Scorpio's Lot (50 page)

‘Beef sirloin, tomato, green
pepper, sweet paprika, onion, poppy seeds and red wine. Oh, and it all sits on
a bed of noodles with a drizzle of cream poured over it.’

‘Fantastic,’ responded Marsh as
he shoveled down his third mouthful. ‘Time to refill those glasses.’

‘Glad you like it, Paul. When I
lived in Budapest this meal was traditionally eaten on Sundays.’

‘Do you miss the homeland?’

‘Oh yes, I have my moments. It’s
my parents I miss most. They’re not getting any younger and it’s been two years
since my last visit.’

‘What’s stopping you from
returning? I mean a two- or three-week holiday would do wonders.’

‘Yes, perhaps, but for the moment
I prefer to send money to ease their hardship.’

Marsh felt tempted to pursue the
point but stopped short, recalling their earlier conversation regarding
unemployment. He decided not to pry, instead preferring to converse on a
different subject.

‘You realise I don’t even know
your last name. Would it be Piochsa Smith or Piochsa Jones, by any chance?’ he
said with a devilish grin.

‘Hardly, being Hungarian. It’s
Piochsa Szabo, which is a fairly common surname over there.’

‘And what about your lovelife?
Any past romances I should be aware of?’ fished the detective.

‘My, you are the forward one
tonight! As a matter of fact I was engaged once. That was back in Budapest when
I was in my mid-twenties. My fiancé at the time decided my place was in the
home and that I should stop pursuing my tertiary education. I finally wised up
to his selfish ways and called the whole thing off. What about you, Paul?’

‘Never engaged, but I’ve had a
couple of serious relationships along the way. Back then I was a drifter, not
wanting to stay put in one place for too long. I wanted to see the world before
some long-term commitment interfered with my plans. In learning how to survive
I quickly grew up. My maturity at twenty-one was probably equivalent to a
thirty year old’s, but that’s how it was back in those days. Grow up or be left
behind. I’ve had my share of casual flings and one-night stands, but that’s all
behind me now. I hope that doesn’t sound too ultraconservative. Someone with
sincerity and stability is more attractive to me these days. A case of been
there, done that as they say.’

‘Nothing wrong in admitting to
that. I’d venture to say that most people in their mid-thirties share a similar
philosophy. It’s just a matter of finding the right person these days. And it’s
not easy. They don’t simply grow on trees.’

For the next hour the
conversation centred on the trials and tribulations of today’s society. They
agreed that reprisals, retributions, compensation, moral obligations and so on
were commonplace in this crazy mixed-up world. What went wrong with these
failed relationships? And what were the criteria if one was in search of a
suitable partner? There was no right or wrong, no black or white, for each
individual looked for a certain attribute or attraction. Physical, intellect,
charm, wit, personality, sincerity or a combination mix and match - the list
was endless as well as intricate.

Whilst the conversation was a tad
deep for Marsh’s liking, it did nonetheless explore the possibilities and give
them the opportunity to express their similarities on this complex subject. At
least he was grateful there had been no shop talk. It was Piochsa who decided
on a lighter topic and directional change.

‘Now that we’ve had our
thought-provoking lesson, anyone for cheese and greens?’

‘You betcha! I’ll make the
coffees,’ he offered.

Paul’s obsession to lure Piochsa
into his arms took an upward turn. While they sat opposite at the dining table,
Piochsa had returned from the kitchen with her blouse slightly undone. The top
two buttons had been prized open, partially revealing her firm and magnificent
breasts. She wore no bra. Her nipples sat proud beneath the silk blouse. Marsh
threw his shoes to one side and proceeded to pour two neat Sambucas.

‘Down the hatch,’ he called,
emptying the contents in one quick swallow. ‘Another?’

Piochsa watched Marsh as he
skulled each consecutive glass. She rolled her tongue across her lips. Her
erotic obsession was a match for his. Grabbing his shot glass, her tongue
slithered and circumnavigated around its perimeter. The provocative action had
fuelled the sexual tension. Fantasy would finally make way for reality.

He quickly moved around the table
and grabbed Piochsa in one swift lunge. The passion was intense as he felt her
breasts heaving under the silk blouse. The scent of Chanel No 5 lingered on her
body as he clasped hold of her strong naked thighs. Clothes were now being
discarded at an alarming rate. In the excitement of the moment the tablecloth
and its entire setting was dragged to the floor. Amidst broken crockery and
water-sodden candles, together with the ruination of a prized flower
arrangement, two bodies rolled as one.

