now?’
‘The cheeky cunts’ve only gone an’ left a photo of Phil’s car on the board opposite Plaistow nick on a bleedin’ great “For Sale” notice. How fuckin’ saucy are them Russki bastards, then? Someone’s lookin’ for a severe slappin’ before the night’s out.’
The snippet of information came from Moser, an ex military man and one-time hired heavy for the National Front. The nickname was hung on him for having an appearance matching the role and his ardent admiration for a bygone character called Oswald Mosley. Moser was the munitions and explosives expert in the firm and had achieved wide reaching acclaim in the unsavoury world of organised crime for being innovator of a sophisticated selection of extremely effective travel-bag and briefcase bombs.
‘That is definitely takin’ the piss out of us big time, an’ not one bit fuckin’ funny, Moser,’ Terry said, ‘I hope it’s not still there now. An’ don’t worry; the bastard’s will be sorry they was born, an’ some more.’
‘Never mind about Phil’s bleedin’ motor, it’s him we gotta find, an’ fast,’ Freddy said. ‘An’ no one – that means absolutely no one, right – is to loose-lip around Philip’s mother. My Tina is not to know them bastards have got him. Do I make myself clear?’
There were grunts of affirmation from Freddy’s inner-circle of soldiers.
‘It seems like we’ve got somethin’ of a lead on them, the way I see it, Dad.’
‘What the fuck’s are you gettin’ at, then, Billy?’
‘They can’t have taken Phil too far away from the studio, because accordin’ to the time of the message on the camera-phone, they got there within twenty minutes – and strung poor old Phil up. The picture of the missin’ fluff was sent quite a bit earlier, to Phil’s phone number. But – unless it’s still in his car, they must still have it.’
Everyone in the room looked at Billy in wonder and disbelief. It was like they were all bearing witness to the most unlikely metamorphosis.
No one was more taken aback by the logic, length and delivery of the oration than his father. He looked at Billy with a newfound admiration beaming on his face. But there was no time to investigate the blooming of Billy’s dormant communication and deductive qualities. ‘Of course. That’s it – the mobile what sent them pictures!’ Freddy could see the first glimmer of light at the end of a dark tunnel. ‘Who’ve we got can tell us where the signal came from? That’s how these techno smart-asses or whatever you call them on CSI pinpoint the bleedin’ things down. Am I right or what, or is it just another loada TV bullshit?’
Trigg exclaimed, ‘Tribulation – that’s what they call it, boss. They do all that bollocks on “Spooks”, as well, nearly every episode.’
‘Somethin’ like that, Trigg,’ Terry said, amazed at how Trigg always managed to convey what he meant even if he rarely got his terminology right.
‘Yeah, now we all know, Trigg.’ Freddy couldn’t hide his contempt for what he often referred to as “lug-bugs”. ‘Might as well wear a ’lectronic tag as use one of these bleedin’ things, all sittin’ bleedin’ ducks is what we are now.’
‘Leave it to me, guv,’ Sheff said, whose favourite means of settling awkward debate was, like Terry’s, a stiletto flick-knife, or any other paring penetrant to hand, Sheffield steel preferred, the reason for his street name. ‘Shouldn’t take no more than a couple of hours.’ He got up to leave, giving the others a nod as he went.
‘Chute, you better go with Sheff,’ Billy ordered another of the group, a sizeable Afro-American, ex paratrooper, who had brought his nickname across the pond with him. ‘Till this shit is sorted, nobody goes out solo; we gotta watch each other’s backs like never before, lads. That goes for the gate, as well, two men on at all times. An’ make sure the other eyes out there keep them open for any of the Knishovos bastards rootin’ around. Let me know whatever goes, wherever.’ He looked at Freddy to confirm the instructions.
The don nodded, but was careful to say nothing to interfere with or discourage this emergence of hidden ability now shown by his oldest son. ‘What about the poor cow who bought it in the studio, Trigg – no probs there I hope?’
‘Well sorted now, guv. Poor little bitch’ll be dog-food an’ bone meal by mornin’. I think it was a real shame, an’ a fuckin’ criminal waste of a luscious piece of cunt.’
Freddy ignored his soldier’s inelegant eulogy. ‘And the studio?’
