Stalkers. Paul Finch
They don’t mess around. They’ve been watching you for weeks, noting your every move. They know who your friends are, where your family can be found …’
‘My … my family?’ she said, with a new sense of creeping horror.
‘That’s correct, Louise … your family. If this thing goes tits up, it isn’t going to finish with you. I’m going to get what I want, and I don’t care how. Of course it would be easier for all of us if we kept things nice and friendly.’ He ogled her revealing outfit again. ‘At least … as much as I’m capable of that. Your play, my darling.’
‘I … I need a drink first.’
He looked surprised by that, and not a little pleased. ‘That’s a good girl. Well done.’ He turned to the sideboard, collecting her champagne. ‘This is a Bollinger 1990 by the way. I spared no expense, as you can see.’
She stepped forward to accept it, trying her best to smile, though it was difficult to keep her lips from trembling. Perhaps he sensed this as she took the drink from him – his expression suddenly changed, but it was too late. She hurled the drink into his face, glass and all. The glass broke with the impact, a shard slicing open his left cheek.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he squawked, flailing blindly at her.
She pushed past him and went straight for the door next to the drinks cabinet, praying that it wouldn’t be locked – though of course it was. She wanted to scream as she pounded on it with her fists. Behind her, Blenkinsop was still swearing. She swung around to face him, expecting to have to ward off blows. But he hadn’t followed her. Instead he was addressing someone else, gazing up at a corner of the ceiling where she now saw a small surveillance camera.
‘Look what she’s fucking done!’ he shouted, clamping a handkerchief to his bloodied cheek. ‘I told you I need her compliant. I’ve given her every fucking chance, but she doesn’t want to know.’
There was a loud thumping of wood, and a clunk as a bolt was drawn. Louise toppled forward as the door burst open behind her. Two men came barging in: the black guy in the orange ski-mask and the white guy in the purple. Orange grabbed her by the wrists and threw her onto the bed. Purple, she could see, was already tapping another needle.
‘No!’ she shrieked, but her struggles were futile.
Orange held her down easily, pressing her on the mattress with his own body as his associate leaned forward and applied the injection. Blenkinsop stood to one side and watched in silence, though his face had gone a little grey; blood was turning his handkerchief crimson. When Orange got back to his feet, Louise lay still, limp as a rag doll. He casually flicked her skirt up, before turning to face Blenkinsop.
‘Reckon you can manage now?’
Blenkinsop nodded nervously, unable to take his eyes off Louise’s exposed underwear and the golden triangle of pubic hair visible through its filmy material.
‘You might need this.’ Orange pushed something into Blenkinsop’s hand.
It was a jar of lubricant.
The Raven’s Nest at Hammersmith was the closest thing Heck had to a local. He’d lived in Fulham for fourteen years now, and had finally chosen ‘the Nest’ not just because it was small and homely – as opposed to being large and impersonal, like so many London pubs – but also because its landlord Phil Mackintosh was an Aussie, who regularly had the widescreen TV in his snug tuned to Australian rugby league. Heck, being a Lancashire lad by origin, also had a fondness for the thirteen-a-side rugby code, so this had proved a draw for him.
Unfortunately, that first Sunday evening of Heck’s enforced leave there was no match on, Phil was off duty and, this being one of the quieter nights of the week, there wasn’t really anyone else to talk to. Instead, Heck drank a few beers and sank a few whiskies – since leaving the Yard that afternoon, the idea of getting totally plastered had become very appealing. It was another warm August evening, so he spent his first couple of hours on the terrace watching the river glide by, then finally traipsed back indoors where he bought another beer with a whisky chaser, and moved into the pool room. He shot a few balls around, hoping someone would turn up and offer him a game, but no one did. Going into the bar again, he exchanged pleasantries with a couple of customers who he knew vaguely, but it was difficult striking up conversation purely for the sake of it.
Mid-evening had now arrived, so he bought yet another round and retreated back to the pool room. He was warming up inside and his vision was getting blurry, which was just the way he wanted it. The downside of course was that hitting targets accurately had become a complex process. It took an age working his way round to the black, and he then spent several minutes squinting along his cue, trying to focus on the final pocket, only to be distracted by a very shapely pair of crossed legs that he suddenly noticed on the other side of the table. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but those legs were brown, bare, very smooth, and went all the way up to the hem of an indecently short denim skirt. A backless white sandal with a stiletto heel dangled sexily.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the shot went wide.
‘Oh dear,’ said a sympathetic voice.
Heck glanced up at the girl to whom the legs belonged. She was seated on a high stool, from where she’d clearly been watching him for several minutes.
She was somewhere in her late twenties and a stunner – with dark eyes, full lips and perfectly symmetrical features, she almost looked like a young Halle Berry. Her thick black hair was held up with wooden pins, though it would probably fall to her shoulders in a slick of glossy curls if released. A tight green vest with an image of Jay-Z emblazoned on the front accentuated a trim waist and generous bosom.
Heck realised he was gawking. He clamped his mouth shut.
‘See anything you like?’ she asked innocently.
‘Er, no … I mean yeah obviously … er, sorry.’ He smiled awkwardly, placed his cue on the table and headed for the bar.
‘Play with yourself here often?’ she called after him.
He turned and looked back. She was smiling provocatively, as if dying to hear his response.
‘I wouldn’t usually,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never found anyone else who’s up to the job.’
‘That’s a brave boast after what I’ve just seen.’
‘You challenging me, miss?’
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. ‘It would be no contest at all.’
He indicated the vacant table. ‘Rack ’em up.’
She did. And very gallantly, he let her take the first shot. Which proved to be a big mistake. She potted four stripes one after another, only missing a fifth by millimetres. In response, he potted a spot, but the white followed it down. She then embarked on another break, which only ended when she potted the black after bouncing it skilfully off two opposing cushions.
‘You know, all that proves is you’ve had a misspent youth,’ Heck said.
‘My mum wouldn’t need that proving to her.’
‘I’ll bet she wouldn’t.’ He couldn’t help checking her out again, especially those shiny, shapely legs. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘You offering?’
They went through to the bar, where Heck – still unable to believe his luck, because this sort of thing never, ever happened – ordered her a rum with coke, getting himself another pint of bitter and a double Scotch.
‘You drinking to forget, or something?’ she asked, as they settled at a table.
‘I’m drinking because I’m on holiday.’