The Crime Tsar (20 page)

If Jenni had analysed what she had been told she would have recognised it all as confirmation of what she'd said herself. But she didn't analyse it. She wanted to believe. She wanted to go to her meeting with the Gnome bolstered by magic.

She drove to Russell Square and parked in a fearsomely expensive car-park under a hotel then walked the short distance to the Gnome's flat. It was a beautiful day and London was full of brainless tourists in ghastly clothes drifting along in herds, like wildebeest. Jenni wished the predation that beset the wildebeest on the plains could be visited on these ugly specimens of humanity. She hit an impenetrable wall of French schoolchildren. They were open-mouthed with
boredom and refused to part to allow people to walk on the pavement. Jenni did not walk in the gutter for any spotty adolescent.

‘Excuse me.'

No reaction.

‘Excuse me.'

A little louder, a little less reaction. She smiled and pulled a couple of designer-jacketed sleeves.

‘
Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous anglais?
'

There was a surly chorus of
Ouis
and yeses.

Jenni beamed at them and said in the loud tones of English people talking to foreigners, ‘Then get out of my fucking way.
Now
.'

As if Moses had raised his rod the sea of horrified young faces parted and Jenni proceeded, triumphant, to the Gnome's block.

She pushed the buzzer and was answered by his voice and another buzz to signal the opening of the door. She went in, paused to repair her immaculate make-up, and got into the lift. He met her as the doors opened and immediately had his hand on her. She felt like a whore who had been ordered like a pizza. She went into the flat and was just preparing to comment on its decor, the view, the weather, when he spun her round and rammed his snake-like tongue into her mouth. There was no trace of Robbie MacIntyre. This was The Gnome.

As quickly as was polite she pulled back.

‘Robbie, well, good morning.'

He grunted and started to undress her. It was impossible to recognise the urbane and charming dinner guest of the night before. His strange ugly beautiful face was contorted by determined lust which transformed it into a vicious blood-engorged mask. She wanted to scream. His sweaty hands were leaving marks on the cream silk of her blouse. He had dropped her linen jacket on the floor. Didn't he know how badly linen creased?

‘Robbie. Wait. Just a minute.'

He was annoyed.

‘Why? I have got something you want and you've got something I want.'

She tried coquetry.

‘What have you got for me, Robbie?'

‘Don't be a silly bitch, it doesn't suit you. Whatever I have to give you, I can withhold just as easily. There's no such thing as a free lunch, Jenni, you know that.'

Jenni had never been spoken to like this and she considered walking out. A woman less accustomed to her own way with men would have seen the danger signs. But no man had ever dared go further than Jenni allowed; rape and assault were what happened to other women. Not to her. The medium had said she'd get what she wanted but she hadn't asked how. She couldn't afford to walk. She smiled at him from under her eyelashes, a look guaranteed to disarm. He didn't see it. He was pulling at the blouse again. He pushed it up like a doctor preparing to examine her chest. Then he grabbed her bra and pushed that up too so her breasts hung below a tyre of clothing.

He grabbed them.

‘Nice tits.'

And then he began biting and sucking at them. Jenni felt such revulsion she had to hold her breath. It was like being eaten alive. At the same time he heaved up her skirt and dragged her knickers and tights down to mid-thigh.

‘Tights. Don't like tights. Like stockings. Go in the bathroom and put some on. In the drawer.'

He said it all while chewing on her nipples. Humiliated but glad to be out of pain she went to the door he indicated, pulling up her knickers and pulling down her bra. She thought he'd give her a moment alone, a moment to find the control of the situation, to turn him back into Dr Jekyll, but she was wrong.

‘Still like me, Mrs Chief Constable?'

She swallowed. ‘Of course, why not? These?' she held up a pair of black stockings and suspender belt.

‘They'll do.'

He watched her change in silence.

‘Take it all off except the stockings.'

She could see herself in the huge mirror. It covered one wall. She saw him sit in an oriental-style chair and watch her. He was dribbling with anticipation. Inhuman. She stood in front of him.

‘Put your shoes back on.'

