Flowers at Midnight E-Book

Nick Sweet

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Leader of the opposition, Sir Alex Bolton, is being blackmailed. After dancer Bella takes pictures of him with a spy camera, people in high places plan to make sure that nothing prevents Sir Alex from becoming Britain’s next prime minister.

While Bella is shacked up with her new lover Martin, her bank robber ex-boyfriend Joey shows up at their doorstep after getting an early release from prison. A stash of 3 million pounds is hidden somewhere, and the fellow bank robbers he ratted on are after him and the money.

After Chief Inspector Preston and Detective Sergeant Johnson are called to investigate, bodies start to pile up at an alarming rate, and they must navigate the investigation while under pressure to avoid a PR nightmare.

Leseprobe

Flowers at Midnight

Nick Sweet

Copyright (C) 2017 Nick Sweet

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

PART ONE

Chapter One

Bella smiled. “Taste okay, darling?”

“I'm sure you could find worse stuff on the wine shelf at Waitrose,” Alex replied.

Bella had been trying to persuade Sir Alex to drink her urine ever since they first slept together ten days ago, and he'd finally agreed to play ball. The best part was that she'd secretly used the spy camera in her wristwatch to photograph him guzzling it down.

Sir Alex said, “I have to be at the House in a couple of hours.”

She threw him a coquettish glance over her shoulder and saw the greedy lust sparkle in the old goat's eyes. Sir Alex was an extremely rich man with a wife of around his own age who probably loved him, but that wasn't enough for the wrinkled bastard. She turned and smiled at him. “Can I do anything else for you?”

“A cup of tea would be nice, darling.”

Bella patted her bobbed black hair into place, and as she pouted into the mirror to check that her cherry lipstick was on right, she saw Sir Alex ogling her ass. She lifted her white cotton dress from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. The dress clung to her wet buttocks, their rounded contours shifting like miniature seismic plates as she padded softly to the kitchen.

Sir Alex followed in a black silk bathrobe, his greying hair still wet from the shower. He shuffled up and took her in his arms. He smelt disgusting when he kissed her, and Bella almost gagged. The next thing she knew, he was lifting her onto the worktop, and he entered her for the second time that day. She dug her nails into his back as he fucked her hard.

The knowledge that her boyfriend, Martin, would kill her if he knew what she was doing only heightened her excitement.

Sir Alex cannoned into orgasm, and Bella came with him. Then she slipped down off the edge of the worktop. “I say,” she giggled, “we are feeling hot today.”

“It's hard not to feel that way when I look at you.” Sir Alex took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out.

“You only want me for one thing, Alex.” Bella balanced this accusation with a coquettish smile.

“I love your pussy, darling, it's true,” he confessed. “But that's only because I love you, Gina.”

Gina was the name Bella was using.

“A case of love me, love my pussy, is it?”

“Precisely.”

“But is that the man or the politician talking?”

“How can you possibly say such a thing? I'm only Machiavellian when I'm in the House, darling. Never with you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Machiavelli was an Italian political philosopher. He wrote a book called The Prince, which is all about how to succeed in politics.”

“Don't tell me. He says you need to bullshit a lot, right?”

“Something like that, yes, as it happens.”

“Did he like to drink women's pee-pee, too?”

“You'd have to ask him —only that might prove a tad difficult.”

“How come?”

“He died in 1527.”

Chapter Two

Martin Butler developed Bella's film and printed the photographs the following morning down in his darkroom at the Chelsea Centre. Having satisfied himself that they'd come out okay, he went out and called Mrs. Big from a phone box on King's Road. He stood there in his stonewashed jeans and leather jacket, thrumming his fingers on the window as he listened to the ringtone.

“Hello?”

“It's me. I've got the photographs.”

“And they came out as clearly and as I wanted, did they?”

“They came out perfectly.”

“Good. In that case, I need you to bring them to me. Be on the embankment by Putney Bridge, on the northwest side, at eleven sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.”

“I'll need the camera and the chip you used in it, too, of course. Bring it all in an A4 manila envelope. An associate of mine will be there to meet you.”

“Why won't you be there?”

