Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (5 page)

She chose not to remind him that her father was from Antigua and there was no option but to love cricket.

“I adore cricket and this is England,” she said, sweeping her arm at the gentle green panorama.

“Do you think so, Shannon?”

“Yeah. It’s picture postcard England. If I were a tourist this stuff would sell it to me,” she said.

“I hope you like cakes,” he said.

“Love them. I’ve worked off the calories today according to my app.”

Spencer frowned.

“Pardon? I’m not sure....”

“I’ve got a new phone app to count my food intake. It’s great. Have you found any good apps?” she said, knowing full well she was being disingenuous and provocative.

“Apps? Ben has apps,” he said.

“Whatever makes you ‘appy,’” she said, smiling broadly and watching him wince at the pun.

“I think you’re teasing. Do you think I’m a bit old fashioned?” he said.

“Spencer, you know you are.”

He smiled back.

“I suppose it’s deliberate isn’t it. I believe in tradition and quality,” he said.

“I guess that can be expensive,” she replied.

“Oh yes. Being an 11th earl doesn’t come with a salary I’m afraid.”

“You have a day job?”

“Yes. I’m a director of Chamberlain, Reed, and Rush.”

“What’s that?”

“Commodity trading—metals, fruit, coffee, tea....” he began.

“Ooh, so you can get me some Yorkshire Gold.”

“Er, no ... we don’t trade in that kind of way. We sell to the chaps who create your Yorkshire Gold. But, we do deal in gold,” he said seriously.

Shannon laughed and put a hand onto his arm.

“I know, Spencer. I was being a minx again.”

His eyes crinkled up at the corners.

“I thought you were and anyway, minx isn’t your kind of word,” he said.

“I know. I caught it from you. But I love it,” she said.

She gave his arm a last pat, which was more of a stroke and turned her attention to the tea set. He immediately followed her interest.

“It’s a Paris set, Rococo Revival style from the mid-19th century.”

“Not from the charity shop then?” she said.

“No. The 8th earl married a French vicomtesse, Odile de Saintonge and it came with her. Her picture is in the gallery.”

“Did she live here?” asked Shannon, warming to the sheer romanticism of his history.

“Oh yes. She set up the dairy to make cheddar cheese and export it for the French. Sadly her husband drowned in the lake at the age of eighty-two trying to retrieve a pheasant he’d shot.”

Shannon tried to look serious.

“Don’t they send dogs to do that?”

“Ha, ha! Dogs have more bloody sense than earls,” he said, letting out a laugh.

Spencer poured tea while a maid brought a silver tray of perfectly cut, crustless sandwiches.

“This doesn’t seem real,” she said.

“You don’t like it?”

In truth she was blown away. The elegance and splendor overwhelmed her. She chose another word to express herself.

“It’s so seductive. It’s hard to resist,” she said, taking a glance at him to see if she had subtly gone under the radar.

“Well, seductive is a good word indeed, Shannon. Nell Gwyn, mistress of King Charles II sat on this terrace with him many a time when it was used as an orangery. Ann Boleyn stayed here, but that was before my family took over,” he explained.

“It’s fantastic,” she responded, munching a superbly flavoured smoked salmon and cucumber sandwich.

He looked at her across the table, smiling warmly.

“You have blue eyes,” he said, almost as if the thoughts had mugged him and pushed him aside. He gathered some composure. “Shannon, I’m sorry, I just said that....”

“And you Sir have brown eyes. We should swap really,” she said, holding his focus.

He looked away, seemingly embarrassed by his conduct. She reached across and touched his shoulder.

“Spencer, it’s nice—no—it’s wonderful to say what’s in your head, or heart. That’s what they call getting real, man. Your tradition and quality must be about being real,” she said, knowing that she’d fired another tender torpedo at his huge gentle rudderless battleship of formality.

They sat silently as the maid returned with a delicate china cake stand. It was loaded with tiny treats that looked like works of art and far too good to eat. She selected a tart with a perfect glazed strawberry.

“That’s hardly a mouthful. Please enjoy them. Everything shared is four times the pleasure.”

“Well I couldn’t deny you that, Sir,” she said, taking a wonderful square of very dark, chocolate and ginger confection. “Delicious!” she said. “I’m gonna have to do a few miles on my bike to burn this off.”

“You look jolly trim to me,” he said.

