Last Gasp (13 page)

A break in the clouds allowed the
full moon’s silvery light to fall through the open window and onto the bed
where the couple lay, entwined in each other’s arms. At that moment the man
cupped the woman’s jaw in the cleave between fingers and thumb and they kissed,
deeply. Turning the back of his hand to her neck, he slid it down, over skin
that was slick with sweat, over her breasts, her stomach then onto her thighs,
before doubling back to rest in the dampness between her legs. He nuzzled into
her neck, tasting the bitter traces of her musky fragrance, and drawing from
her purrs of pleasure. After a few seconds, she slipped out from under him, and
turned him over so their positions were reversed. From there she began to move
down his body, planting kisses on his neck, chest, stomach, and onwards. As she
worked her way down, her flaming tresses trailed in her wake and he gathered
them to his face, luxuriating in their bouquet. A moment later urgent fingers
dug into his shoulders, pulling him down to meet her hungry mouth once more.

For hours it seemed, they had explored each other this way,
delving, caressing, tasting, as their mutual rhythm built to the point where
each would bestow on the other the release they craved. As the man raised
himself onto an elbow, another burst of moonlight revealed the spill of her
hair across the bed, the graceful curve of her neck and shoulders. The light
waned again but the image stayed, spurring him to even greater efforts.

Suddenly, the hoot of an owl drew his eye to the open window.
A shape, indistinct and fleeting, but vaguely human flashed across his line of
vision. For a moment he was disoriented. He cast his gaze about but detected no
movement other than the lace curtains billowing in the breeze, the moon-shadow
of their lovemaking, projected onto the wall next to the bed. He looked back at
the window, where the branches of a tall beech tree swayed in the wind. In the
dark they could easily be mistaken for the arms of a human figure, waving. He
relaxed. Nothing to be alarmed about. He turned back to her, ready to lose
himself once more. But something had changed.

Where before she had been naked, her sweat mingling with
his, now she was wearing hose and stiff lingerie. Previously her neck had been
bare, but now it bore a length of ribbon, the ends of which lay in his hands.
Instead of her arms being around his neck, she was spread-eagled beneath him,
wrists and ankles anchored by some unknown means to the bed’s corners. His mind
raced to make sense of what was happening. To his horror, he became aware of a
dark shape at the head of the bed, looming over them. Paralysed with fear, he
could neither speak nor move, as the intruder clamped its hands about his
wrists and began to draw them apart, taking up the slack in the ribbon so it
tightened about her throat. He tried to let go, but for some reason his fingers
wouldn’t respond, nor could he resist.

Choking noises came from her throat and her body bucked and
strained beneath him as she pleaded through gritted teeth. 'STOP. Please,
YOU’RE HURTING ME.’

He tried to resist the pressure on his wrists, but his
attempts seemed puny, pathetic. And though the figure’s face was shrouded in
darkness, he knew that were it not, he would see a mocking smile. The woman’s
face creased in pain and she gasped, desperately, for air. But the crushing
ribbon denied her efforts. Bit-by-bit, her struggles weakened. Her body arched
upwards in one last, gasping spasm that lifted them both into the air. Then she
collapsed to lie still, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. Hands suddenly
free again, he shook her, vigorously, but she didn’t respond. Unable to
comprehend what had happened he looked up. The figure was gone. He turned back
to her and as he realised what he had done, anguish and horror overtook him and
he cried out into the darkness.

'Nooo!’

A voice called out,
‘JAMIE. JAMIE !’

Her voice.
But it couldn’t be. She was
dead. He cried out again.

'NOOO.’

The voice came again, urgent now, frightened. 'JAMIE, What
is it? JAMIE.'

Then he was sitting up, shaking, Rosanna beside him,
cradling his face, calling to him.

'Wake up Jamie. You are dreaming.'

He turned to her, gasping. 'Rosanna? Oh Christ, Rosanna.' He
fell into her arms.

She pulled him to her. 'It’s alright. I am here. Your
Rosanna is here. Hush my love.'

