Chapter Five

‘So, you’ve definitely decided not to go for promotion then?’ Steve picked up on a conversation they’d had on options preferable to sitting in a car freezing their arses off, as they maintained surveillance outside Sullivan’s residence. Set in its own private grounds, the ten-bedroomed house was complete with tennis courts and an indoor swimming pool. If there was any justice, the pool man would over-chlorinate it and Sullivan would choke to death. Matthew amused himself with the thought. Then again, that wouldn’t be a painful enough way for an evil runt the likes of Sullivan to go.

‘No, not this time around.’ Matthew shrugged and reached for his coffee, which was lukewarm, and really wasn’t satiating his thirst for something stronger. His mind was on Sullivan and the single red stiletto.

‘You’re not going to follow in the old man’s footsteps then?’ Cutting through his thoughts, Steve pursued the promotion conversation, though Matthew would much rather he didn’t.

‘Definitely not that, no,’ he replied tersely.

Steve shifted uncomfortably. ‘Sorry, mate, I forgot he, er …’ Shooting Matthew an embarrassed glance, he trailed off.

Matthew smiled and nodded, hopefully indicating subject closed. The fact that his father, also determined to get certain vermin off the streets, had thrown the rule book out of the window and then taken his own life – his only viable alternative to disgrace as he saw it – wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss.

Sipping his coffee, Steve fell silent for a while, and then, ‘So, do you reckon this latest girl is definitely Sullivan’s work?’

‘I’d lay my life on it,’ Matthew assured him. ‘The man’s a complete psychopath.’

‘With a bleeding heart story,’ Steve put in, with a sigh. ‘Deserted by his mother. Influenced by an abusive father, a local drugs kingpin who had no respect for women, etc, etc.’

Matthew tugged in a breath, subconsciously crushing his coffee cup as the subject of Michael Sullivan came up. How the man’s unpunished activities had eaten away at his own father like a cancer. ‘While expecting his sons to worship the ground he walks on,’ he added cynically.

‘Do you reckon they do?’ Steve asked, attempting to get his head around Sullivan’s profile, Matthew guessed.

‘I seriously doubt it. They’d have toed the line when they were younger, no choice but to; Michael Sullivan definitely isn’t averse to teaching people a lesson if they cross him, even his own sons.’

‘Blimey, poor Patrick.’ Steve shook his head. ‘I’ll be crying into my coffee in a minute.’

‘Yeah, right. Pass the tissues.’ Matthew smiled sardonically, recalling how Patrick Sullivan gave as good as he got as a kid, kicking the crap out of anyone who wasn’t in a position to fight back. Mostly him. Sighing, he checked his watch and wondered where the man in question was. Wasn’t he overdue his stress-relieving swim in his heated swimming pool? The thought stuck in Matthew’s craw.

‘His old man never got done though, did he?’ Steve pondered out loud.

‘Never. He ran a legit business on the face of it before handing the reins over to his pimping little prodigies. Behind the scenes, the usual: drug-dealing, lap-dancers offering services under the table, supplying girls to punters who liked them young.’ Matthew paused, closing his eyes as Brianna’s broken body flashed graphically through his mind. ‘Ran the whole operation with an iron fist, one he didn’t hesitate to use if anyone dared disrespect him – including his wife.’

She’d often walked around with bruised eyes and split lips, Matthew had noticed even back then, and was the only person in the Sullivan family he’d ever had an ounce of sympathy for.

‘Definitely like father like son, then.’ Steve swilled his coffee back and crumpled his cup. ‘Talking of whom …’ He nodded through the windscreen as a black BMW cruised into view.

