Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (26 page)

‘Can’t
read it in this light.’ Edward Porter had her warrant card in his hand and was
holding it high, as though trying to catch the first rays of the sun.
‘Tym…offski? Bloody Polish, are you?’

She
closed her eyes and tried to keep the shake from her voice. ‘Police officer.’

‘No
shit,’ he responded coolly. ‘Can’t even keep Polacks out of the fuzz now. No
wonder none of you job robbers ever get deported.’

She
swallowed hard, fighting the monster, feeling the hatred of this man for all
things not as he was. It gave him strength, the enormity of it; strength, at
this moment, directed towards her alone. Opening her eyes again was agony,
acute and unexpected, like ripped fingernails. Her joints were trembling,
giving way as she struggled to keep upright against the tree she’d been secured
to. The blows seemed to have numbed her whole body, so that it would no longer
do what she required of it.

‘Scream
if you like.’ Porter spoke with the relaxed, sadistic amusement of a hunter
watching his prey die. ‘By the looks of you you’ve probably got, what, a couple
of minutes before you black out, so by all means hasten the process if you feel
so inclined.’ Still rummaging in her handbag, he had found her phone, and now
he ejected the battery and hurled it into the next garden.

Dimly
she could make out two other people, lurking in the gloom behind. One of them
wore pyjamas and a dressing gown, hugging himself, face pale. Others like
Andrew Clarke slept in the bedrooms of neighbouring houses, some possibly
rising even now, moving to open curtains, to look out at the morning and what
it held.

‘Doesn’t
bother me either way,’ Porter said, reading her thoughts. ‘By the way, don’t
take this personally, other than the fact that I hate your immigrant guts. In
case you were wondering, your job here is to serve,’ he hissed in her ear, ‘as
an example. To someone who needs to know we’re going to get to him before the
pigs do.’

As
if on an unseen signal, the third man stirred and moved forward. Michael
Quaife’s arms were folded almost carelessly, but she could see the shaped,
polished blade he held in his huge fist, one serrated edge glittering in the
dawn like dew on a cobweb, and suddenly, in horror, she realised the Bowie
knife was what had hit her, and the warm liquid down her legs was not piss.
Hail Mary, full of grace -

Porter
tilted his head slightly, perhaps expecting her to challenge him, or at least
spit in his face, if she still had the strength. But Nina, though mortally
afraid, wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. She thought hard of other
things, desperate to keep her brain alert, remembering a conversation she’d had
with Paul arising from old TV news reports of soldiers captured by the Taliban.
Paul had been of the opinion that your best tactic in that situation was to
keep silent, give your captors nothing they could twist round and use back at
you. It worked for some hardened villains back at the nick, but this wasn’t an
interview and she wasn’t in control. She could forgive Paul a lifetime of
betrayals if he’d only appear and be her white knight now.

But
he wasn’t here. After tonight he never would be. Succumbing to despair, she
uttered a terrified whimper.

‘Edward,
for God’s sake.’ The quiet, shocked voice, empty now of the bluster that had
characterised many of his dealings with the police, belonged to Andrew Clarke.

‘Andrew.’
Porter spoke mildly, almost avuncularly, turning to him. He started to back
away, catching something Porter tossed in his direction. ‘Move her car. It’s
like a bloody signpost. We don’t know how she found us here yet.’

Yet
.

It
wormed through the wound, a gash made far worse in her mind by the fact she
couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. It wrapped her heart in icy coils and
squeezed.
Yet
.

Quaife
laughed contemptuously as Andrew Clarke fled back to the house. ‘Tosser.’

‘Out
of his depth.’ They seemed for a moment not to care she was there. ‘Good at
noticing unmarked police cars at three in the morning, and keeping track of nosy
FOB policewomen who go crashing round the backs of houses. Comes to necessary
unpleasantness, though, he’s not your man and never was.’ He looked at Nina
now, probing for a reaction to the knowledge she’d been rumbled from the
outset. She hoped he saw none.

A
car drove by on Ballards Way. Porter looked at his watch.

‘I
count on you to deal with her,’ he said to Quaife. ‘Beyond that, as I said, I
don’t much care.’

Quaife
peered at Nina. ‘Few more minutes, she’s not telling us anything.’