As his breathing steadied, she began to croon a gentle, Fado
lullaby. Bit by bit, he relaxed, sinking into her, letting her voice lead him
towards a new sleep, one he hoped would take him far from the terror that had
besieged him. And as the darkness reclaimed him, the last thing Carver saw was
the soft skin over her larynx vibrating to the gentle rhythm of the Fado as it
banished - for the time being at least - Edmund Hart’s mocking grin.

The Shropshire Union Canal winds its
way through Chester’s City Centre. The “No12” restaurant stands on its North
Bank, close to Northgate Locks. A striking, red-brick building, it was once the
city’s main cotton-trading warehouse. Nowadays it is regarded as one of
Chester’s trendier eating houses. Inside, the varnished-wood and brass ‘Upper
Saloon’ hangs, suspended above the circular dining floor. The alcoves dotted
around the outer walls, which were once trading booths, are now cosy,
semi-private dining areas, popular with lovers, romantics, and those who prefer
that their conversations remain private. In one of the booths, a man and woman
were sitting back in their chairs, wine glasses in hand, as the waiting staff
finished clearing away their dinner plates.

From his vantage point across the room, Carver was thinking
that Megan Crane looked as alluring as he’d seen her. The sheer black dress,
split to the thigh had been drawing glances all evening. The bling adorning her
wrists, ears and throat lent her more than a hint of Old-World Glamour.
Earlier, her appearance at the top of the stairs leading to the Saloon Bar had
caused a noticeable lull in conversations, and heads turned as she cast about,
seeking out her date for the evening. Several pairs of eyes followed as she
strode, confidently and purposefully, across to a stocky, middle-aged man
sitting at the end of the bar. Thrusting out a hand she’d said, ‘You must be
Maurice. I’m Megan. Thrilled to meet you. I’ll have a Martini.’

Seconds before her dramatic appearance, Maurice Clarke had
been about to despatch his third whiskey since he’d arrived fifteen minutes
early for his rendezvous with the woman with whom he hoped to - What, Carver
thought? Enter into a sub-dom relationship? Enjoy an occasional rendezvous? Set
up for a kill?

Whichever it was, Maurice Clarke looked unprepared for the
vision that came striding towards him. And as she offered him her hand a look
of something close to panic seemed to spread across his features, as if
suddenly realising that the woman with whom he had exchanged letters might be
way out of his league.

Not that Megan Crane gave any sign that was her view. In
fact, judging by her smiles, tactile behaviour and all round enthusiasm, an
onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that, the balding, overweight man in
the plain grey suit was some Hollywood heart-throb in disguise.

At that time, Carver and Jess were sitting on the sofa
opposite, where they’d settled after following Clarke up to the bar. From there
they’d watched him down two whiskeys before ordering a third. Witnessing
Clarke’s discomfort following her very public arrival, Carver turned a wry
smile on Jess. Her response was to carry on sucking on the straw embedded in
the pink, non-alcoholic concoction she’d ordered, and let her face show her feelings.

Within twenty-four hours of commencing background on Clarke,
Jess had declared herself convinced that he was not, could not, be their man. A
travelling Operations Manager for a water-utility company, she couldn’t imagine
for a second that he was the sort Megan Crane - or any of the victims - would
entertain as a prospective play-partner. Nor did he come close to fitting the
profiles - psychological, physical, behavioural - from Cleeves and his ilk. As
Jess kept pointing out during the period leading up to their meeting, it
rendered the whole enterprise a waste of time. For his part, Carver wasn't so
sure. Besides, along with the rendezvous they'd observed the week before - a
university lecturer by the name of Greg Trueman - it provided a benchmark that
could prove useful when it came to the next - to which Gary Shepherd, was
especially looking forward.

Now, two hours later, sitting directly across from where
Megan and Maurice appeared to be enjoying each other’s company, Carver was
feeling some sympathy for the man. He would, no doubt, be interpreting Megan
Crane’s smiles and mild flirtations as evidence that she was as interested in
him as he was in her. Carver was also listening, hard. What had passed between
them so far was more notable for what hadn't been said. But as the waiting
staff went about their business and the pair lapsed into silence, Carver sensed
a change coming. Pressing his finger to his ear-piece, he focused. He didn't
want to miss a word of anything that might follow. It was Clarke who broke the
silence, leaning forward the moment the waiter and waitress had departed.

'So... Is this where you tell me you’re not interested and
that I should get lost, or what?'

