Chapter 16

The journey back to London in the limousine was uneventful and, for Carol, a pleasant rest. She helped herself to a few drinks from the bar and found that it was almost a novelty to be wearing clothes once more. But all too soon the peace and quiet of the countryside gave way to the hustle and bustle of the city and, not too long after that, the stretched Cadillac was travelling the crowded streets of Mayfair before being driven into the Club's underground garage. Carol let herself out, thanked the driver, and entered the administration area of the operation. Pretty soon she was in the presence of the Personnel Manager, Mr Osbourne, who asked her how things had gone. "Absolutely fine," she replied. "No problems at all... or, at least, none that I am aware of."

"Good, good. Mr Ilyama faxed ahead and I've prepared your payment as agreed." The manager opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thick envelope which he placed onto the highly polished top before pushing it over to Carol's side. For her part, Carol couldn't take her eyes off the cash and already she was mentally in the solicitor's office handing the money on and thus taking another step in the long chain needed to get her children back. "Will you count it and sign here please, Miss Hargreaves?"

Carol picked up the envelope and signed for it unchecked. "If I can't trust you over this, what can I trust you about?" she asked him with a smile.

"Trust is one thing, Miss Hargreaves... but people do make errors. Still, I now have your signature and that's all that matters to me."

"Errors are correctable, I feel sure."

"By the way, Miss Hargreaves - have you ever been married?"

"That's a very odd question to ask me... but no, never married," Carol replied. "Why?"

"And do you have a passport?"

Carol chuckled at this. "Sorry... but where I live, people can't afford holidays much and we certainly don't go abroad. But, again, why?"

Mr Osbourne smiled mysteriously. "It's possible that there's another job coming up for you. Nothing like the last one... but involving some overseas travel and a break from work here for a short period. But it would pay well..."

"And be illegal... ?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a knowing look. "But it pays well?"

"Very well."

"I'll think about it then..."

Reaching her home, Carol let herself in and was immediately struck by the drabness of the place. It didn't take long to get used to the better things in life, she mused to herself as she crossed the room and picked up the telephone handset before dialling Nancy's home number. The instrument range four or five times before a sleepy voice answered. "Afternoon, pet," Carol trilled. "On the night shift again?"

"You better believe it," slurred the voice at the other end.

"Well... get yourself up and round here. By the time you arrive, I'll have a nice cooked breakfast on the go for you."

"That sounds good. Give me half an hour..."

In the police station canteen, Ian and Fiona were sitting together at a table; they had finished their food and were leaning towards each other talking in whispers. "If I was free to do so," Ian was saying, "would you marry me?"

Fiona smiled. "Of course... it would be only right that our child have a father. But since your wife is refusing to even consider a divorce and since, from what you tell me, she seems really rather fit, I doubt if there's much chance of you being free to remarry in the near future. But it was good of you to ask."

Ian shrugged his shoulders. "It's nice to dream," he muttered.

"By the way," she replied, changing the subject a little, "are you any closer to figuring out who sent all that incriminating stuff to your wife in the first place?"

Ian shook his head sadly. "Not really... not any specific person anyway." He paused and looked about him. "However, I've looked at the stuff that was sent and all of it was gathered in or around the station. Whoever it is, they're staff here - maybe a copper or maybe one of the civilian support people. But whoever they are, the bastard works here with us!"

"Shit!"

"Quite..."

Nancy rolled up at Carol's flat and rang the door bell even though it was just as easy for her to let herself in using one of her credit cards to force the lock. After a short wait, Carol opened the door and bid her friend to enter. Nancy had to smile for her hostess was holding a spatula and wearing a plastic apron... and nothing else! "Is that what all the trendy chefs are wearing these days?" she asked.

Carol grinned and shut the door before heading back to the kitchen. "Only those who are expecting their bestest of pals to join them for a meal," she joked as she returned to the grill.

Nancy closed in from behind and looped her arms round the other woman's waist before running a finger down through the cleft between Carol's pussy lips. "Hmmmm!" the cook muttered approvingly. "But you'd best cut that out unless you want burnt offerings!"

Nancy laughed and, after planting a kiss onto the side of Carol's neck, released her grip before sitting at the table. "So, how's life?"

"So-so."

"Enjoy your time in the country?"

