Last Gasp (14 page)

It took him a few seconds to work out what she was talking about,
but then he heard it as well. A soft humming accompanied by a quick-tempoed,
drumming. He pressed a finger to his earpiece and looked across at Clarke. He
was sitting back in his chair. His eyes were open, but they seemed, dull,
unfocused. His hands were under the table and he was making a humming noise
that was too low to carry above the general hubbub. Suddenly his mouth started
to hang open and Carver realised what the other sound was. Jess realised at the
same time. Her eyes widened.

'He’s, not-? Surely he isn’t-?'

'He is,' Carver said. Even he was shocked.

Clarke’s face tensed, his shoulders lifted, held, then
dropped. Carver checked the diners closest to Clarke’s table. No one seemed to
have noticed.

Coming to, Clarke fumbled under the table with a napkin then
straightened himself. He poured the remaining wine into his glass and drank it
down.

Carver shook his head. 'I guess we can safely say we’ve seen
everything now.'

Jess tried to look suitably disgusted, but he could see she
was struggling to suppress just a little amusement.

‘Not
everything,
thank goodness.’

'So what do you think?' Megan was
saying. 'Does my theory hold up?'

They were ensconced in a corner of the otherwise deserted ‘Arkle
Lounge’ in Chester’s elegant Grosvenor Hotel. As he thought on what she’d said,
Carver was conscious of her stare. Nestling in the brown leather sofa opposite,
with her legs tucked under, - she’d actually kicked off her shoes - she was
nursing a glass of Cointreau as she waited on his response.

He ran his hand over his face and reached for his Jack
Daniels. It had been a long day and he wasn’t sure he was up to getting his
head round the more subtle aspects of sub-dom dynamics, but he was wondering if
she might have hit on something. A role-reversal scenario in which the
submissive asks to suffer the ultimate humiliation - being ‘forced’ to dominate
his mistress – could explain how the killer gets his victims to let him
restrain them. The dom-victim would think she was still in control, until her ‘sub’
revealed his true intentions - by which time it would be too late. But he
wasn’t sure he could see an experienced Dom falling for it, and said so. ‘More
to the point,’ he added. ‘Would you go for it?'

Megan hesitated. 'At first, I thought it would be too
contrived. But the more I consider it…. If I
thought
that I would still
be in charge of things, then, yes, I might.' Seeing his doubtful look she
shrugged. 'You said yourself, there’s no evidence he overcomes them by force.'

He nodded, took another drink. Eventually, he said, 'Okay,
let’s go with it for now. It’s certainly something we can start looking at.'

She looked pleased. 'Does this make me a detective?'

Carver tried to not respond to the smile he knew now was
infectious. ‘I’ll think about it.'

As they sipped their drinks, Carver was conscious it was the
first time they’d been alone together. After de-briefing Megan on her
impressions of Maurice Clarke, Jess had excused herself and bid them goodnight.
Since Corinne Anderson’s murder they’d been working almost round the clock.
They all needed to catch up on sleep.

During the debrief, Megan had shown doubt over Clarke being
their man. To her, he came across as a genuine sub - ‘Nothing more, nothing
less.’ But Carver knew his early impression of Clarke had been off. Not as
tongue-tied or nerdish as he’d first seemed, he was wary about writing him off
too soon.

Megan broke the silence. 'So what happens next?'

Carver put his glass down. 'We’ll keep our Mr Clarke on ice
while we get ready for your meet with Cosworth. It may produce something more
positive.'

'Just a minute,' she said. 'You’ve just said, I’m not a
detective yet. That means I’m allowed some sleep even if you’re not.'

This time he couldn’t stop the smile. There were times he
found her genuinely amusing.

'Don’t worry. I think we’ve done enough for one night.'

'I’ll drink to that.' She raised her glass.

A minute later, Carver was about to make a move when she
suddenly said.
'
Do you know, I’ve just realised something?

He stopped. ‘What’s that?’

‘You know all about me, but I know nothing about you. Who
are you really, Jamie Carver? You never seem too shocked by what I do. Why is
that?'

He recognised the feeling that comes when a man thinks a
beautiful woman is taking an interest, and reminded himself to be careful. She
could get inside a man’s head before he knew it.

'What’s there to know? I’m just an ordinary copper
investigating some murders. Simple as that.'

An eyebrow lifted. 'But you’re not an ordinary copper, are
you? I believe you’re famous?'

Dammit Jess, what have you been saying
? But he was
careful not to let his wariness show. 'I was involved in a couple of cases that
got some media interest. Nothing special.'

It didn’t work.

'But according to one article I read, you are, how did they
put it? “Britain’s Foremost Serial Sex-Crime Detective”’?'

For a moment he was so surprised he forgot to respond. How
the hell had she got her hands on that particular article? He tried to laugh
the label away. 'Well there aren’t that many. This isn’t America.’