Patrick took a long tout on his spliff as he drove, hoping to calm his nerves before he reached home. Proceedings at Seventh Heaven hadn’t improved his mood. He could still hardly believe that, after dropping his father off at a nice leafy secluded spot on the riverbank – cold-hearted bastard, providing the maggots a free meal would be the only decent thing he’d ever done in his life – he’d gone back to the club for a wash and brush up, only to find one of his staff on the take. Should have taken the thieving little shit out back and chopped his fingers off. Patrick’s mouth curved into a smile, as he recalled how his brother had once done just that. He’d been generous, left the guy with nine fingers, and then made him flush his own pinkie down the toilet. The idiot should have known better than to shave drugs off a stash and think he could get away with it. His brother had sorted him. Reliable, Joe had been. Patrick tightened his grip on the wheel, incensed afresh at the way his brother had been shot down like a dog. All down to Adams, hounding him at every opportunity. The man had been a thorn in Patrick’s side all his life. He wouldn’t be surprised if Adams hadn’t coerced the cop who took the shot, keeping nice and clean himself. Made sense to Patrick. Adams’ father hadn’t been so squeaky clean, had he? And Adams was determined to bring him down one way or another. He’d as good as said it. What better way than to take out his family? Pausing to ponder, Patrick felt momentarily grief-stricken. Hadn’t got much family left now his father had drunk his last, God rest his putrid soul.

No sooner had he dealt with the idiot who’d dared steal from him than he was told two girls have gone off sick. Obviously piss-taking was catching. Massaging his neck, Patrick took another terse draw on his joint. To make matters worse, the new girl he’d taken on turned out to have about as much sexual allure as cold tapioca. Apparently dance school trained, but new to the doing it naked bit, Patrick had guessed she was probably nervous and had magnanimously given her another chance to come back for a private session. Dancing in front of an actual audience with nothing but a few sequins covering her bits and bleeding brainless oafs leering at her couldn’t have been easy.

Nice bits though. What was her name? Jamie Collins. That was it. She was getting on a bit at twenty-six, but definitely tasty. She reminded him of Rachel, had that innocent look about her. Rachel had been the first girl he’d fancied; fancied as in getting to know, rather than shag. He’d have liked to have spent more time with her, Patrick reminisced, as he neared his house. No chance of that, though, was there, with his old man on him like a Rottweiler. Patrick understood, to a degree, why the old man had had to put him right on a few things. He was acting like a dumb-fuck, he’d pointed out, forcefully: letting his balls rule his brain and getting emotionally involved with one of the toms.

‘Jesus Christ, you’ll be passing freebies to any slag with a sob story at this rate!’ he’d ranted on, his eyes bulging, meaning he was seriously aggravated. Patrick had learned to read the signs.

‘Did you really imagine the girl was in love with you?’ He’d splayed his hands incredulously, one of which was bruised, again, thanks to his having had to knock some sense into Patrick. She was interested in the drugs, not him, the smell of money, not his fucking aftershave. And how long did he think it would take her to point the finger if she was offered the right incentive down at the station? Shit-for-brains, he’d have the filth all over them. Again!

Yes, Patrick had understood, to a degree, why the old man had needed to keep him in line in his youth. It had toughened him up. Patrick would give the old bastard that. He understood now why he’d had to keep his girls in line, too. Give any one of them an inch and they’d take a mile. What Patrick had never held with, though, was his father laying into his mother whenever the mood took him. If a man wanted treating with respect in his home, then he should treat his woman with respect. Never hit a woman without cause or provocation was another adage Patrick lived by, which is why he got seriously annoyed when they provoked him. His home was his castle and …

‘Oh, shit!’ Patrick panicked as he neared his castle to find Adams parked slap bang in front of his electronic gates. Opening his window, he hurriedly blew out a line of smoke and tossed his half-smoked spliff out after it.

Watching as Adams climbed out and made his way to his driver’s side door, Patrick took in the length and breadth of him. Tall and reasonably well toned, he wasn’t quite the scrawny kid who hadn’t got the balls to stand up to him any more. Hadn’t got the balls now either, Patrick reassured himself there too, recalling how he’d goaded Adams, mercilessly, on numerous occasions. Bound by the law, the sap had just stood there and taken it. Even when the poor sod had been grieving the loss of his kid, Patrick had wound him up, reminding him he’d had a cast-iron alibi when she’d had her tragic accident. He’d been right there, he’d pointed out when Adams paid him another little visit after the ‘unfortunate’ event: in prison, dealing, trading heroin for phone cards, food, tobacco. The copper’s cheek had twitched. His expression might have been murderous, but he hadn’t moved a muscle. Personally, Patrick would have been tempted to throttle him, but not Adams. Nah, goody-little-two-shoes Adams, just hadn’t got the bottle.