“I'll be nearby. You will need to wait a minute or two while my man brings me the package so I can check it. Then so long as everything's in order, he'll come straight back and pay you.”

“How long's all this gonna take?”

“Couple of minutes, tops.”

“But how will I recognize this associate of yours?”

“You won't. He'll recognize you.”

“And how do I know you're gonna pay me once your guy leaves with the camera and the photographs?”

“Listen, if people who work for me do a good job, then I pay them—that way I can always use them again. You understand me?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Don't be late.”

They hung up and Martin drove back to the flat in Cambridge Gardens off Portobello Road.

Bella was sitting up in bed reading a magazine when he walked in. She was wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else and looked utterly ravishing. “All right, Bel?” He winked at her and worked his arms out of his leather jacket, dropping it over the back of an upright chair.

“What happened?” She put her magazine down and looked at him.

“I've spoken to the lady.”

“Mrs. Big?”

Martin sat on the side of the bed, took his brown leather loafers off and swung his legs up. “We're gonna make the exchange tomorrow morning at eleven.” He turned and caressed Bella's cheek, which was very white and wonderfully smooth to the touch. “You look'n smell terrific, babe.”

“What about the photos, Mart?”

“What about them?”

“You're sure they came out okay? I mean, you can see that it's definitely him in them, can you?”

“Old David fuckin” Bailey couldn't 've made the guy come out any clearer, Bel, I'm telling you. No worries.”

“Let me have a look at them, then.”

“They aren't here. I've got them stashed away in a safe place along with the camera.”

“Can you see my face in them, too?”

“Course you can't. D' you think I'm stupid or something?”

“I was only asking.”

“Fuck me, Bel.” Martin shook his head like he couldn't believe she could ask him such a dumb question.

“But what if he comes into the Revuebar looking for me, Mart?”

“Who?”

“Alex fucking Boulton, our politician friend. Who d'you think I meant?”

“But he doesn't know you work there.”

“He might be able to find out, though… I mean, he must have all sorts of contacts, a man in his position.”

“Now you're starting to get paranoid. Anyway, even if he did find out you work at the Revuebar, he's not gonna try'n come after you, is he?”

“How do you know he won't?”

“The man's a fucking politician, not some bloody lunatic.”

“You just love the danger of it, don't you?”

“We need the money, Bel. Besides, we need to move out of this place. That mad hubby of yours 'll be out to kill us both if he knows I'm shacked up here with you.”

“But Joey's banged up in nick.”

“He won't be in there forever.”

* * *

Mona Chapman drove through South London and pulled up outside of a particularly dilapidated squat on Brixton Hill.

After climbing out of the car, she walked and hammered on the door. A lad with his hair in dreadlocks came and opened up. “I've come to see Al,” Mona said.

“Ain't no Al lives here, man.” The lad went to shut the door in Mona's face, but she used her foot to stop him.

“I'm an old friend of his. Tell him I've got some good news.”

The lad eyed Mona up and down suspiciously for a moment, but then he told her to wait and disappeared inside the house.

Moments later, Al came to the door. An extremely pale and skinny man of medium height, he was dressed in dirty jeans and a dirtier T-shirt. “Oh, Mo, it's you. This's a surprise. How're tricks?”

“I don't do that kind of thing anymore.”

He laughed. “You always did have a sense of humour.”

“I've got a job for you.”

“You mean you're bringing me a commission?”

“Not exactly. There's money in it, though.”

“What do I have to do, Mo?”

“I'll explain on the way. Come on, let's go.”

“Hang on a sec.” Al disappeared for a moment, then when he came back he was wearing an old pilot's jacket.

“Aren't you going to brush your hair?”

“This is the way I wear it.”

“I've seen tangled spaghetti that looked less of a mess.”

Mona pushed the button on the fob in her hand, the locks on her Volvo opened with a clunk, and they both climbed in. “Good solid set of wheels you got here,” Al said, patting the seat.

“You know me. I never did buy into the starving artist bit, not even when we were at the Slade.”

“You look good, Mo.”

Mona flashed him a sideways glance. “You look like shit, Al. Whatever happened to you?”