“And so do you, kind Sir—but not jolly trim. You look fit,” she said.

Spencer blushed visibly.

“I’m sorry. That was a personal remark. I wanted—I want to talk about the village and your role as policeman—policewoman, I mean. That’s what I intended.”

She studied him for a moment, letting him know with her eyes that she was thinking. This poor man was on a golden hook of his tradition and his dead wife. If this had been a boxing match, he would have been on the ropes now with his hands down. The soft tissue was there in front of her.

“Do you get to talk much? I mean talk like this,” she said.

“Not much,” he began, almost as if he choked up a little. “I guess I’m not that much of a talker. You know, a stereotype eccentric chap fixing my Jag and reading the Times.”

“If you were really that guy you wouldn’t have put that idea together and said that to me. And I think you know that,” she said.

He looked at her and let his chin sink into his cupped hands.

“You should be a cop.”

“So, you’re nicked in the act of trying to throw a lady off your scent,” she replied.

“Ben was right about you,” he said with a smile.

“You haven’t answered the question, Spencer. I mean, do you get to chat much?”

“It’s difficult to share things,” he said.

He was still on the ropes. She wasn’t sure enough of him to take things much further. He surprised her with a counterattack.

“Who do you talk to? You said you had nobody?”

“No one like I think you mean. I’ve got my best mate, Mel. You—you have Jasmine....”

He leaned back and sighed.

“Yes, she’s been a brick. Since the accident, you know, Saskia’s death, Jasmine has kept us going I suppose.”

Shannon felt a surge of angry spite rumbling somewhere unpleasant in her bowels.

“She must be a great comfort,” she said.

“Comfort? Ah, look it seems disloyal to talk about her, you know?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was wrong to mention her. Now I’m being too personal.”

A silence fell between them. She let it work for her. He had the ball.

“She—Jasmine, has tried to be something of a mother to Ben. She thinks I must send him back to boarding school for his own good.”

“Bloody places seem like open prisons to me,” said Shannon, “but without parole.”

Spencer stared at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed as if he had never heard such a thing.

“The prime minister and everyone at the top—even your boss, Boris Johnson—they all went to boarding school.”

“No child of mine’s ever going to one. I’d be his or her mother even if it meant missing out on the wonderful world of politics,” she said.

She could tell he was appraising her.

“Am I being selfish keeping him here though? He hasn’t got a mother and it has been hard for him to fit in at school.”

She wanted to speak openly but she bit her tongue. If the nearest thing he had to a mother was Jasmine he would probably be better off away at school. It was obvious Ben hated her. It looked as if Spencer hadn’t picked up the vibes.

“He loves you, Spencer. That’s the whole deal apart from the fact that you love him and he knows that too. But look, I don’t know you guys. I’m sure Jasmine is on top of the job,” she said, keeping her eyes deliberately cold and dispassionate.

“Shannon, I can’t. I simply can’t. We shouldn’t be talking like this.”

She looked down, denying him her contact which she knew he wanted. Again a silence worked its corrosive magic.

“When will Jasmine be home? I must be keeping you,” she said.

“Home? No, Jasmine doesn’t live here. This is where she keeps some of her horses.”

“How many horses does a gal need?” asked Shannon, knowing she sounded edgy and insolent.

“Most of them are here. Maybe a dozen. She keeps a couple of mounts in London. She rides daily on Rotten Row in Hyde Park.”

“Not the Lady of the Manor then. I can imagine her on Rotten Row,” said Shannon.

“Oh no. She is a very top lawyer. She has a city penthouse.”

“You know she complained about me?” she said.

“Yes. I was extremely angry,” he replied. “I didn’t know if you knew. You weren’t supposed to find out apparently.”

“Spencer, it’s cool. I’ve got to work around you guys. I was a bit rude to her and I expect she’s a sweet girl if I got to know her and empathize with her,” she said.

“You don’t think that, do you? You’re just being professional and I respect that,” he said.

“Stuff ‘being professional,’ Spencer. I just wanted to trot out some half-baked crap to make me sound nice.”

For the second time his jaw dropped.

“You just say things, don’t you?”

She smiled at him. She’d roughed him up a bit. His experience was so different from hers. Life had knocked off her edges but had left a curved sharp blade underneath.

“I’m a bit direct I guess. I’m either an alien, a Yorkshire man or an American,” she said.

“You’re truly astonishing,” he said.