Megan Crane put down her glass, and eyed her companion
through long lashes.

'Well, Maurice,' she began. Propping her elbows up on the
table, she rested her chin on the backs of her hands. 'You
seem
very
nice.' Clarke beamed, but managed to contain himself. 'And you have been,
very
charming.' She paused, stringing it out. 'So you tell me. What is it,
exactly,
that you are looking for?'

This'll be interesting,
Carver thought.
Not a
mention of anything for two hours, and now she tells him to spell out his
fantasies
. Carver couldn't resist. Dropping his head to shield his gaze, he
peered across.

All evening. Megan had been playing Clarke like he was on
the end of a hook. But now, as she waited for the man opposite to make his pitch,
she seemed to turn the, Do-You-Think-I’m-Sexy-dial up to melting. Her face took
on a slightly dreamy look and the tip of her tongue emerged to run round the
glossy red lips. Not for the first time, Carver experienced the pangs he had
been doing his best to ignore since the moment he'd seen her greet her
dinner-partner with an exchange of kisses and a smile that was a lot warmer
than any she’d shown him. It also reminded Carver of how little they really
knew about Clarke. The usual checks - credit, tax, digital profile - had
revealed nothing more than motoring offences and a caution for Class C
Possession at a rave-bust in his twenties. Divorced - amicably as far as they
could make out - and with no recorded history of violence, Clarke was a father
of two teenagers, both living with their mother. On the face of it, he seemed
no more than what he purported to be, an unattached man looking for someone
with whom to share his interests in BDSM. On the other hand, there was nothing
to say he wasn't a psychopathic killer.

But if Megan's request that he spell out his fantasies had
caught him off unawares, Clarke hid it well. Pausing only to glance round at
the other diners - no one seemed to be taking an interest - he leaned forward.

'I wish to be able to worship a beautiful, dominant, woman.'

Though Carver picked up on the word that had become
associated with the enquiry, he didn’t rush to react. In Megan's fantasy world,
the notion of ‘worship’ was common. It didn’t necessarily signal anything.
Clarke continued.

'I wish to be enslaved, totally. I want to be made to do my
mistress’s bidding. Housework, cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing.
Foot-worship as well, if that is acceptable. I don’t enjoy complete restraint,
such as sensory deprivation, or severe pain, though I can take a light caning
and being chained up, preferably, at your feet.' He paused, but when she didn’t
respond he carried on. 'I’m not twenty-four-seven. I’m just looking for someone
I can get to know, as a friend, as well as a Mistress. Someone I can see
maybe... once a month to begin with?'

Carver waited. It sounded right. Clarke’s job meant he
travelled the country. He glanced at Jess. Her mouth was hanging open. Then it
snapped shut, as if she’d sensed his gaze. ‘He looks so normal,’ she said.
‘Who’d ever believe it?'

'C’mon Jess,’ Carver said. ‘You should be used to it by
now.'

‘Yeah, but so far it’s all been behind closed doors. But
tonight? In this place?' She looked around, as if half-expecting that diners
might suddenly start tearing their clothes off and whipping each other. 'It
just seems,
weird
.'

Carver was surprised by her apparent wide-eyed innocence. By
now they’d been working with Megan Crane, on and off, for close to three weeks,
helping her plan and set up the series of meetings with prospective
‘play-partners’. In reality, his and Jess’s input had been minimal. Megan had
drafted the responses to the various letters herself, and No12 was her choice.
Reading them, Carver had been impressed the way she dangled the prospect of a
relationship, while making clear that nothing would happen unless she was
entirely satisfied they were genuine. As Jess had said, 'She’d make a great
politician.' But as he’d come to know her more, Carver had begun to suspect
that motivations other than self-preservation and a sense of public duty, were
driving her. She even seemed to be relishing the role of ‘bait’, to the point
of offering to test her ‘suitors’’ intentions by engineering scenarios he
worried would put her at risk if one did turn out to be the killer. On one
occasion, when he’d pointed out that it was his job to protect her,
as well
as
catch the killer, she’d turned coy, fluttering her lashes and expressing
mock-gratitude for his gallantry. Despite himself, he’d smiled. Jess also
seemed to find it amusing, though looked a little less certain. Tonight was the
second of three arranged meetings. By now, Carver thought, surely Jess would
have heard most, if not all of what there was to hear? Nevertheless, he
followed her gaze as she stared at the couple across the room whilst waiting to
hear Megan’s response.