“Right now, I need a fix and I'm broke.”

“Just think of me as your fairy godmother.”

“You mean you've got some smack for me?”

“No, but I can help you get some.”

“I like the sound of this. What's the catch?”

“The usual quid pro quo, Al.”

“Quid what?”

“You scratch my back…”

“What kind of back-scratching are we talking about?”

“How much does a wrap of heroin cost nowadays?”

“Twenty quid.”

“Well, you do something very simple for me, and in return I will give you twenty quid to score a wrap. How does that sound?”

“Will you drive me there, too, to save me the fare?”

“Think I can probably stretch to that.”

“Okay, so what's this very simple something you're talking about?”

“You go and meet a man.”

“What man?”

“You don't need to know.”

“Must be someone dangerous. Who is it, General fuckin' Gaddafi?”

“No, he's dead. Don't you read the papers?”

“So who is it, then?”

“Nobody you need to worry about. The guy's completely harmless.”

“What's keeping you from meeting him, then?”

“He's my ex, and I know he'd only start pleading with me to go back with him. You know the score.”

“You were always more into girls back in the days when we were at the Slade.”

“Still am.”

“But this ex you're talking about's a bloke, you said, right?”

“He was a mistake's what he was.”

“The Mr. Wrong who confirmed for you that you were right to want to be with girls all along, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“All right. First we go and score some smack, though, yeah?”

“No, we get the heroin after. Didn't they ever teach you at school that you have to do your work first and then you get to play?”

“I didn't go to that kind of school.”

* * *

They drove over Putney Bridge, took a left, and Mona found a place to park. Then she reached into the glove compartment, brought out a pair of binoculars and looked through them. She saw traffic moving over the bridge in a steady stream, passengers walking along the footpath, and a red bus. The sky was dull grey as was the river. Blocks of flats and offices ran along the far bank.

Mona shifted the binoculars to the left and saw a man out walking his dog along the embankment. She moved them again, only too far, and found herself looking at the high towers of the city's financial district in the distance. She adjusted the angle slightly once more, and spotted Bella Armando's photographer boyfriend, Martin Butler. He was standing on the embankment by the start of the bridge and had a large manila envelope under his arm.

Mona turned to Al. “He's over there—look.” She handed him the binoculars, trying to keep them pointed at the same angle. “Shortish, brown hair, wearing faded jeans, scuffed brown loafers… a brown leather jacket over a T-shirt that has ABERCROMBIE written across it.”

“Yeah, I got him.”

“Just ask him to give you the large envelope he's got for me and bring it straight over. And don't open it or anything on the way. Think you can manage that?”

“And then we go'n score some heroin, right?”

“Sure, once I've checked that he's handed over what I asked for. Then, presuming he has, you'll have to go back and give him something from me.”

“And what if the guy fails to cough up what you wanted—I still get my twenty quid plus the ride to Brixton, right?”

“Of course. I just meant you wouldn't have to go back and give him anything, in that case. Oh, and one more thing… don't get into conversation with him.”

“Why, is he likely to want to talk?”

“No, but if he tries to, just cut him off, okay?”

“Right.”

“Good, so get to it.”

Mona watched Al through her binoculars as he went over to Martin Butler and took the envelope from Butler's outstretched hand. “Good lad, no talking, that's it,” she said aloud, as she watched Al turn and start to make his way back.

As soon as he got back to the car, Mona stuck her hand out the window and snatched the manila envelope from him. She slid one of the photographs out, taking care to hold it up so that Al couldn't see what she was looking at. Then her head spun with excitement as she looked at a photograph of Sir Alex Boulton. In the photo, the MP was lying in a bathtub with his mouth open while a woman whose face was off-camera pissed into it. Mona was experiencing the sort of “buzz” a person gets when they know they are close to making a great deal of money at a stroke.

Mona handed Al the envelope with the money in it. “Now give him this.”

She watched Al through the binoculars once more as he went and handed Martin Butler his fee. The moment he got back into the passenger seat, he told her he needed his fix.

Mona couldn't get over what a mess the guy had become.