‘She’s
got nothing to tell us I’m interested in hearing,’ Porter sighed. ‘Nothing to
tell
anyone
,
as it happens.’

He
turned slowly away, then hesitated and stepped right up to her.

‘Pretty,
for a Polack.’ He spoke to Nina rather than Quaife. ‘Even racist fascist
bastards have weaknesses.’

His
hand reached up. She cringed as one finger traced a line down her jaw and under
her chin. Her skin seethed with pain where he’d touched it. She cried out. A
black curtain descended. Panicking, she escaped it, Nina the heroine struggling
free of the thorns round Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Reality returned. Porter was
gone. She heard the back door close behind him.

Inside
the house, someone was watching from an upstairs window. Featureless from here,
but she knew all the same she’d been right. There had been
three
empty mugs on the coffee table
that night. Three. The clue had, literally, been staring her in the face.

But,
as Porter had just suggested and the looming figure of Michael Quaife reminded
her, it was a bit late now.

To the despair of
environmentalists, Kim Oliver was one of those drivers who invariably choose
the straightest line from A to B, even if it means straying far from anything
resembling a main road. As a young PC in patrol cars she’d spent so much time
down rat runs the relief had nicknamed her Rizzo. Even night’s empty highways
could not entice her off the back streets, if it meant deviating from her
planned itinerary.

Her
idea of the quick way to New Addington took them through Purley to South
Croydon, then north-east on side streets to emerge onto Croham Valley Road just
below the golf course. A quarter of a mile further on Kim turned into Ballards
Way.

The
plan was to cut across to the top of Gravel Hill, where the main road descended
towards Addington. While not consciously thinking about it her choice of route,
she realised, was probably influenced by memories of following Andrew Clarke to
the Keeper and Wicket. Her surprise, therefore, at seeing what was parked in
the space they’d used for obbo was sufficient for her to press her foot down
momentarily on the brake.

‘What
was that?’ Lucky, whom fresh air from the open windows seemed to have sobered
up somewhat, righted herself from her back seat slump and glanced over her
shoulder. ‘Fox?’

‘Thought
I saw Nina’s car.’

‘Where?’

‘Back
there. The black Mini.’

Lucky
looked again, but they’d rounded a bend. ‘Nope.’

‘Lot
of Minis,’ Juliet suggested. ‘Probably a different car altogether.’

‘Yeah,
probably,’ Kim frowned. ‘I mean we pulled out of there like a week ago.’

The
matter closed, silence fell again and they travelled on.

It was difficult to
know what was meant to happen next. Jeff withdrew despondently and was about to
get out of bed when Jasmin’s arm closed round him with the secure grip of a
grappling hook. He lay down again and she nestled, head on his shoulder, warm
body tight against his side.

‘In
my bag there are tissues,’ she said, stroking his torso with a velvet-clad arm.
‘So clean up a bit, huh? And we’ll begin again.’

Hardly
daring to believe what he’d heard he leaned out of bed for her handbag. He sat
up and allowed her to remove the condom and wipe away the residue. His
pleasurable moan wavered, like a distorted sound effect, and he closed his
eyes, feeling the red rising on his cheeks.

‘Huh?’
Her breasts swayed as she leaned over, taunting him.

‘I’ve
got no more condoms.’ Fuck! Where on earth had he got the idea it wasn’t classy
to carry more than one?

‘Don’t
worry.’ She bowed down and, to his astonishment, kissed him softly on the tip
of his dwindling penis. His stomach somersaulted. Smiling, she glanced up. ‘I
am on the pill.’

He
frowned. ‘Hardly the point.’

‘Is
it a problem?’

‘Not
for me,’ he shrugged. ‘Got tested a year or so back. Druggie stabbed me in the
neck with a needle. All clear though.’ He was babbling, and willed himself to
shut up.

‘I
also. So I trust you.’ Another smile, then she drew towards him again and
kissed him in several places.

He
closed his eyes, surprised to feel himself respond so quickly. The climax had
released tension, but not fulfilled his greater need. He smiled. ‘I’ll give it
a go.’

‘When
you thought Debbie was dead?’