‘Patrick.’ Adams nodded as he neared his car, his little lapdog sidekick behind him.

‘Well, well, DI Adams.’ Cautioning himself to stay calm, Patrick smiled flatly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Again?’

Adams looked him over, working to keep his expression impassive. ‘As if you didn’t know,’ he said, after a pause.

‘I don’t actually.’ Sullivan shrugged languidly, outwardly cool, inwardly nervous to the point of nauseous. Adams might not have the bottle to do what he badly wanted to, but if they hauled him in now and started scraping under his fingernails … ‘Why don’t you enlighten me, Detective?’

Matthew’s jaw tensed. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he resisted the urge to clock the bastard one there and then. ‘Brianna,’ he said calmly.

Sullivan furrowed his brow. ‘Who?’ He looked back at Matthew, his expression one of feigned innocence.

He was baiting him, Matthew knew, challenging him to lose it. And so help him, sometime, sometime soon, he just might.

‘Brianna,’ he repeated tersely. ‘One of your girls.’ You despicable piece of shit.

‘My girls?’ Sullivan pondered demonstrably. ‘Brianna? Brianna? Ah, Brianna, cute little thing, bit mouthy, as women tend to be. So, what’s she done now? Got caught in possession again, I suppose.’ He sighed and shook his head, pseudo-despairingly.

Trying to quell the explosion in his chest, Matthew leaned in closer. ‘Got her face beat to a pulp and her windpipe crushed, you bastard.’ He locked furious eyes on Sullivan’s. ‘Where were you?’

His expression hardening to a challenge, Sullivan held his gaze. ‘Where was I when?’

‘You know very fucking well when. Last night. Two a.m.’

Sullivan glanced away, casually flicking a speck of ash from his lapels.

Matthew made a supreme effort then not to reach in and drag him through the window.

Unruffled, Sullivan turned his gaze back to him. ‘Home,’ he said, with another casual shrug. ‘It was my daughter’s eighteenth. Where else would I be?’

Matthew sucked in a breath and straightened up. ‘And your daughter can corroborate this, can she?’

‘My wife can, yes. You don’t get to harass my daughter, Adams, no way.’ Sullivan’s gaze switched from mocking to threatening. Matthew had seen that look before.

Eyeing him unemotionally, he stepped away from the car. ‘Out,’ he ordered.

Sullivan blinked, surprised. ‘Yer what?’

‘Drug search,’ Matthew informed him impassively.

Sullivan laughed. ‘Drugs?’ He stared at him incredulously.

‘Drugs.’ Matthew nodded shortly. ‘I can smell them, Sullivan. Out.’

‘Oh, for …’ Sullivan shook his head. ‘You’re scraping the barrel, Adams. And you know it. They’re for personal use.’ He reached wearily for his door. ‘You won’t find anything more. And, if you are planning on finding anything, you might want to have a rethink. Unless you’re not too bothered about getting your partner kicked off the force, that is?’ Sullivan nodded to where Steve stood behind Matthew. ‘Probably better not take a leaf out of your old man’s book and try to stitch me up, don’t y’think?’

Obviously knowing he’d got the upper hand, Sullivan climbed out, giving Matthew a supercilious smirk as he did.

He was right. Matthew knew it. His stomach churned at the very closeness of the man, as he squeezed past him to the car, no choice but to with Sullivan allowing him little space. He’d wanted an excuse, any excuse to haul him in. He couldn’t do so though without some proof of a crime having been committed.

Sullivan waited while they searched, Steve giving Matthew quizzical glances as they did. There was nothing, of course, as if Sullivan would be likely to have a stash of heroin stuffed in his boot. Matthew sighed, exasperated. He must have left his brains at home this morning.

‘Oh, dear, come up empty-handed, have we?’ Smoking a legit cigarette, Sullivan blew a fat cloud of smoke over Matthew, as he emerged from the car. ‘Maybe you should give up being a copper and do something more fruitful with your life, Adams. I’m looking for a chauffeur if you’re interested. Pays well. Nice steady work, much less frustrating.’

His temper dangerously near spiking, Matthew counted silently. At seven his anger subsided some.

