Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (3 page)

“Shannon, in Fleetworth-Green no one pisses on the strawberries, but I think we understand each other.”

Shannon reached across the desk and patted his hand which held her file. Deep down, she was thinking of nothing other than Spencer Chamberlain-Knightsmith and the male atmosphere of his presence.

“Guv, you’re safe, OK. I’ll sound off to you, but I’ll play the game. You’ve done your mission.”

Inspector Lilly looked relieved. Her approach had been unusual and familiar but it had done the job. Watching him fidget uneasily she knew he had even more to say. He began slowly with even deeper gravitas.

“Thank you, Shannon. Now, there are other even more important factors. Again, I am speaking to you in the deepest confidence,” he began.

She adopted her most sombre mood, remembering when the family dog had been put down at the age of eighteen. She knew that this would fix her face in receptive seriousness.

“His Grace is very well connected. He entertains friends at the Manor. I mean friends of the most important kind.”

He paused to look into her eyes to check that she was fully aware of what he was saying.

“Christ! You don’t mean Dizzy Rascal, One Direction, or the prime minister, do you?” she said with a simple smile.

“No! You know I don’t mean them. I mean well above them. People of life-changing ultimate importance. You know....”

Shannon stared into his anguished face. She played it straight.

“Not Simon Cowell?” she gasped.

“No. I mean royals. I mean real power, property and tradition. The Earl of Bloxington is an insider. One of his ancestors was groom of the bed-sock to King Charles II or some such. All of the Estate is an image of Old England. It’s heritage on acid, Shannon. He’s a big wheel in the world heritage roundabout. He is a top guy with UNESCO—I assume you know about UNESCO.”

“Either they played at Reading Festival or it’s a supermarket,” she said with a laugh, “but it can mean United Nations culture and stuff.”

“Yes. World leaders, royal families, people at the ass-piercing pinnacle of importance. They all come to Fleetworth-Green to visit his Grace and to breathe in the ambiance of traditional England,” he said.

“Wow, Guv’nor. And the Queen doesn’t even have number plates on her car,” she replied with a wide genuine smile.

“Do we understand each other Shannon? I kinda think we do. Please, no doors kicked in or maverick missions. Be at the parish council meetings. Express sorrow at lost pets and help to put up posters. Try all the stalls at the fete. Be nice to his Grace, Spencer Chamberlain-Knightsmith, 11th Earl of Bloxington. Keep your bloody head down and enjoy the view,” he said, obviously relieved.

“I’m allergic to cats, but no worries with corgis,” she said.

“Then that is wonderful Shannon,” the inspector replied warmly. He relaxed and finished his tea.

“Yorkshire Gold,” she said.

He glanced again at her skin-tight Lycra triathlon costume and almost seemed to sigh wistfully. She was enjoying this. He pulled his eyes back to her face.

“Thief-taking and animal cunning are old arts, Shannon. All that’s gone in today’s modern police service. It’s all about political correctness, following the rules and at all costs deflecting blame from yourself. Shannon, I hate it. I’ve had enough. Vicious scumbags can laugh at us a lot of the time but that’s the way it is. You show me respect and I’ll show it to you,” he said.

“Well, respect back to you, Guv. I’m gonna buy a tweed suit and jodhpurs,” she said.

“You’d look stunning,” he said.

Then, standing up, she put up her open palms offering a high-five. Inspector Lilly slapped his hands onto hers—and winked.

She had kept her powder dry and her tongue still. In the calm waters of the Fleetworth-Green harbor there were rocks. There was a drug dealer’s hideaway palace and an innocent lad with a record. She had no evidence but she didn’t need it. For now, she had a home to build. As yet the house was not a mess. It was simply bare. A few days ago she had been living in a police section house in Kennington. A room, a warm meal and a shower had been the three pillars of her life—depending on what you meant by life. Those few days ago it had been enough. Now she was salty and stiff from the bike ride. She ran a bath, hoping that the warmth would soothe the slight chill in her soul. She was a long way from her roots in every sense. Her role as a village cop gave her freedom but also imposed a type of solitary confinement. For sure South London was a gritty sweaty jungle, but it was home.

She relaxed in the warm water. Her initial pulse of anger at Jasmine de Montfort’s complaint soaked away. At the end of the day she held the power and she could choose when to do battle. Police preoccupations with petty offenses had always irritated her. She had no doubt that Jasmine was a conniving, spiteful little bitch. Spence the welder could do far better than a sour cow like that. She lay back thinking of his big hands and strong forearms as he had pulled off his working gloves. She could feel the warmth of his body and feel his skin through his open overalls. His arms were around her as they kissed. The workshop and the odor of a male working body aroused her in a strange way. As a maturing teenager she had spent a lot of time in the garage under the arches where her father and other mechanics worked. They did physical, muscular, competent things, chatted her up, sharpened her street wit, and had awakened her to the power of her own sexuality.

At last she opened her eyes. She had almost imagined him to be there. A fulfilling pleasure flowed through her as she dozed a little. They were walking together through dappled sunlight under a canopy of trees. Peacocks strutted about displaying their prowess. There was no world beyond and no one could steal her dreams.