Finally she lay completely nude,
panting in anticipation of further foreplay. Marsh commenced playing with her
vulva and then spread her vagina with his index and middle fingers. Piochsa
moaned in a wave of ecstasy as she tossed her long honey-blond hair in
repetitive motion. Her ultimate desire was about to be fulfilled.

‘Oh, Paul, I’m so horny. Feel my
breasts again, they’re very soft,’ she pleaded while guiding the detective’s
erection across her thigh. ‘Just do it. Do it now!’

~ * ~

ould
I speak to Detective Forbes please?’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Tom Harrison.’

‘One moment please.’

A long delay followed. I wasn’t
exactly flavour of the month with the pompous Alan Forbes, thinking perhaps he
was deliberately stalling me in his mindless antagonising way. I continued to
hold on, thinking the bastard was playing games with me. Idling my time away, I
decided to find a word that best described this imbecile. Perhaps nitwit, jerk
or moron, but then again, I liked the sound of jackass, nincompoop, schmuck -’

‘Detective Sergeant Forbes
speaking.’

Right on cue, that was the word -
schmuck. ‘Detective, it’s Tom Harrison speaking. I have some information you
should be aware of.’

‘Ah, Mr Harrison, I was wondering
when next we would hear from you. Going on vacation or perhaps leaving Pedley
for some other reason?’

‘Can we put our differences aside
for a moment?’ I replied. This guy’s satire was a pain in the arse at the best
of times.

‘Very well, what is it you need
to speak about?’

‘The subterranean passageways
beneath Pedley.’

‘But that’s fantasy, Mr Harrison,
not fact,’ responded Forbes dryly.

‘If you would just hear me out.’

‘Why should I waste my time
listening to some fabled story?’

‘Because what I have to tell you
is factual,’ I stated with a dramatic flair to at least get a hearing from the
schmuck.

‘By whose account?’

‘A local pensioner called Arthur
Simpson.’

‘Never heard of the man,’ he
bluntly replied.

‘I only need a moment of your
time.’

‘If you’re wasting my time, Mr
Harrison, I’ll have your head for this. Understand? Hang on and I’ll fetch some
of my men and put you on speakerphone.’

Within a short moment I could
hear the movement of chairs and various people accumulating inside the
detective’s office.

‘Can you hear me, Mr Harrison?’

‘Yes, loud and clear.’

‘Would you please recommence,’
Forbes said.

‘As I said, the subterranean
passages. I’ve been told from a reliable source that over two hundred years ago
a series of tunnels and chambers were excavated and built beneath Pedley. This
underground network served to house the convicts that were brought to the
mainland to relieve the overcrowding of the penal colonies.’

‘And who told you this?’
questioned Doyle.

‘An elderly resident by the name
of Arthur Simpson, but in telling you this he wishes to remain anonymous from
the prying media.’

‘Arthur is not one to make up a
cock-and-bull story. The guy is held in high regard by the locals,’ volunteered
Burke.

‘And how does he know all this?’
persisted Forbes.

‘The story has been passed down
through five Simpson generations,’ I said, ‘all of whom have lived in the
Pedley region for nearly two hundred years. Arthur’s great-grandfather
allegedly walked the entire length of one of these main passageways,’ I added
with a degree of enthusiasm now that I had the full attention of the
constabulary.

‘Continue, Mr Harrison,’ Forbes
said.

‘Three buildings were erected
aboveground to serve a duel function. These dwellings provided an office and
residence for the authorities at the time.’

‘And the other function?’

‘They provided access to the
subterranean passages.’

‘So only three entrances ever
existed?’

‘Yes, according to Arthur
Simpson.’

‘Is there any visual evidence of
these buildings still standing today?’

‘No. According to Arthur’s
explanation, a major typhoid epidemic broke out some four years or so after the
completion of the underground. Hundreds of people died, and as a result the
network was turned into a massive subterranean burial ground or cemetery. Both
free folk and convicts alike were buried together. In fear the disease would
surface and claim more lives, the authorities decided to demolish the three
buildings and seal the entrances to leave no trace of their existence. It
became taboo for locals to speak of the condemned quarters and so through the
centuries it eventually became folklore.’

‘That’s some story,’ Parnell
acknowledged.

‘The importance of this discovery
needs to be explained further,’ I said. ‘Arthur’s theory is, and I tend to
agree with him, that the subterranean passages beneath Pedley serve three
purposes.’

‘And they are?’ Forbes asked.

‘The syndicate’s headquarters for
their southern operation, their storage facility which has baffled the
authorities and public alike for so long, and the place where Brigit O’Neill’s
being held captive.’

Silence followed my prognosis.
Had my verdict fallen on deaf ears?

‘Hello, anyone there?’ I called
out.