Chapter Three

The thought that she now had the photographs in her possession added a certain rosy glow to Mona's mood as she sat fondling her beloved Winifred. They were in the Revuebar, watching the show, and Mona was feeling gooood. She reckoned she understood now what her brother Donny meant when he talked about the feeling of elation that comes from perpetrating a crime and getting away with it.

The best bit was how she'd got those two stupid innocents, Bella Armando and her wannabe photographer of a boyfriend, Martin Butler, to do all the legwork. She'd given them a measly ten grand for their trouble, but what they didn't know was that she was going to be raking in a couple of hundred grand for herself.

What made it even better was the fact that Mona was a “friend” of Bella's… only the poor girl and her boyfriend didn't know that it was her they'd been working for. Those two pathetic amateurs had no fucking idea. They just didn't have any class. Credit where it was due, though, Mona thought, as she watched Bella Armando strut her stuff up on the stage. The girl did have one hell of a cute butt, even if she didn't have much in her head.

* * *

After the show, Mona and Winifred walked from the Revuebar down to Le Caprice, the restaurant near Covent Garden, where Winifred had arranged to meet her husband John and dine with Sir Alex Boulton and his wife Prunella.

“Well thanks for a lovely time, Mo.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Win.”

“I can assure you that's not true.” Winifred narrowed her eyes and gave Mona a certain look, then the two women brushed cheeks.

“Oh, you're such a hot little minx,” Mona murmured.

Winifred chuckled before she turned and went into the restaurant.

Mona peered through the window and saw Winifred and John. And across the table from them were Sir Alex Boulton and Prunella. Sir Alex was a multimillionaire, and he was widely tipped to win the coming leadership race and go on to lead the Labour Party to victory over the Tories at the next election.

And Mona wished him every success, because she planned to rise with him…

She took out her mobile, dialled the man's number, and saw him reach into his jacket pocket.

“Hello?”

“Sir Alex?”

“Yes, who am I speaking to?”

“You don't know me, but I have something that you will want.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm about to eat. Who are you? How did you get this number?”

“I'm talking about some photos of you and that nice young girlfriend of yours.”

“Photos?” the MP squealed. “What photos?”

“She's come out very well in them… and so have you as a matter of fact.”

“Who the devil are you?”

Through the window, Mona saw the MP frown as he rose from the table with his mobile pressed to his ear. She headed off up the street, saying, “That's for me to know and you not to, I'm afraid.”

“Look, what is it that you want?”

“I'm sure you can work that one out without my help. You do me a little favour and I'll do you one.”

“How much is your idea of a little favour?”

“Two hundred grand in used notes, of course. I'm afraid I can't take a cheque—against company policy.”

“Now wait a minute. Where on earth do you think I'm going to get that kind of money?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something. You're a very wealthy man, Sir Alex.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, come on… it's common knowledge, and has been ever since you first made it to into the Sunday Times' Rich List. What number were you last year… thirty-seven, I believe?”

“You realize that you could find yourself doing some serious time in prison for this sort of thing, do you?”

“What… for having a hobby? I don't think so, old chap. I like taking photos. If you like to pose for them and then purchase them, that's your affair.”

“I never did anything of the sort and you know it.”

“You're lying in the bathtub in one of them and the girl's standing over you. Let me see now, what is it that she's doing? Oh, I say, she's takin' a piss… right in your mouth. That's going to look really good in the newspapers and on the internet, I'm sure you'll agree. Just think what it'll do for your image, not to mention your marriage. You'll have to say goodbye to the idea of ever becoming prime minister. But then, you don't need the likes of me to tell you that.”

“All right, listen! I'll do as you say, but I'll need some time to get the money together.”

“You have twenty-four hours. When I call tomorrow, it'll be to arrange the exchange. If you don't have the money, I'm selling these photos to the newspapers.”

Mona hung up.

* * *

Sir Alex Boulton had excused himself soon after he finished eating earlier at Le Caprice, then he took his wife Prunella home and paid a call on his elder brother Charles at his flat in Pimlico.