Refreshed, she went to the office and googled D-type Jaguars, aluminum welding, and the family tree of the Earls of Bloxington. Wealth had poured in from sugar and banking. Wealth had poured out via gambling, stock-exchange losses and troublesome divorces. Nell Gwyn had stayed at the Manor, as Inspector Lilly had hinted. The first earl’s wife, Henrietta, had been a maid of honour to Queen Catherine of Braganza, the childless barren wife of King Charles II. Rumour had hinted at the time that Henrietta’s first child, Horatio, later to be the second earl, was in reality the son of the king. Whatever the truth of the matter, Bloxington Manor and all the estates had been a most generous wedding gift to the new earl, Percy Chamberlain-Knightsmith who had been a brave military commander. As a dashing colonel he had marched to London in 1660 with General Monk to set up the Cavalier Parliament which restored Charles II to the throne. A short while later he was contracted in marriage to Henrietta, was ennobled as Earl of Bloxington, and founded the current dynasty.

This was massive stuff for Shannon. She was a streetwise girl from the North Peckham Estate. Her father was a black car mechanic and her mother was a white Irish hospital cleaner. All she had in common with the English aristocracy was the opposite ends of the sugar industry. Then there was the matter of a sexy, lonely guy and a motherless boy complicated by an evil witch. Sure, they all had history, but that stuff was for books and the future was a blank page. Maybe not quite, but the rules were for time-servers right?

It was her day off but her social calendar was blank. She placed checks on the vehicles and the address at Badger’s Knoll. Then, it was well beyond time to phone her best mate, Mel.

“Yo! Officer, come quick,” she said.

“Wassa problem, Sugar?” came the reply.

“I need a man,” she said.

“But I’m a gay man.”

“You’re a man. Tell me what I’ve gotta do to fake it. You’ll never notice,” she said.

“Sugar, I’d notice. Believe me, there’s some things you can’t fake.”

“You’re so bloody fussy.”

“I’m gay. We’re like that.”

“When you come see your baby love?” she said laughing.

“Do I need a passport?” asked a deep male voice.

“I’ll meet you at the border. I’m the sheriff in these parts.”

“OK, you gotta date, Sugar. Tomorrow at 7:30. I’ll bring a curry and cold beers.

“Madras from the Raj Poot?” she asked with a squeal of joy.

“Sure! What else, me lady?”

“Add some more beer and sleep over. I’ve gotta cool cop flophouse,” she replied.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you more and I’m going large on that,” she said.

“I need that love, Sugar. A white gay cop has needs in Brixton. I miss you.”

She hung up and held back a tear. Mel was the sweetest, toughest, humane, educated, and compassionate guy in the world. A big smile filled her heart. He was one hell of a dedicated detective. His one and only lover hadn’t quite made it to freedom in the AIDS revolution ten years before. She had met him over the month-old corpse of a lonely suicide in a squalid bed-sit in Streatham. She had been out on her own for a couple of weeks and he was a hardened pro who had just caught the call on the radio figured out the scene. The case was hers. He could have driven by. He had not. She loved him. The smell had been awful. She had wanted to gag, run away, be a burger flipper or stock broker.

“Normally after a mess like this I go for a Balti, but this calls for a Vindaloo,” he said.

“Can I join you?”

“Yeah. Don’t bring a boyfriend. I might steal him,” he said.

With that Shannon had started to laugh. She didn’t have a boyfriend—just like now!

She sat wondering where or if she had gone wrong. She had no problem attracting men. So far nothing had worked. She was a cop who didn’t fit with mainstream cops. She was a cop civilians didn’t fit around. She was a mixed race girl with a mind for checkers in a snakes-and-ladders world. Her best friend was a 42-year-old gay white guy. She was allergic to cats, and the tall, dark, car welder of her dreams hung out with the royal family. Ah well, this was a job for Shannon Aguerri. Good job she’d been in the area when the call had come in.

She was still dressed in her white toweling dressing gown when the doorbell rang. She knew it would be most unprofessional to open the door in that state. The bell rang again urgently. If a cat was lost or a kid had nicked a chocolate bar from the village stores it was her duty to respond. She opened the door. A tall guy in a white-collared shirt and twill trousers stood before her. His belt was old and weathered. His shoes were cracked but expensive chestnut-colored brogues. He was holding an envelope. She took a deep breath, pulled the gown around her and raised her eyes to his.

“Miss Ag....”

“Ag-Where- ee,” she said.

“Yes, Constable Aguerri.”

Shannon stared into the face of Spencer Chamberlain-Knightsmith. She didn’t know his normal complexion in daylight but she thought he might be blushing.

“Should I call you his Grace?” she said.

“No, no. It would be your Grace, if you had to say it—and you need not. No, you must not. I don’t want it.”

“OK. I won’t ever,” she said.

“Yes, that’s good,” he mumbled.

“Now you will think I’m a stripogram cop.”

He smiled his eyes into hers.