‘Inside.’ He nodded towards the house, a sprawling Grade II listed building. Testament to how fruitful this lowlife’s money-making endeavors were.

‘If you insist, Detective Inspector.’ Sullivan sauntered back to his car. ‘Just so you know, though,’ he said as he climbed in, ‘you’re barking up the wrong tree, sunshine. Whatever happened to Brianna was nothing to do with me.’

Suppressing a sigh of utter contempt, Matthew looked Sullivan over distastefully and headed back to his own car to follow him up the long pebbled drive.

Minutes later, he sighed inwardly again, as the third Mrs Sullivan climbed out of the indoor heated pool – blonde, tanned and healthy in a microdot bikini – to fawn all over the man. Bought and paid for, Matthew thought, as she reeled off Sullivan’s alibi for him.

‘He was here,’ she said, looking as innocent as a newborn baby, ‘dancin’ wiv Taylor, weren’t you, babe?’ She moved across to where Sullivan was watching Matthew with wry amusement. ‘And then we went to bed. He’s a lovely little mover, aren’t you, hun?’

Oozing innuendo, the woman fluttered her eyelashes coyly and draped herself around Sullivan’s neck.

‘Yeah.’ Sullivan’s amusement turned fast to irritation, as he realised she was dripping water all over him. ‘Watch the coat, sweetheart.’ His smile was now more a grimace, as he eased her away from his cashmere.

How long before the doting husband routine wore off, Matthew wondered, and Sullivan reverted to form, giving her the odd slap for some imagined misdemeanor.

‘And what time would that have been, Mrs Sullivan?’ he asked futilely.

‘What, when we went to bed, you mean? Bout two-thirty,’ the woman said. ‘I noticed the time ’cos I was keeping an ear out for Taylor. You know what kids can be like.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’ Sullivan looked at Matthew, his eyes full of calculated malice. ‘Doesn’t have any kids, do you, Detective?’

His heart twisting violently in his chest, Matthew looked away. Count, he commanded himself, swallowing back the hatred that threatened to choke him. Ignore the bastard. Taking a shallow breath, attempting to stave off the imminent wheeze in his chest, he caught Steve’s eye, who clearly noted something was wrong, and moved towards him.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the woman said as Matthew shook his head, indicating Steve should stay. ‘Patrick dotes on his daughter, don’t you, Pat? We’re working on having a baby of our own,’ she imparted. ‘Didn’t go to sleep until dawn, did we, babe?’

Looking suggestively up at Sullivan, she reached to trail a long fingernail down his torso, while Matthew suppressed an urge not to shove the excuse for a human being in the pool and hold him under.

‘That’s right, sweetheart. Taylor can’t wait to have a little sister or brother to play with.’ Sullivan locked goading eyes with Matthew. ‘Happy?’

Not until I see you banged up for life or six feet under. Matthew’s gaze didn’t flinch. ‘I’ll be back,’ he warned him evenly.

‘Ooh, move over, Arnie. I’m shaking in my boots.’ Sullivan blinked girlishly.

‘One day, Sullivan,’ Matthew promised. ‘One day.’

‘Yeah, right, maybe when you grow a pair, Adams. Meanwhile …’ Adjusting his collar and cuffs, Sullivan nodded towards the annexe doors they’d entered by. ‘Don’t have an asthma attack on the way out, will you? Oh, and give me a ring sometime about that chauffeuring job. I’m thinking you might need one soon. Not going to go down well with your superiors, is it, you wasting valuable police resources harassing innocent people?’

Sub-species, Matthew thought. Then, the tightness in his chest warning him of just such an attack, he turned away.

‘I guess that gives him his alibi.’ Steve sounded as despondent as Matthew felt, as they descended the steps from the annexe.

Matthew swallowed back his repulsion. ‘As usual.’

‘I didn’t know you had asthma, boss,’ Steve commented as they headed for the car. He was trying to sound casual, only mildly interested, but Matthew guessed he was actually wondering how bad it was. As in, could it cause a problem on the job? If so, how was it he was doing the job?