'But it said that if it wasn’t for you, that man, Edmund
Hart was it? He would have killed more women. It said the investigation was
going nowhere until you arrived. That you were able to work out how he
operated, or something. How was that?'

Inside, Carver squirmed. Edmund Hart. A little research and,
bingo. Maybe she
should
be a detective. He sensed things getting out of
hand and hoped he didn’t look as uncomfortable as he felt. He tried to sound
matter-of-fact.

'I’d just done some work in the US. With the FBI. I had some
insights the enquiry team didn’t. You shouldn’t believe everything you read.'

Her response hit him like an express train. 'But didn’t I
read somewhere that you had some inside information?'

Stunned, he reached for his glass, buying time. He was
certain there had been no mention of a source in anything that had been made
public.

'Where did you read that?'

'Ohh… somewhere. I can’t remember now. What sort of inside
information was it?'

His mind raced, wondering if her questions were as innocent
as she was making them sound. Or did she know something? Unable to see how she
could, he blanked her.

'I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it.'

She was immediately contrite. 'I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t
mean to pry.' Her voice softened. 'But from what I remember reading you had a
hard time of it. Didn’t this Hart make some threats against you or something?'

It was as if someone had pressed ‘play’ on a video. The
court scene he couldn’t stop remembering played again. He shut his eyes, trying
to draw across the curtain that seemed to be becoming flimsier by the day. He
waited a moment. 'Let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant.'

A look of what might have been sympathy came into her face,
but he was glad when she didn’t probe further. Time to go.

He knocked back the remains of his drink, but for some
reason didn’t move. For what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, they
regarded each other across the low table. He, trying to give the impression her
questions hadn’t rattled him and reluctant to rush off in case she guessed they
had. She eyeing him like a cat watching a mouse.

Megan broke the silence. 'I think there’s more to you than
you are letting on. In fact, I think you are rather…’ She drew it out. ‘...Interesting.'

He was thinking about another diversion, when she stirred.
Uncoiling herself, she swung her legs off the sofa, reached down for her shoes
and purse then straightened up, ready to go. He breathed a sigh of relief. But
she had one last move.

Bending to him, she cupped his chin in her hand and brought
her face close to his. Their gazes locked.

'I think you and I have a lot to talk about sometime, Jamie
Carver.'

Her perfume surrounded him and her hair brushed against his
cheek. He was conscious of the feelings she was triggering within him, at the
same time remembering what she was capable of. He knew how close he was, and
not just physically. But then her expression changed and the open, friendly
smile broke through.

'Thanks for looking after me, Jamie.' She kissed him on
the cheek, light and quick. 'Goodnight.'

Then she was heading towards Reception, shoes dangling from
one hand, purse from the other. She didn’t look back as she rounded the corner
towards the lifts.

And as she disappeared from view, Carver knew why he hadn’t
made too much of Maurice Clarke’s unorthodox way of bidding Megan Crane,
'Goodnight.'

It was late evening when Jess
climbed the stairs leading back up to the CID suite. Several phone calls -
including a thirty minute one from Martin, at long last - had interrupted her
work on the file report on Megan’s meeting with Maurice Clarke. It hadn’t
helped that she’d had to use one of the Typing Bureau computers as hers was
playing up. As she reached the CID landing she was looking forward to grabbing
her things and getting off home. But about to push through the double-doors
giving onto the main corridor, she stopped.

At night, the station’s lights operated through a
press-timer mechanism. Through the window set in the door she could see that
the corridor and all the offices off it save one, were in darkness. The one was
Carver’s office. The door was ajar no more than an inch or so, a green-tinged
glow leaking from it. She knew at once it was the light from his desk lamp.
That evening Carver had, unusually, finished early - for him, at least.
Something to do with picking Rosanna up from a recital in Liverpool. Jess knew
he was bit OCD about switching lights off. Her instincts kicked in.

Opening the door, carefully, she slipped round into the
corridor, easing it shut so it didn’t bang. The corridor was silent, but for a
tinny-sounding murmur. Tiptoeing to Carver’s office, she peered in. Gary Shepherd
was sitting in his chair, angled away from the door and facing the white board.
He was holding something at ear level. The noises she’d heard were coming from
whatever was in his hand. It took a moment, but as she saw his hand move and
the murmur stopped, then started again, she realised. Shortly after Jamie had
gone, Julie, the typing supervisor had brought up the transcripts of the taped
conversations between Megan and Clarke at the restaurant. Jess had told her to
leave them on his desk, which Julie did – along with the micro-recorder into
which he’d copied the audio file for transcribing. Shepherd was listening to
the recording, re-playing the part where Megan asked Clarke to spell out his
fantasies, and she’d responded, kindly. Seeing the vacant look on Shepherd’s
face Jess felt her skin crawl. It wasn’t too different from how Clarke had
looked as he’d fumbled under the table. It wasn’t all. Open on his lap she
could just make out a manila folder. She knew at once what it was. Jamie
usually kept it locked in his bottom desk drawer. It contained everything
they’d learned about Megan Crane. Personal details, contacts, associated pieces
of information. At that moment, Shepherd turned his attention to it. In his
other hand was a pen. She watched as he made a note of something. Browsing
further, he pulled out a single sheet. Placing the folder on the desk, he
turned to face the window where he continued to give whatever it was his full
attention.