‘Juss like nothin’ happened now, boss. It’s surprisin’ what a little bit of respect does to encourage a man in his work. Them two was shittin’ bricks to get an’ sort things out, good an’ proper, I tell you.’
A tap on the outer door interrupted them. It was Tina Field. ‘Can I disturb you boys with some refreshment?’
Terry opened the door.
His mother stood there, haloed in the late twilight, complete with loaded serving trolley. She breezed in with the inevitable platter crammed with piping hot, homemade potato and beefsteak pie, and jawbreaker sandwiches of freshly fried sausage, oozing with butter.
‘Jesus, Lovely, you know you don’t have to…’
‘And you know it is exactly why I do, why I’m here. You just try and stop me looking after you, Freddy Field, or any of these poor lads. You must be starving – all of you.’ She put drinking mugs and a pot of steaming coffee alongside the food. ‘I’ll clear it up in the morning. I know you boys must have things to do.’ She kissed her fingers and touched Freddy’s lips, blew kisses at her sons and left.
‘I still don’t see how an ugly old bastard like you can hold on to a woman like Tina,’ Trigg said, shaking his head; his mouth poised to commit serious assault on a sandwich. ‘But I’m first in line when she susses your ol’ game, Freddy boy.’
The old stager was one of very few that could talk to Freddy in such a manner, especially in reference to Tina. He had been with the don from the get-go, and had shared just about every good or bad moment in Freddy’s fight to stake claim and keep control of his territory. What he lacked in education he made up for with criminal nous and a lifetime’s commitment to Freddy and the firm.
‘It’s gonna to be a long fuckin’ night, Trigg, my old mucker. And the most important one since we’ve been together, I’m thinkin’. If them Knishovos bastards want shit – they sure as fuck knocked on the right door for more than they bargained for.’ Freddy sliced a bit of pie.
*
Tommy Cowper switched off his phone. At the end of a day when you have had to contend with villains dumping dead bodies out of vans onto the main road in broad daylight, the last straw is having to accept one of your best DI’s has gone incommunicado. It was no help to know she had gone incommunicado while undercover, and, going by what he had briefly glimpsed of her departing, very much under-covered if his eyes had not deceived him, into a nest of vipers.
He picked up the phone again, stabbed the numbers, ‘Is that the duty officer? Good – give me officer in charge. Serious Organised Crime Agency do have one there, don’t they?’ He tapped his fingers on a coffee table, whistling an indecipherable tune behind clenched teeth. ‘Yes – hello, this is Tommy Cowper, Plaistow Division CID. Yeah, okay, but what I need to know, and fast, is exactly who you guys in SOCA have got operating on my patch.’
He waited, impatiently tapping, for three minutes, and grimaced on hearing the answer. He tried a different tack, ‘I’ve got a DI just gone under…’
‘Good heavens, was it you doing all the knocking, dear?’ Mrs Stella Cowper’s head peered around the lounge door.
He shushed her away, pointing to the phone.
‘I’m sorry about that. I was saying…’ He was interrupted. His annoyance grew. ‘Oh, great, you can’t give me any more than that absolutely shit useless bit of information, not even who the cover officer is? Bloody hell, someone tell me what’s happening to policing in this bloody country. Fine – you go get your Ukrainian mafiya men. But just flaming well watch your step on my patch and don’t go sniffing around the Fields anywhere near my patch, because my DI’s on their case, and I don’t want you lot bungling in and breaking her cover. I don’t want your trigger happy clowns endangering her and then go crawling back under their stones, leaving me with my arse hanging out the tree. Got me?’
He slammed the phone onto its receiver and sighed.
‘Everything alright, dear? You know it’s near bedtime, and you really shouldn’t be having to bring your work home with you.’
Stella Cowper’s head, her hair in curlers now, was hanging round the door again. She had a weird, vague smile on her face. ‘I know you don’t have to get up so early in the morning, dear.’
‘Yes, my love, you go on up, I won’t be too long.’ He mumbled and then heaved a sigh of relief. When she disappeared he grabbed a bottle of single malt whisky. He was on edge. There would be no sleep for Tommy Cowper this warm, summer night, of that he was sure.