‘I don’t,’ Matthew said shortly. That was, he didn’t. Supposedly outgrowing his childhood asthma, he hadn’t had an attack in years. Not until Lily …

‘Oh, right. He was trying to be witty then, was he?’ Steve nodded back towards the house.

‘Presumably.’ Attempting to avert the conversation, Matthew glanced across the grounds, and there was Taylor, Sullivan’s daughter, leading a horse from the arena back to the stables. Birthday present, Matthew wondered? Possibly. The girl wanted for nothing. Everything a teenager could wish for bestowed upon her by her caring father. Yet he pumps girls her age full of drugs, forces them into prostitution, beats them to death.

His anger white hot, slow burning, Matthew looked back towards the annexe. Sullivan was watching him from the doors, a satisfied smirk all over his face and casually … cleaning his fingernails. Matthew’s heart stopped, as he noted the metal file he was using, and then kicked back hard.

‘Fetch us a drink, will ya, babe,’ Chelsea said as the coppers drove off. ‘I need to towel meself off before me boobs freeze.’

‘Silly cow,’ Patrick muttered behind her. ‘Get it yourself.’

Taken aback, Chelsea blinked and turned back towards him. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked. Planting her hands on her hips, she looked him over, feeling mightily miffed. Hadn’t she just bigged him up, spouted a load of rubbish about him being the world’s greatest lover, when the truth was he was only ever interested if she was dressed up like some cheap trollop in stilettos? Chelsea was almost at the stage of telling him to take her sodding shoes to bed with him and be done with it. What had he been up to anyway? Clearly something if the law had come sniffing around. She’d given him an alibi even though she knew he hadn’t been at home. Look at him. He was like a cat on hot bricks, pacing the side of the pool like that, chewing away on his thumbnail.

Patrick stopped, shot her a moody glance and then dropped his gaze back to his overcoat, brushing at his lapels as if they were crawling with fleas. ‘You’re my problem. What did you have to go and do that for?’

‘Do what?’ Chelsea was truly astonished, and damned if she knew what she was supposed to have done now.

Patrick looked angrily back up. ‘You’ve got chlorine all over the coat, you silly tart.’

‘Don’t be so stupid, Pat. There ain’t nothing there but a bit of water. Honestly, you’re dead neurotic, you are sometimes.’ Chelsea rolled her eyes and padded back towards him, dabbing at the lapel herself as she inspected it at close quarters. Very close quarters. She couldn’t see a thing without her glasses.

Which is possibly why she didn’t see Patrick’s expression darken to pure thunder. ‘What did you call me?’ he fumed, catching hold of her wrist.

Chelsea snatched her gaze from his coat to his face. ‘Nothing.’ Her eyes grew wide as they searched his. ‘I only said you—’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Patrick cupped her face with his free hand, his fingers digging deep into her cheeks. ‘Do not ever call me stupid, understand? Ever! Got it?’

‘Yes! I wasn’t. I won’t!’ Chelsea panicked as he shoved his face up close to hers. Now she could see the blue-grey vein jutting in his temple, the terrifying look in his eyes. ‘Patrick,’ she whimpered, ‘you’re hurting me.’

‘Silly bloody tart, walking around like a trollop,’ Patrick ranted furiously on, a bubble of spit forming at the corner of his mouth, ‘in front of Adams, for fuck’s sake. What? Fancy him, do you? Reckon the copper could give you a good seeing to, is that it?’

‘No!’ Desperate to get away from him and whatever foul mood he was in, Chelsea tried to prise his fingers away. ‘Patrick stop it! You’re scaring me.’

But Patrick only increased the pressure. ‘If I ever see you simpering over him again, I’ll do more than scare you, Chelsea. I’ll cut your brainless little head off. Got it?’

Chelsea swallowed, attempting a nod.

‘I didn’t hear you!’ Patrick bellowed.

‘Yes!’ Chelsea screamed, and felt a warm trickle on the inside of her leg as her bladder gave way.

‘Trollops, the lot of you. Go and cover yourself up!’ Patrick muttered, disgusted, and shoved her away, hard.

Chelsea’s first thought, as her legs slipped from under her, was that she was flailing backwards towards the deep end. Her second thought, around her lack of skills in the water, was cut blindingly short, as her head smacked violently against the tiles.