Charles was a great reader, and the oak coffee table was cluttered with newspapers and periodicals, while the shelves in the alcoves either side of the fireplace were crammed with a thousand and one different titles. There were historical volumes, political memoirs and various weighty tomes on finance and economics, as well as a number of spy novels and investigative books on the SAS, MI5 and MI6, three organizations that Charles had worked for in the past.

“The blackmailer wants two hundred thousand in cash for Christ's sake.” Sir Alex took a long gulp of the stiff gin and tonic Charles had fixed for him. “She says I've got twenty-four hours to free up the cash.”

“She?”

“Yes, it's a woman.”

Charles, who was dressed in a checked shirt, brown corduroys and matching suede shoes, let out a sigh of exasperation. “Does Prunella suspect anything?”

“Not a thing.”

Charles ran a hand through his fine grey hair. “You're quite sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“That's what I'm trying to make up my mind about.” Alex Boulton rose from his chair and began to pace the room with his big hands clasped together behind his back. He was in a state of panic and really had no idea as to how to proceed. All he knew for sure was that he was angry as hell—angry and frightened.

He turned to face his brother, who was sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed at the ankle. “What would you do, Charles?”

“Well, I think that I'd call on some old friends of mine from my days with MI5 and MI6 and have them use their tracking devices to locate where the bitch was calling from. Then, we could have a helicopter go after her and squad cars on a radio link. We'd have her picked up in no time.”

“Yes, but then it would be all over the newspapers, the very thing that I'm trying to avoid.”

“I suppose it would be difficult to guarantee keeping the affair secret if we were to go down that road, yes.”

“So what do you suggest, then?”

“Strikes me, Alex. You've either got to pay up or tell the blackmailer to go to hell and face the music.”

“Yes, well I know that.”

“What's likely to happen if you tell the blackmailer where to get off?”

“She says she'll send the pictures to the press.”

“Well obviously, yes, but then what?” Charles frowned. “I mean, let's start with Prunella—how's she likely to react to all this if she finds out?”

“She'd probably file for a divorce.” Sir Alex Boulton loosened his burgundy tie and undid the top button on his striped shirt.

“That would cost you over half of everything you own,” Charles reasoned. “And then there are the children to be considered. If you're lucky, you might end up getting to see them at weekends. You'd have to resign from politics, of course, just as I had to.” In Charles's case, the advent of one of his gay affairs becoming public knowledge, thanks to the good offices of the press, had put an end to both his marriage and his political career in one fell swoop.

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

“What do you want me to do, Alex? Tell you to go home to your wife and forget about it and the whole sorry mess'll just go away? What's that going to solve? You've got yourself into a tricky situation here, and it's no good trying to deny it.”

“You're right, of course. It's just that I keep turning the whole business over in my head, and… well, I really don't know what to do for the best.”

“What do your instincts tell you to do?”

“I'm wondering if I should just hand over the money.” Sir Alex Boulton grimaced at the thought and he began to wring his hands. “But a couple of hundred grand's a lot of fucking dosh to have to cough up for a quick bloody fling with some bimbo.”

“Yes, I see your point, but the alternative could potentially be infinitely more damaging. Looking at it logically: you stand to lose a couple of hundred grand if you pay the blackmailer, but you could end up losing your entire lifestyle if you don't.”

“So, you agree that the thing to do's just pay up and have done with it, then?”

“Looked at from that angle, yes.” Charles's broad, high forehead creased with worry lines. “Only…” He broke off as if he were frightened to say what was on his mind.

“Only what, Charles?”

“Well, damn it, Alex, you're a man of the world… You know as well as I do that blackmailers can have a nasty way of bleeding their victims dry. First of all, it's a couple of hundred thousand, then you get another call a few months later and they want some more money. And it can go on like that indefinitely.”

“I wouldn't pay it.”

“You'd be right back in the same situation you're in now.”

“Not if I tell her I want the photos and any copies, along with the camera and the chip she used, in exchange for the money I'd be paying her.”

“And how can you be sure, when you pay her, that the blackmailer won't have more copies she's keeping for a rainy day?”

“If it came to that then I'd do whatever I had to.”

“Meaning?”

“I could pay someone to bump her off and save myself a lot of money in the process.” Sir Alex paused a moment to ask himself if he really meant what he'd just said. “Of course, I don't want it to come to that.”

