Chapter 54

The station was a hive of activity as usual. The waiting room, a square whitewashed block with a counter against the back wall, was noisy and full. The brightness and white glare of the walls, painted constantly to cover up the graffiti the hoodlums would scribble while bored, made the place look like a hospital. The smell of the newly painted surfaces crawled into the sinuses of everybody that entered.

Standing behind the counter in the reception area, a bored looking sergeant was booking in two youths for joyriding in stolen motors. Constantly told to take down their hoodies and pull up their jeans, which were hanging excessively low under their butt cheeks, the lads just huffed and mumbled their disrespect and hatred for the police. On a row of hard metal seats, bolted to the floor to stop people throwing them, waiting in turn to be called forward to state their business, sat a line of people.

The walls were adorned with framed pictures of the officers based at the station. Each one, gleaming with a false smile, tried to show that they were proud of their uniform and job. It didn't work. Looking at the officers, moving through the station like controlled robots, their faces showed the frustrations and boredom of the job.

Taking pride of place in the centre of the smiling pictures was the Chief Inspector, Mr John Taylor. The image showed a man with determination and pride written all over him. His tailor made suit, clinging to every curve of his frame, was a perfect fit. Aged in his mid-fifties, he looked toned and in good shape. Standing to attention, chest out and shoulders back, you could have lined up a spirit level on his back and the bubble would have been perfectly dead centre. His face was tanned and flawless and gave a warm welcoming expression. His full head of hair, grey and parted neatly to one side, let everyone know that he took meticulous care of his appearance.

At the sound of a buzzer, an officer entered through a set of double doors to the right of the sergeant's counter. With the doors open, the people waiting strained their necks to look down the corridor beyond that lead to several rooms, just in case they saw somebody they knew. Taking a young woman by the arm, the officer walked her through to one of the four interview rooms accompanied by the cheers of the seated people.

In the Chiefs office, the reporters from the local rag, The Post, were gathered. Their camera, set on a tripod, flashed at the smiling man. With his police cap tucked under his arm, Chief Taylor thought himself a local celebrity and revelled in the limelight. Holding up the commendation for his role in helping local families and talks on the importance of family loyalty, he was never one to shy away from publicity and was always ecstatic to see his face plastered over a double page spread.

He had started the Family Relation Scheme just over a year ago. Spearheading it himself, he wanted to get the youngsters who were causing havoc around the estates, back in touch with their families. He believed that a close family, loving and loyal, would stop the youth of today from running amok. He believed that if they understood that they had a voice that was heard and respected, they would not take out their anger on the surrounding areas. He had set up play leader schemes, chat meetings and counselling sessions for anyone that wanted to participate.

Using his own teenage sons as examples, he wanted to show that, with a good family life there could be peace in the surrounding neighbourhood. Within six months of the launch, the youth crime wave had reduced significantly.

He loved to parade his family, perceived to be perfect and loving in every way, any chance he could. With every accolade and photo splashed in the papers, he insisted that a family picture was also printed. Also along with a copy sent to him at the station for good measure. The papers were kept stacked neatly, in date order on his highly polished solid oak table, ready to show off to anyone that may happen to glance in the general direction.

His office now free of journalists, he leans back into his black swivel office chair. Unlocking the top drawer, he reaches for a picture hidden under a pile of folders. The naked woman, lying on satin sheets, had her arms tied above her head and to the corners of the bed frame. The position of her legs, raised up over her head and meeting her hands, made her look submissive and vulnerable. Eyeing the exposed smooth triangle between her legs, her wetness glistening from the camera flash, his pulse quickens and his lust rises. Shifting his hand under the desk, he could not resist the urge to rub his ever-growing bulge. Lowering the zip of his trousers, letting his member jump out from its restrictive prison like a coiled spring, he licks his lips and wraps his fingers tightly around the shaft. Glaring at the glossy print with manic intensity in his eyes, he noticed she looked red and swollen, sore even, but with the open palmed slaps he had rained down on her sensitive lips, each one making her gasp, it was to be expected.

He didn't know who the woman was, he had not seen her before and quite frankly he didn't care, but Saim had done well with his new tart.

It had been just over a week since he saw her and could not wait for his next visit. This time he would be certain to have a new empty SD card for his camera. This time, he will take even more shots with which to pleasure himself.

The rap on the door startled him and made him look up. Shouting a yes to the intrusive disturbance, the door opened. The red headed WPC, entering the office, was young and had a full figure. His hand still under the table, he nods as confirmation to take a seat.