“I’m so sorry about that. Look, I’ve just popped by with a card to say welcome to Fleetworth-Green. I’d be delighted if you could come to tea at the Manor.”

“I accept.”

“Oh—when?”

“Today, of course. I’m not dressed. Can you call back in an hour? I haven’t got a car.”

“I’m disturbing a lady. I’m so sorry. I’ll have you collected.”

“Can’t you come?” she asked with an innocent raising of her eyebrows. He looked back openly into her face. His eyes were kind, shy, and searching. He had a sense of chivalry, humor, and vulnerability which she would tease but never mock. She didn’t look away, longing her soul to show in her expression.

“Yes, of course, if you’re sure it would be OK,” he said.

“How OK can OK be?” she asked.

He thrust the envelope awkwardly at her. She took it, noting just her first name Shannon handwritten on the front.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And thank you,” he replied with a small nod of his handsome head.

OMG, he was fit! Before she could see him again she had a small mission. She threw on a track suit and jogged to the village stores. Luckily no one knew who she was. She selected a birthday card. The selection was pretty naff. She wanted something funny or at least a Purple Ronnie. In the end she chose a picture of a Labrador gun dog with simply the words “Happy Birthday.” She scampered back to the house and added her own thoughts; “To my one-year-elder welder.” She hoped he would laugh. Her hand hesitated as she signed “Shannon.” Could she, should she add a kiss? She knew she shouldn’t. So, she did and sealed it. She opened his card to find a picture of the village green and cricket pitch. Inside he had written “Welcome to our community. I hope to have the chance to meet you soon. Best wishes, Bloxington.”

Then it was back in the shower. The afternoon was warm and perfect. She dressed in a sleeveless short flared black dress splashed with red and cream roses. In her happiness, it reflected summer and her mood. She chose a floral perfume to match this moment of her life. Exactly one hour had passed when she saw a green Land Rover pull up outside. It was far from new and went with the whole atmosphere of Fleetworth-Green. He jumped out as she approached, and went to the passenger door, holding it open.

“I’m afraid the transport is a little basic,” he said.

“It’s a Series 2. These are the best ever Land Rovers according to my dad,” she said, patting the wing.

“Oh, he’s certainly right.”

“He’s a mechanic,” she said, swinging her smooth, toned, deep-olive legs into the vehicle allowing him to see a big tease of thigh. She caught his eye as he pulled his attention away. She smiled warmly.

“I thought I might show you some of the estate,” he said.

“That would be wonderful, Sir ... um ... What do I call you?”

“My name is Spencer.”

“And I’m Shannon. That makes you half a shop and me half an airport,” she said.

The earl fell silent and went back to the driver’s seat, obviously troubled. He glanced at her and then started the engine. Suddenly he let out a loud exclamation.

“I get it. Ha, ha. Yes. Marks and Spencer. Shannon Airport,” he said chuckling.

“I’m just a bit nervous,” she said. “I gabble a load of nonsense sometimes.”

“It’s such fun, Shannon, you know, to make up jokes. Anyway, thanks for saying you were nervous because so was I, but I wouldn’t have just said it.”

Before he pulled away he turned to her. In the same instant she turned to him. As all the rushing moments of the world sped on they both stood back from time and took in the picture of the other. She let her mind transmit herself to him. She lowered her lids and took in a breath to hold him there and feel him. This was a big lost boy of a man. He was innocent of the life that would mature him. He was a grand concrete dam constructed by others never to burst. That was the essence of him to the world. Behind the wall, the deep waters were warm for a swim.

He started the engine.

“Your name Ag-Where-ee. I believe it’s of Spanish origin,” he said.

“Yes, Basque originally. I come via West Africa, Antigua, Dublin, and Peckham.”

“You have a coat of arms,” he said.

“Do we? How do you know that?”

“Um, I looked you up,” he said a little sheepishly.

She smiled. She wondered if he’d figured her name was a random tag somehow grabbed in the chaos of slavery and its dissolution.

“I looked up your stuff as well. D’ya think we were having a simultaneous google?”

He gave a little snort. “Is that indecent?”

“Only if you fake it,” she said.

He shot her a glance and smiled shyly.

“You sure aren’t PC Flowers,” he said. “Thank you so much for dropping everything like this.”

“It’s no problem. I’ve no one to please but myself.”

“Oh,” he replied.

“No one at all,” she added, just to be clear on the matter. She gave a little nod, aware that he was looking at her.

He cleared his throat.

“Shannon, you made quite an impression on Ben.”

“I’m sorry I made him push the scooter all the way home. I did think of jumping on the back and telling him to ride it,” she said.

He laughed and then fell silent. It was obvious he wanted to say more.

“Spencer, he’s a good lad. You know that.”

“Can I just talk to you?” he said suddenly. “Ben has had a couple of issues....”

“Yeah, but kids do. Christ, I was completely out of control at his age. I know he got stopped for a bit of blow, but if the stuff is about they all try it. If you ask me he was just unlucky to get caught. Has he ever claimed to you that he was innocent?” she asked.