“So are you, Spencer. That boy loves and admires you.”

“You know all that in just a few minutes, just like that?”

“Yeah, I know about kids and love because I see it by its absence in every lost kid in the city. I see admiration and pride in every kid in a gang. I’ve seen love withheld in lonely suicides and in psychopaths who kill for so-called respect or fame—that fucking word the unloved use for love.”

He took a deep breath. She had meant him to. She had meant to swear to show him just a little of her mettle.

“You express many of my own views—in your own way, Shannon. But I think you’re right.”

He stood up and came round the table. She stood to join him, looking into his eyes.

“Can’t you just hug me or something,” she said.

“That could be a mistake.”

“Mistake me in your arms then.”

Then, he held her, not kissing, not pressing. He simply held her to him. She felt the warmth of his body. His arms closed around her shoulders as she laid her head on his chest. She nuzzled him a little and made a long “mmmmm” sound. She felt him relax and hugged his waist. This was a sweet fruit and a succulent pain. She loved the immovability of his big bear-like body. She softened into him, not sexually as such, but as a woman fits to a man.

He stepped back and let out a deep sigh. She wanted to speak first.

“Spencer, whatever you do or say do not tell me you’re sorry and that you’ve exceeded your role as a gentleman or any such rubbish. I wanted that as much as you, maybe more,” she said reaching up to his cheeks and fixing his head while she spoke.

“You did?”

“I just said so. I’d have asked for a kiss but I didn’t want to burn out your guilt fuses.”

He shook his head yet smiled innocently like a boy catching his first fish.

“Come and see the gallery of ancient Bloxingtons and beyond,” he said.

At some point, somewhere near the portrait of the composer Handel, either she took his hand or he took hers. It was a while before they let go.

It was approximately 10:20 a.m. the following morning when a farmer found the body of a young woman in a roadside ditch. Shannon received a call by radio and made it first to the scene on her bike. First procedure was to secure the area and preserve evidence. A glance suggested the girl was no more than twenty. Possibly she was Cambodian or Vietnamese from what she’d learned on a temporary posting to an immigration unit. The spot was in open country about half a mile from the village. In the distance she could see the flags from the show house at Badger’s Knoll. High above the field a bird sang on the wing.

She wasn’t alone for long. Within a few minutes she was joined by Scenes of Crime officers and senior detectives. She had had little time to assess the situation. All the same she was sure the body hadn’t been there for long. It was just too visible and the insects had scarcely started their work. At a glance she could see the victim had a large graze on the side of her face. She wore a T-shirt and light cotton trousers. The style didn’t look British.

Being new on Z District, Shannon knew none of the police team. Soon she was helping to place incident tape and set up a roadblock. A white tent went up over the body and a pathway was pegged out to prevent contamination of the scene. It was a procedure she had seen many times. Two bus loads of officers arrived to conduct a fingertip search of the ditch, roadside, and adjoining field. The police radio was calling her.

“There’s gonna be a conference at 1400 hours. The superintendent wants to use your police house. Can you set it up Zulu Delta over?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Great. Get the kettle on.”

“Looks like I’ve found my level. I’ve only got two cups and no bloody teapot.”

“Initiative my dear Watson. If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined. Zulu Delta out.”

Shannon cursed. In the distance she saw Inspector Lilly.

“Guv, they want a conference at my place. I’ll need tea, milk, sugar, and cups, or at least a bucket and some straws. Maybe a trough could do it,” she said.

“Bloody typical,” he replied smiling. “Come on, we’ll get some stuff. I’m just poncing about as a spare part here.”

“So what’s the theory?” she asked.

“Well, odds on she’s an illegal immigrant who’s either been clinging under a truck or jumped. There’s blood on a telegraph pole fifty yards away. My guess is she’s come up from Dover and come off the M25 motorway at junction 5.”

“That makes sense,” she agreed, “but no big trucks come along here from what I’ve seen.”

“True, but maybe she got away at Clacket Lane Service Area. My gut feeling is that we’re never gonna know.”

Shannon nodded. A Home Office pathologist would perform a post-mortem examination. Until then everything was a guess. She couldn’t resist adding to the mix.

“My gut feeling is that there’s more to it. I’ve only intuition.”

Inspector Lilly chuckled.

“In the old days we could have said it was female intuition, but if I said that I’d be a sexist and drummed out of the job.”