“Are you saying you know who the blackmailer is, Alex?”

“Presumably, it's the girl herself.”

“The one you had the affair with, you mean?”

“Who else can it be?”

“But how did she manage to take the photographs without you seeing her do it?”

“She must've used a tiny camera of some kind, I suppose. I don't know - you know, more about that sort of thing than I do.”

“She could perhaps've used a spy camera, it's true.” Charles scratched his chin. “But going back to what you were suggesting a moment ago, frankly, bumping people off sounds like a very risky game to me. Besides, it just isn't your style, Alex. If you were thinking of going down that road, then perhaps you should let me deal with it.”

Chapter Four

Mona Chapman parked her Honda up a side street off Fulham Broadway before she put on her blonde wig along with her hat and Ray Bans. Then she checked herself out in the mirror. Why, she wouldn't have recognized herself in this get-up in a million years. I almost look feminine, she thought

She was still feeling antsy, though. So to calm her nerves, she reminded herself that this was the opportunity she'd always been waiting for. She was about to make a couple of hundred grand.

Mona climbed out of the car, then she crossed the road and went into the precinct. She walked up to the end, past shops on either side. Then entered Sainsbury's and headed over to where they had the sandwiches and sushi meals—which was where she'd told the MP to wait for her.

She noticed a man standing there with his back to her. He was middle-aged, tall, and dressed in a smart blue suit. It's him, Mona thought, but she wanted to get a closer look at his face to make sure. So she walked down to the end of the aisle, then turned and came back up towards him. She looked at the stuff on the shelves as she came along, like she was just out shopping.

She stopped next to him, picked up a packet of sushi and began to inspect it. Standing there in her hat, blonde wig, and shades, she told herself once more that the MP would never recognize her if he saw her again. This thought gave her comfort, and right now Mona needed all the comfort she could get because she was feeling nervous.

She glanced quickly at the man's face, and he looked back at her. It was him, no question. There was no mistaking those intelligent grey eyes. She'd seen them looking out of her TV set, and from the pages of newspapers and magazines, enough to recognize them. She took in the big ears, the large strong nose and the broad mouth that sloped down slightly to one side, the crinkly and perfectly coiffed greying hair.

Mona went back to resuming her inspection of the sushi that was on offer. And still looking at the sushi, she asked the MP, in a low voice that wasn't hers—or didn't sound like it—if he had anything for her.

“That would depend.”

“What does that mean?”

“On whether you have anything for me.”

“I've got the photos here.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“And the copies and the camera?”

“Yes… have you got the money?”

“What if I haven't, Gina? What if I were just to snatch that manila envelope I can see you've got in your handbag and leave with it? What would you be able to do about it?”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Are you seriously thinking about doing something crazy like that here, in full view of everyone… not to mention all the security cameras? Robbing a woman—because that's what it would be. Your career would be over the moment you did it, and you'd probably be lucky to avoid going to prison.”

“You'd be the one to go to prison.”

“Not only that, but the photos would go to the newspapers. Because you'd be stopped and searched and they'd be taken off you, once the police had heard what I'd have to say. So you'd be the loser any way you look at it.”

Mona's quick and confident dismissal of the scenario Sir Alex had just sketched out appeared to take the wind out of his sails, and he seemed to be about to hand over the package, but when she went to snatch it, his grip was firm.

Sir Alex looked about him, to ensure that there was nobody within earshot. “Okay, now you listen to me,” he told her in a voice that was somewhere between a growl and a whisper. “I'm only doing this once. So, if you were planning on coming back for second helpings, then you'd better think again. Because if you do, I promise you'll regret it.”

“I hardly think you're in a position to make threats.”

“On the contrary, that's exactly the position that I am in,” he snarled. “I'm handing this over to you now, but that doesn't mean I do this sort of thing lightly. I'm rich, as you have rightly concluded, and therefore it wouldn't be at all difficult to persuade any number of people to do all sorts of things for me, if you follow my drift. I'm not yet desperate enough to take action of that sort at the moment. In fact, I'd prefer just to hand over the sum you've asked for as things stand. But if you are under the impression that this sorry little show of yours is going to enjoy an extended run, then you'd better reconsider. Is that understood?”