She obeyed. As she straightened up he flung himself on to his knees and buried his face between her legs. She tried to clench them but he prised her thighs apart and continued on her clitoris what he had begun on her breasts. His abnormal tongue searched further and deeper. She was disgusted with herself when she felt a twinge of pleasure.

It passed quickly when he bit her, hard. She yelped. She had to get out – nothing could be worth this. He stood up and grasped her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He pulled so hard her pretty breasts looked like empty bags of skin.

‘Do you want your husband to be Commissioner or do you want Geoffrey Carter to be Commissioner? It's up to you.'

‘How do I know I can trust you? That you won't give it to him anyway.'

‘Because I give you my word. You walk out of here and your husband will get that job over my dead body.'

She looked at him as if that were an option.

‘Your word?'

‘My word.'

She let the air out of her lungs and gave in. As he continued to treat her body like a plate of junk food she found a sort of detachment. She watched him in the mirror and was fascinated by his absorption. He had no desire for her to react. She just stood there. But she could feel he had no erection. She moved her fingers to check that she was right. He pushed her hand away from him as if she was interrupting.

‘Get in the bath.'

She didn't hear him: his voice was muffled by her flesh.

‘What?'

‘Get in the bath. On your hands and knees.'

She did what he said. She was looking down the plughole. The taps were big, Victorian originals. The bath was cold cast iron. And uncomfortable. Hard white enamel.

She jumped when she felt the warm water on her back. Then she smelt it. The sharp acid smell of male urine. It cascaded over her back and hair. It went on and on and on. A form of shock set in. She couldn't think or feel, she just endured. The shower finally stopped. Silence. She didn't dare move. She closed her eyes. Her knees were hurting. She wondered if Lucy had put the glasses on the right setting in the dishwasher. Then she looked round.

Now he had his erection. Because he was so short it was waving on a level with her eyes. It was enormous, shades of red and purple, utterly repulsive. She knew she would be sick if he wanted to put it in her mouth. But he didn't, he wanted her in the bedroom. Stinking and wet she walked ahead of him. He had taken off his trousers but
still had on his shirt and socks. He was encouraging himself with his hands as he followed her.

‘Lie down.'

She lay down.

‘Turn over.'

The words formed themselves quite clearly in her mind: No. Oh no, please. Not that.

She had once had an internal examination carried out by an Egyptian junior registrar. She had had to lodge a complaint after he caused rectal bleeding. But this was worse pain than she even remembered from childbirth. She knew that pain was worse. But the utter degradation that accompanied this made it the final pit of hell.

She tried to scream and found she couldn't breathe through the pillow her face was now pressed into by his weight. He struggled and pushed and thrust as if he was trying to win a race. Still ramming into her he pushed his long-nailed fingers into her vagina. He rubbed them hard against his penis through the thin skin. Then with a rictus of loud ecstasy he came deep inside her, smashing against her buttocks. She had to brace her hands against the headboard to stop her head smashing into it. With a final grunt he flopped on to her back, murmuring, ‘Good fuck, Jenni. Better next time, eh?'

And then he was asleep. Still inside her though she had collapsed on to the bed now with no pretence of enjoyment. Detached from the hideous reality, she unloaded him. She didn't look back at his repulsive body sprawled, snoring, across the bed as she ran into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she was still standing under the shower and the blood still ran red in the water.

Her hands shook as she dressed and she found she had to sit down to do up the buttons of her blouse. The mirror that had witnessed her degradation showed her a composed and beautiful woman with slightly flushed cheeks. There was no mark on her face to show what had happened to her. But the tearing pain below was more eloquent than a broken nose or black eye.

Jenni went back into the bedroom determined to be controlled, cool with him. As if he had done nothing she had not experienced before. He was lying against the piled-up pillows that were marked with her lipstick, smoking a cigar. His face was once again his own,
no longer inhabited by evil. There was even a sweetness in his expression, a gentleness. He was in a fine mood.

‘Always have a cigar after a good meal.'

‘I've got to go, Robbie. I'm sorry.'

‘Aren't you forgetting something, Jenni?'

A kiss goodbye? An affectionate hug perhaps? Jenni looked blank. She couldn't go nearer to him.