“Don’t worry, Guv, I’m not wired up today,” she replied, laughing and giving him a friendly push.

“I’d leave this one to the detectives if I were you, Shannon, unless you can come up with something extraordinary.”

At the ASDA supermarket checkout she knew they looked a comical sight. It wasn’t often that two police officers in full uniform were wheeling a trolley load of milk, biscuits, and plastic cups. She trotted up some pace and whizzed a few yards with her feet off the ground. The operator on the till stared at them.

“We’re just feeding the pigs,” said Shannon.

The girl giggled as Inspector Lilly raised his eyes to heaven.

“You’re a complete bloody anarchist,” he said as they drove back to Fleetworth-Green police house.

An hour later, 46 cups of tea and plates of biscuits had been distributed. Bodies filled the whole of the ground floor. Shannon searched in vain for a familiar face. The officer in charge of the case was Detective Superintendent Tom Mitchell. He was a smallish man of about fifty with a balding head, a carefully contrived comb-over and the aura of the fox in his eyes. Immediately she liked him. This guy was a villain catcher. He took three steps up the stairs and called the conference to order.

“Thanks everyone. Let’s sort out what we’ve got here. Female body in a ditch. No obvious violent rape. Injuries are consistent with a road traffic accident. Blood on telegraph pole and fence post. Grazing along one side of body indicates that she landed with some speed. What do we think we’ve got here ladies and gents and what questions do we need to ask?”

His voice was calm, unemotional, and precise. There was no big ego there to slap anyone down. He wanted to listen. She liked him even more.

“Any I.D?” asked a detective.

“No. No docs, no jewelry. Clothing probably foreign.”

“Illegal, Guv, fallen or jumped from a truck,” suggested a voice.

The superintendent nodded.

“Anyone got any other theories?”

Shannon bit her lip. Just maybe, just maybe in a fraction of a split-second glance she’d seen an oriental girl in that Chrysler with Sylvie Arrowsmith. She’d been in so, so much shit in the police for jumping in on half hunches. So what? She might have seen a girl. So what? She wasn’t even sure she’d seen anyone. She could shout her mouth off and waste everyone’s time on a red herring.

“Maybe a sex worker thrown out of a vehicle?” suggested another detective.

“Possibly. Yeah, for sure. She had no footwear. Somewhere there’s a reason for that or a pair of shoes somewhere to find, or both. Makes you want to be a detective doesn’t it.”

There were a couple of chuckles. “We’ll know a lot more after the post-mortem. We’ve done the scene and recovered the body. Let’s move on from there.”

Shannon knew he was right. Charging about on a Sherlock Holmes clue-fest wasn’t police work. She had only her own long-shot intuition and this was not the time to go for gold. Within a few minutes her house was empty except for the faithful Inspector Lilly. She was starting to warm to him.

“I’ll help you clear up,” he said.

“You’re a cool guy, Guv,”

He moved with the domestic competence and acceptance of a man who had cleared up after kids. The doorbell rang. Somehow she just knew who it was.

“Spencer!”

“You must be busy. I heard what’s happened.”

She gazed at him. He was serious and yet his dark eyes smiled at her for just long enough to send a delicious flood of warmth down and deeper into the woman being of her.

“Come in. Meet my boss,” she said taking his hand and leading him through to the kitchen. He responded to her hand and held hers in return. He glanced to catch her response of complicit willingness. Inspector Lilly put down his dishcloth.

“Your Grace....” he stammered.

Spencer looked embarrassed and put out his hand to shake. Shannon still held the other. The inspector returned the greeting. While the two men exchanged a few words she stood on tip toes and kissed Spencer’s cheek

“Shannon!” exclaimed Inspector Lilly.

The earl smiled.

“The modern police can do incredible things,” he said, holding her in his gaze. “I called to see if I can do anything to help in this terrible business.”

She didn’t want to fill him in on all the details while her boss was there.

“It’s all under control, your Grace. Possibly she’s an illegal fallen from a vehicle.”

“What a sad business. That poor girl,” said Spencer.

“There’ll be a medical examination in the morning. We’ll know cause of death and a lot more of the forensics after that.”

“Thank you, Inspector. This kind of thing is very distressing.”

“We’ll do everything possible, your Grace.”

Spencer turned to Shannon.

“What can I do now?”