Carol smiled as she recalled what had happened. "Oh, yes," she mused as she slipped the fried eggs onto the plates that were already crowded with bacon, sausage, baked beans, tomatoes and fried bread. "Be a love and pour the tea."

Nancy pick up the already prepared pot while Carol placed the plates onto the table before removing her apron and sitting down, stark naked. "Just don't be sloppy with your food," warned Nancy in jest.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful," Carol agreed as she cut the end of her sausage and dipped it into the runny yellow of her egg. "By the way," she mumbled around the mouthful of food, "are you folks any nearer to figuring out who killed Steve yet?"

Leaving Carol hanging on and waiting nervously for an answer, Nancy slurped a mouthful of strong tea back before replying in the negative. "Things have kinda dried up there. Forensic turned up nothing worth shit and there doesn't appear to be any witnesses. It also seems that almost no-one liked the victim so no-one wants to put themselves out. The other victim, on the other hand... what was her name?"

"Brenda," supplied Carol.

"Yeah... whatever... she had a few friends but, again, no-one knows all that much. From what I can tell, the Inspector's going to settle for the original theory - Steve killed the girl and then person or persons unknown killed him. That way at least one of the murders can be written off as a solved crime."

"That's a shame... that you're not any nearer figuring out who did it I mean," lied Carol, ever so pleased with the answer she'd received... and with herself for thinking of befriending the disgustingly overweight lesbian cop as a source of information from inside the police station...

Ian left work early citing ill-health as the reason before he drove himself home in his old Vauxhall estate and parked up in the driveway. Just as he was locking the car up, a large, black BMW with heavily tinted windows pulled up at the curbside and his wife clambered out, a silly grin plastered all over her face. Blowing a kiss to the unseen driver, she stepped back and waved after the car as it powered up the quiet road. She didn't move until it was out of sight and, when it was, she turned and wove her way unsteadily up the drive with a dreamy expression plastered over her face towards the house, passing her husband without saying a word. Furious, Ian followed and caught her up at the front door. "Well?" he demanded. "Was that him?"

"Who?" she replied slowly, a glazed look in her eyes.

"Him! Your... your hired gigolo!"

"As it happens, it was. Virile, well hung, chivalrous, manly... all the things you aren't!" she taunted. "And a damned good he was in bed too!"

"Keep your voice down, woman - the neighbours'll hear!"

"I don't care! I've been fucked and fucked good and I don't care who knows it!" he wife called out, raising her voice appropriately

"You've been drinking, haven't you?"

She raised her hand and jabbed her husband in the chest with her forefinger. "My, ever the clever detective, aren't we? Of course I've been drinking - vintage champagne as provided by Room Service... along with some rather nice canapés."

"Champ..." he spluttered. "Room Service? How much has all this cost?"

"I don't know... but you'll soon find out. I charged it all onto the credit card. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and lay down for a few hours," and, so saying, she opened the front door and entered the house.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ian was horrified to see the woman next door staring at him over her washing line, her mouth hanging loosely open. Clearly she'd heard everything. Embarrassed, Ian tried to smile at her and failed miserably before slinking into the house after his wife. Maybe, he thought to himself with a slight frown, just maybe he could arrange a small 'accident' for the bitch... ?

Then Ian Smythe pulled himself up short and his expression vanished. 'Actually, ' he thought, 'that's not a bad idea. It would sure solve several of my problems... and then there's the life insurance. But could I really do it?' For a moment he paused and pondered. 'Yes, I could... but I'd be such an obvious suspect. No, what I'd have to do would be to organise a hit on her... and make damned sure that I was a long, long way away... with an absolutely watertight alibi. But who could I get to do the deed... ?'

The next evening saw Carol standing in the hall of the Club, once more dressed in her maid's outfit. She'd had a busy day that had started with a visit to the offices of her firm of solicitors where she handed over a thousand pounds of her money in return for an assurance that they would work as hard as they possibly could and would do their best to get her children back for her. She'd then gone round to the Bishop's apartment where she'd cleaned the place from top to bottom while all the time under his watchful gaze. And now here she was awaiting the ringing of the doorbell. Much to her surprise, however, it wasn't the arrival of a customer that disturbed her, rather it was the sudden appearance of Mr Osbourne from his office. "Girls!" he called out somewhat short of breath. "Mister Packard's booked himself in for a session - arriving in about half and hour. Move!"