‘What?’
Kim frowned in the mirror at Lucky. They were at the roundabout, waiting to get
onto Gravel Hill. To the east the sky was salmon pink above the downs beyond
Forestdale. All three women felt the weariness of having been up all night, and
now they looked the part as well.

‘That’s
why we called it off, yeah?’ Lucky said. ‘’Cause of that photo. Only now we
know she might still be alive.’

The
way was clear, but Kim felt a sudden disinclination to move. ‘It
was
Nina’s car,’ she reiterated,
certain now.

‘She
say what that phone call was about?’

‘No.’
Kim swung the car three hundred and sixty degrees round the roundabout. ‘She
just took off.’

‘You
got Nina’s number?’

Kim
handed over her mobile and Lucky scrolled through the address book, pressed
send, waited and disconnected with a shake of her head.

‘Voicemail.’

She
dialled again from memory and had a terse conversation.

‘Apparently
they rang the Special Crime duty officer because Luke Benton was picked up D
and D,’ Lucky reported. ‘Dispatch had no idea Nina was up here but she did ring
them about half an hour ago for a PNC check on a dark blue Astra. It was
registered to Michael Quaife.’

Kim
stamped on the accelerator.

Jasmin was right,
as she’d known she would be. She’d held him, kissed him, caressed him, offered
herself to his gaze and touch. And it had worked. Men’s powers of recovery were
a lot quicker than many of them cared to recognise.

Her
conclusion was based less on practical experience than sound common sense. Most
of her relationships had been, as a matter of policy, chaste. She’d intended to
be a good Catholic, to remain celibate until the right person came along, and
in any case coming to England had been – had seemed to be – a
dealbreaker. After all, she’d be in London for a year, maybe less. Sheer
madness, then, to seek romantic involvement. Once back home she could take
stock of her life and career, make some decisions and, if she felt the time was
right, put herself in the market for a man. Common sense.

Only
it hadn’t happened that way.

Jeff,
she knew, had been interested for a long time. He seemed shy, and with a low
opinion of himself, but had a quiet inner strength and perspicacity that
attracted her. Later, when she caught her body sending signals her conscious
brain hadn’t authorised, confusion had taken over, not to mention considerable
embarrassment. But he had, in her case, proved spectacularly inept at reading
body language, and it had become easier and easier for her to suppress thoughts
about him that went beyond platonic friendship. Until tonight.

Now
she struggled to stop thinking about it, because it was still crazy. Not only
was Jeff English and a colleague, but he was a white man. Neither she nor, as
far as she knew, her mother or any of her brothers and sisters had ever had a
white partner. She had no idea whether it was right, or what they’d say, or
what she ought to do now. She was a million miles from home and, to her utter
astonishment, in love. It didn’t make sense. What was important - what mattered
-

What
mattered was that, in ways she had no hope of reducing to reason, Jeff Wetherby
had just booked his place in the rest of her life. White, English, another cop
or not, her heart was in orbit and she wanted him. Once more they rolled and
merged and she felt him sliding in, pulsing and expanding as she drew him
deeper until he filled her, stretching her as he grew in strength. Gentle,
introducing himself with tact and courtesy, confident now, loving, completely
right.

Reassured,
she closed her eyes and kissed him. His response was to thrust, slowly,
shallowly at first, but beginning a sensuous roll of his hips as his strokes
lengthened and he found the beat. A wave of fire crackled up from her loins,
through her belly and into her breasts, which, just then, he began to caress
with his, lifting himself on his elbows and swaying his torso back and forth to
their rhythm. Gradually, the pace increased as he went deeper and harder. He
gasped by her ear with his efforts, making her scalp thrum. Beyond the sea roar
in her ears she heard herself moaning. Wildness took her. Her fingers tried to
knead his back. The nails dug in, dragging across and down, leaving red weals,
but if there was pain he was oblivious. The pungent smell of pheromones surged
from him, rocking her senses. Her sex sprang alive, like a lioness from the
grass. She came with an undulating cry she barely heard over the rush of blood,
the detonation of a galaxy of light in her mind, a cry that turned slowly into
a growl, fading to short, vocal gasps as the climax subsided in a sea of golden
syrup. Her legs gripped him as still he worked her, though more slowly now,
slowly.