“You can collect all the garbage. Cops aren’t called pigs for nothing. Put all the plastic stuff in bin liners and then bring out the rest and put it in the dishwasher,” she said with a massive grin.

“Sure thing, Officer,” he replied.

“Shannon, you can’t treat his Grace like that!’

Spencer smiled and kissed Shannon on the cheek.

“It’s wonderful just to be helping, Inspector.... It’s Brian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir. Brian.”

“Brian, I need a top man. Someone of quality and presence. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Do you play cricket?”

The inspector looked bemused.

“I don’t play these days. I am an umpire.”

Spencer blinked and looked at him with an expression of pure glee. For a moment she thought he was going to hug him.

“That’s wonderful. If I had an umpire for the match on Sunday I could release a chap who could play for us.”

“What’s the problem, Spencer?” she asked.

“Oh, it must seem so trivial to you when that poor girl has died. Three of my team have pulled out. One of them has an international banking crisis, the foreign secretary is caught up in that wretched Syrian war, and then there’s the baby.”

“Baby?” queried the inspector.

“Yes, Kate and William’s baby. It’s due Monday. William rather fears a situation with breaking waters while he’s batting.”

“That’s THE baby! The future-king-of-England baby,” said Shannon, watching her boss’s alarm.

“Security issue, but yes, a very significant baby,” Spencer explained.

Inspector Lilly had turned pale.

“Sir, your Grace, I’m not sure I could umpire players at that level.”

“Nonsense, Brian. Who could be better than a man of guaranteed integrity like you?”

“That still leaves you two players short,” said Shannon with a huge grin.

“I have a couple of days. You look radiantly optimistic if I may say so.”

She knew her smile had reached him. She could see the inspector glancing between them as she held Spencer’s eyes.

“Leave it to me. Consider it fixed,” she said.

“How?”

While the question hung in the air, Inspector Lilly jumped in.

“Excuse me, your Grace. I should be getting back to HQ.”

Shannon walked with him to his car, glad of the chance to talk with him privately.

“You actually had hold of his Grace’s hand,” he gasped. “You kissed him. He kissed you. I can’t believe it.”

“It was only a peck on the cheek. Do you think he likes me? Anyway Guv, you’re definitely up for the match on Sunday, OK?”

“Of course. It will be a great honor. And yes, I think he likes you.”

“You’ll bring your family I hope.”

“Well, that would be up to the earl....”

“Nah, I’ll tell him they’re coming and that’s that. And can you get the vehicle garage to sort me out some wheels?”

The inspector shook his head but smiled warmly at her.

“Yes m’lady,” he said.

“And can you get me into the post-mortem examination?”

“It wouldn’t be normal but I’ll see what I can do.

“Cheers Guv, you’re a gent.”

He started the engine.

“I can’t believe you had hold of his Grace’s hand. And now he’s in there cleaning up.”

“He’s as sweet as you, Guv,” she said, kissing her fingertips and touching them to his cheek.

She found Spencer in the lounge brushing crumbs from the sofa into a dustpan. He was wearing his normal style of formal white shirt, the neck open and the long sleeves rolled up. He looked up at her. She could feel the warmth of his dark eyes on her face. She felt her heart pump a little harder.

“Thank you, I’m sorry I’m so bloody cheeky,” she said.

He smiled. A warm surge ran through her belly. She squeezed her thighs together a little to catch the awareness of her pleasure. He straightened up to his full height. He was big, hard and broad in front of her. Whatever her personal space was, he was in it. She remembered how it had felt to hold his waist and rest her head against his chest. She had only just met him yet everything seemed so natural. She wondered if she could live without ever feeling this sexy joy of his presence again.

“Um ... Shannon.”

“Um ... Spencer.”

“You know what happened last time we were together,” he began.

“No, I can’t remember. Show me,” she teased.

“That would be impossible. You’re in full police uniform.”

“I can soon fix that,” she said pouting her lips and undoing the top button of her blouse.

“That’s not what I meant. Oh dear—look, it was wonderful—that’s what I wanted to say. Now there’s been this awful business and all I was thinking about was you.”

It was wrong of her to tease him. He was a sincere and serious man. She respected that. She’d only known him a few days yet everything seemed to be flowing as if these were the moments that had already been written for her. She wanted to hold back but knew no reason why she should. Every portion of time has the same value. Why the hell should life have waiting days?