Eventually she said, 'That sounds fine Maurice. But tell me.
Are you totally sub, or do you ever switch?'

His face registered distaste. 'I tried topping once, but it
didn’t work. I don’t think I have a dominant side, sexually I mean.’

Picking her words, she raised the topic they had rehearsed
her through.

'What if I asked you to switch? You top, me bottom. How
would you feel about that?'

He looked confused. 'Me, dominate you? I… I’m not sure…? I
thought you are a-' He paused. '-Mistress? Why would you-?'

She leaned forward, patted his hand. 'Don’t worry, Maurice.
I’m just checking. Some men say they want one thing, but are really interested
in something else. I just need to know if you would ever ask me to switch?'

The confused look faded. He shook his head. 'For me the
fantasy lies in putting my Mistress on a pedestal. It wouldn’t work if I knew
she had a sub side. The answer is no.'

For the first time, Megan turned towards Carver and Jess’s’
table. He nodded across, confirming he’d heard.

For the next few minutes the pair discussed their
preferences, though Megan seemed to be talking less freely now, reluctant to
disclose more of herself. Clarke seemed to sense it, and leaned forward.

‘Well then, what’s it to be? Will I see you again?'

She showed affront, as if shocked by his impertinence. 'I
never make a decision straight away Maurice. I need to be sure. Let me think
about it. I have your number.'

The disappointed slump of his shoulders was visible across
the room. But Clarke knew better than to push.

'If that is your wish.' He paused, then, like a young boy
who has finally plucked up the courage to approach the girl of his dreams and
needs to get the words out said, 'But for what it’s worth, can I just say you
are the most magnificent Mistress I have ever come across. I would give
anything to be able to honour you.'

The look Megan gave back bordered on affection. 'Don’t be
too disappointed Maurice. I didn’t say, ‘no’, and there’s still wine in that
bottle. Let’s get to know each other some more.' She smiled, and his face lit
up again.

Like throwing a switch, Carver thought.

Over dessert, Clarke was like a pupil out to impress his
favourite teacher. He poured her wine and hung on her every word. Carver still
had the impression Megan was going through the motions, but letting him down
more lightly. The power she wielded was fascinating. Eventually, she made to
bring things to a close.

'Thank you for a lovely evening Maurice. We may do it
again.' She didn’t offer anything towards the bill and after the way she’d
encouraged him, Carver wondered if they would witness a burst of petulance. But
Clarke seemed resigned to the inevitable. During the last half hour his
submissive persona had come out. By now he was at the point where he wouldn’t
dream of doing anything that might offend her.

'Mistress?' he said as she rose.

'Yes Maurice?' There was a haughtiness about her. Like
Clarke, she was in role.

'May your humble servant give Mistress a, kiss?' As the
words tumbled out, he cast his eyes down, avoiding her gaze. For a split
second, a smile flitted across her face and her expression softened. Clarke
missed it and when he glanced up again, she was back in character.

'Although this is only our first meeting, I will allow it.
But don’t think I make a habit of letting people I’ve only just met kiss me.'

 'Of course not Mistress. Thank you Mistress,' he gushed.
Standing up, he leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek. But as he
broke contact he froze, his face an inch away from hers and Carver both saw and
heard him breathe deeply, savouring the essence of the woman he hoped to one-day
serve. When he sat down again, he wore a contented look.

'Goodnight Maurice', she said.

'Goodnight Mistress. Thank you Mistress.'

As he watched her go, along with those others who were in a
position to follow her graceful meander out to the reception area, Carver spoke
into his hand-mike.

'She’s off and running. Heading home.'

Mike Frayne, the surveillance team-leader, came back
immediately. 'Roger. We have eyeball.'

Carver sat back. For the first time since they’d arrived, he
even managed to relax. He was looking at Clarke, but remembering her exit.

Jess broke into his reflection. 'So, what do you think?' But
before he could say anything she held up a hand. 'What’s that?'