Whoever said it’s okay to look so long as you don’t indulge was way out of touch with the damage one look could do. The fleeting glimpse of a revamped Frankie early in the evening had stirred a reaction in him he believed was dead long ago. DI Burns was his subordinate, an attractive girl and an excellent copper, with ambitions she chased with ability and conscientious enthusiasm. He had diligently looked past the gender difference, and overlooked his colleagues’ allusions to her “bedability” as they called it, some references even more lurid. He told himself he had never lusted for her. But the damage done by the erotic thoughts her image had evoked was more clearly measured by the sudden awareness of a strange reticence to follow upstairs and join his loving, dutiful wife. It was harder trying to muster the same feeling for someone pretending to be asleep upstairs in bed, with her head adorned like someone called Ena in TV’s soap “Coronation Street” of bygone days. It was a worrying thought that shocked and saddened him. He poured a liberal draught of his favourite tipple into a tumbler, turned on his short-wave radio set and settled back to listen to the area control-centre bulletins.
*
‘It is a call for the cradle-snatching sonoffabitch from Carla – the young bitch who is the only Field girl, Petruso.’ Vanko held out Phil’s mobile, ringing out the tune he vainly used for his call tone. ‘It could be a trap, or maybe the bitch does not know what is happening with her brother?’
Petruso answered the call. ‘Hello, Carla… No, is Petruso Knishovo; yes, Philip is here, we have meeting. We have drink an’ he just gone little boy’s room.’ He laughed at something Carla said on the other end of the line. ‘No, naughty girl! I hear he is not little boy, but I never see film, is not Petruso kind of thing. I happy married man, Carla, so I don’t know these things.’ She obviously said something then to shake him slightly, because he looked thoughtful and stared at the phone’s display screen. He showed to Vanko the photo image of an attractive young blonde woman.
She was lying naked and prostrate on her back. Her eyes were closed as though she were deeply pleasured or sleeping. It was a small image, but the seductive pose adopted by the woman concealed nothing of her body’s charms or intimate mystery. Her tanned skin almost glowed against its background of black satin bed-sheet.
Petruso signalled to Vanko to follow him down to the cellar.
He held the phone for Philip to get a good look at the photo-camera image and then put it to his ear. He whispered, ‘You speak to sister, an’ be good boy, or Vanko have to cut you off, an’ I mean cut off cock to send your mama something to remember you.’ Petruso pointed to the knife held by Vanko, who was poised to carry out the threat on Philip’s penis.
Despite the imminent promise of a very bleak future at the hands of his captors, the porn film king could not restrain his outsized penis from responding excitedly to the screen image.
Philip cursed his Godforsaken luck. Not only was he the captive of a grossly aggravated Knishovo and his rednecks, but his kid sister had gone and lined-up for him the tastiest fuck he’d clapped eyes on in more months than he could remember.
The cold steel of Vanko’s blade poking meaningfully at his testes reminded him of his predicament.
‘Hi, Sis, how’s it goin’? To what do I owe the pleasure of a Friday night call from my best looking siblin’?’ He listened to her reply, and then he said, ‘But you know I don’t know where it is. It’s your secret bolthole, an’ you wanted to keep it that way, remember.’ He looked at Petruso, panic and desperation in his eyes. ‘She wants me to go over to her apartment, right now.’
‘Tell her you on way to flat – tell her text you where is her address. Is gonna be better for you now you do it, an’ quick – quick!’
Philip was no fool. He knew whatever was in Petruso’s mind would be bad news for Carla. He hesitated.
The Ukrainian crime tsar nodded to his soldier, who took a more determined hold of the prisoner’s genitals and readied the serrated edge of the knife blade to hack at the root of Philip’s penis.
‘No! I…’ Philip was terrified. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said.
Petruso put the phone back to Philip’s ear.
‘It’s alright, Sis, I just had a spot of bother with your signal. I’m finished here now an’ on my way. I’ve got no pen or paper handy an’ you know what my memory is like, so be a good girl an’ just text me the exact address.’
Petruso looked at the incoming text. He said, ‘You are on way, for sure, sonoffabitch. I make Patch Field an’ every one in Field family sorry to have kid fucking sonoffabitch like Vlad in family. You tell me what you do with Tatyana or Petruso ram hot guts of pretty sister down your throat, an’ we cut your cock for blonde to choke on.’ He turned to Vanko. ‘Tie him up and put him in the car. We will go and see little sister Carla, and do some kiss arse for change, have some tasty English fuck and fun.’