Angered by Shepherd’s snooping - not just his invasion of
Jamie’s office; the greater part of the folder’s contents was the result of her
work - Jess was about to barge in and confront him, when something stayed her.
It would do her no favours if she made an enemy of Shepherd, which is what
would happen if she embarrassed him outright. Similarly, until you need to
confront a suspect with everything, it’s always better to let him think you
know less than you do.

Retracing her steps, she opened the fire doors, loudly, hit
the light switch then strode, purposefully towards Carver’s office. As she
neared, she heard the rustle of papers being shuffled, the ‘clunk’ of a drawer
closing. Walking straight in, she switched on the light then stopped, effecting
what she hoped would pass for a surprised expression. Shepherd was standing
over the desk, looking flustered, already starting to redden. His hands still
lingered over Julie’s typed transcripts, the recorder next to it. She tried to
sound innocent.

'I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you were here. I didn’t
mean to disturb you.'

He shifted uncomfortably. 'Er, hi Jess. I’m, er… looking for
something. Didn’t realise you were still about.'

'I’m working downstairs,' she said, matter-of-factly. 'I
just need some of Mr Carver’s notes.' She pointed behind where he was standing.
‘They’re in his desk.’

Looking down, Shepherd’s face registered dismay. However he
got into the drawer, he wouldn’t have had time to re-lock it. He stepped aside
to let her pass.

'What is it you are after?' she said. 'Can I help?'

Recovering rapidly, he had a story ready.

'I need a picture of the Crane woman. I’m about to brief the
surveillance team for tomorrow’s op. I thought Jamie has some somewhere.'

‘He does,’ she said. Reaching up to the white board next to
them, - right where he’d been looking as he sat in the chair - she detached one
of the head-and-shoulders photographs from the magnet holding them there. It
was the one SOCO had taken especially for use by the surveillance teams. The
one Megan had provided was, as Jamie put it, 'not suitable.' SOCO had had to
make several more copies than were usually needed for such operations. For some
reason they kept disappearing.

'I thought the SU had all they needed, but you can have one
of these.' She handed it to him. As he took it, she saw his eyes narrow,
suspicious now. 'Anything else, sir?' Ready in case of another excuse, she gave
up trying to hide her scepticism.

Trapped, he became surly. 'No. Thanks.'

He gave her a vindictive stare then, with one last glance at
the drawer next to her, left the office.

Watching from the doorway, she waited until he’d disappeared
round the corner towards the MIR, before returning back inside.

As expected, she found the drawer unlocked, a dent in the
wood above the lock. He must have used a knife or something similar. Right on
top was the folder. Across the front in Carver’s distinctive scrawl were the
words, 'Megan Crane – Personal'. Pulling it out, she placed it on the desk,
opened it.

The A4-size photograph stared out at her. He hadn’t had time
to put it back in the envelope Carver had glued to the file’s inside back cover
where it would be safe from prying eyes. It wasn’t the photograph she’d just
given Shepherd. This was a portrait. One of Megan’s. The one she sometimes sent
to her friends, to remind them of who, and what, she was.

It showed her posing, dramatically, in full dominatrix mode,
much as she’d revealed herself to Jess that night. She was made up in the
glossy, movie-star way Jess was now familiar with and was wielding a bullwhip,
the end of which lay in coils at her feet. Looking directly into camera, her
expression was stern. It was a powerful image, and one that for Jess, stirred
memories.

Megan had given them the picture during one of their
meetings. Jess hadn’t seen it since. Now, alone in Jamie’s office, wondering
about Shepherd’s motivations, it raised in her a strange mix of emotions.
Discomfort. Fear. Awe. Even some excitement. She wasn’t sure whether the
discomfort related to the connotations within the picture itself, or other
feelings which she didn’t want to analyse too closely. She thrust it back in
its envelope.

As she did, she noticed a sheet of paper which also looked
like it had been disturbed. She remembered the note Shepherd had made. Pulling
it out, she recognised the list of names, addresses and telephone numbers -
Megan’s and some of her contacts. Towards the bottom, Jamie had added other
names and numbers, which meant nothing to her.

'Now then Mr-DCI-Gary-Shepherd. Just who were you so
interested in?'