He put his abnormally long hand under the pillows.

‘This. You could have read it if you hadn't been enjoying yourself so much.'

He handed her a piece of paper:

Memo: Confidential. Re the appointment of next Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It is felt that Thomas Shackleton QPM, LLB …

Jenni looked at it but couldn't read any more. Her face had rested on this during her ultimate humiliation. This was her payment. This was what she wanted. She should be triumphant. She should be as satisfied as the repellent Gnome scratching his balls on the bed. She smiled a ghost of a smile.

‘Thank you, Robbie. I'll see myself out.'

‘Yes, Jenni. We must do it again some time, eh?'

He winked at her. He waited until he heard the front door open before he phoned his wife.

Waiting for her to answer he rubbed himself thoughtfully, considering the blood on his penis, and felt disgust. It was as much a part of the experience as the uncontrollable hunger that consumed him as soon as one of these ambitious women decided sex with him was a legitimate route to success.

He felt disgust because he couldn't control himself, not because of what he did. He had always excused himself because he screwed women who were willing. Women who asked for it. Who deserved it. No, his disgust was at his desire being greater than his rational self. For being out of control.

He wife answered.

‘Yes, Lizie, I think I will come home tonight. I always sleep better in my own bed … yes, see you about eight or nine. Last night? Oh it was fine. The hostess is a bit tight-arsed but I managed to loosen her
up. Yes… I've got some paperwork but, yes, let's have a quiet night, and how about fish and chips, eh? Pretend we're young and poor again, shall we? … I love you too, Lizie. But God only knows why you love me. Bye.'

The phone call hadn't stopped his train of thought. He remembered seeing a young woman walking ahead of him one day and the overwhelming urge he had for her. Long slim legs, skirt a little too tight, riding up a little at every step. Great arse. Round and high. Small waist. Confident. Too confident with her lap-top briefcase and telephone earpiece. He remembered the urge he'd had to grab a handful of her hair and force her to her knees. To see her lipsticked mouth encompassing him. To watch her choke and cry …

Then, feeling him too close, she'd turned and said, ‘Hello, Daddy, what are you doing here?'

He'd convinced himself all fathers had a moment when they saw their daughters as women and were disturbed at the desire they felt. To realise you were stirred by the sight of their breasts, the closeness of their bodies. But what MacIntyre had felt wasn't fleeting. He had lingered over the thoughts of what he wanted to do to her. But, he'd consoled himself, he only did it to a certain sort of woman. There had been nowhere for him to hide when he realised his little girl was now exactly that sort of woman. He was now, when not in the grip of it, fearful of his appetite for the extreme.

But he hadn't been extreme with Jenni. Extreme had once cost him a great deal of money and almost his career but in those days the police had little patience with women who cried rape and certainly none with women who were pragmatic enough to take a couple of thousand pounds to keep quiet.

He turned on the CD player and Beethoven engulfed him. Standing naked at the huge window he looked down on Bloomsbury, then further afield towards the river, St Paul's and the flashing beacon of Canary Wharf in the distance.

He longed for the comfort of the confessional but knew that would be self-indulgence. If he really wanted redemption it would be harder than three Hail Marys and a Glory Be.

Tom Shackleton would never be overcome with desire, with the need for degradation and bestiality. But neither would he stand
naked consumed with the beauty of great music, moved by the fragility of the London skyline. His was a soul on Prozac.

Lucky man, thought MacIntyre.

When Lucy got home it was dark. Gary had slept all day but he was no better; in fact she had sensed from the nurse's attitude he was worse. She was still wearing her little silk dress, which hung like a rag now. She was exhausted and felt as if she hadn't washed for a week. She was too tired to eat or go upstairs for a shower.

The house was exactly as it had been when the ambulance arrived. No reason why it wouldn't be but she felt as if there should be a difference. She was different but the evidence of Gary's crisis was unchanged, still reproaching her neglect. She sat on the edge of his bed. The room felt cold. There was nothing so bleak as the deserted equipment of disability. The empty wheelchair, the ridiculous hoist, the cumbersome bed with its primitive press-button controls.