“Sure.”

Sir Alex released the package and Mona put it in her handbag. Then she turned and made her way out of the supermarket, on through the precinct and into the street. The Broadway was buzzing with people and traffic, as usual, and rain had just begun to fall out of the uniformly grey sky.

She crossed the road and hurried back to her Honda, climbed in and locked the doors. Adrenaline fizzed through her veins as she tore the package open, safe in the knowledge that nobody could see what she was doing through the tinted windows.

She quickly checked the different bundles of banknotes, until she'd satisfied herself that they were all made up of fifties and all of the same size. Then she counted one of the bundles.

There were two hundred notes in it, which came to £10,000.

Next, she counted the number of bundles and found there were twenty of them…

The bastard's coughed up, all right, Mona said to herself.

She was now a woman with two-hundred grand to her name.

* * *

Mona drove over to Hammersmith and parked. Then she took off the hat and the wig before she got out of the car and went into her bank.

She told the man behind the counter she wanted to take a look in the security box she had in her name. She had to wait a couple of minutes, then a man came and led her down to the vault. She deposited all but one of the bundles of bank notes there, figuring £10,000 ought to keep her going for a while.

After that, she went home and hid her spending money under the floorboards. Then she smoked a joint and danced around her tiny kitchen to the sound of Radio Head. She felt gooood.

It was like fate, she thought, the way the opportunity had presented itself to her. It all started when she'd had a one-night stand with a girl called Margot Peterson, whom she met at a swingers party the week before she first bedded Win. It turned out that this Margot was a shrink who'd boasted to her, while they were in bed, of having some rich and important patients. Mona asked her who these important clients were and whether they had any kinky secrets, and Margot just grinned and said that was privileged information and strictly between her and her patients. But then when Margot went to take a shower, Mona noticed that she'd left her briefcase open. So she went through it and happened to come across a file on one Sir Alex Boulton. Well, Mona had never been all that interested in politics, but even she knew who he was. The man was often on the telly, for a start. Not only that, but Win—who was still just a mate she'd have pawned her favourite vibrator to fuck at that time—happened to tell her the day before about how the man was a close friend of her husband's. Mona's curiosity was aroused, and to cut a long story short, she ended up reading part of the transcription of a session in which the MP talked to Margot about his sexual fantasies…

MARGOT: And why do you think that might be so?

ALEX BOULTON: I really have no idea… which I suppose is why I'm here… I mean, that's your job… to explain it to me. To explain me to myself, as it were.

MARGOT: Have you ever tasted urine?

ALEX BOULTON: No, never… I already told you.

MARGOT: It's interesting…

ALEX BOULTON: There are times when I am really quite appalled at myself, I can assure you… a mature, married man such as I am… and a father, too, of course.

MARGOT: Aren't you being just a little hard on yourself?

ALEX BOULTON: Am I? I really don't know… I mean, it does strike me as being a pretty ridiculous and appalling thing for a decent, respectable man in my position to be fantasizing about—wouldn't you agree?

MARGOT: Oh, I don't know… people fantasize about all kinds of unusual things… even people who are respectable.

ALEX BOULTON: Well you should know, I suppose…

A short pause.

ALEX BOULTON: So am I to understand that my fantasies are not so very unusual, then?

MARGOT: They are of what, broadly speaking, we can call a deviant nature… but it's not at all unusual for perfectly normal people to have such fantasies, is what I'm saying… I'm interested in why you should feel so bad about having them… Why do you think that might be?

ALEX BOULTON: Because of a sense of shame, that's quite obvious.

A short pause.

ALEX BOULTON: I mean, it's scarcely the sort of thing one would want to own up to, is it?

A short pause.

MARGOT: Have you ever mentioned any of this to your wife?

ALEX BOULTON: Good heavens, no!

MARGOT: How do you think she would respond if you were to do so?

ALEX BOULTON: I should think she would be perfectly horrified… and quite rightly, too…

A short pause.

MARGOT: And what if you were to become involved in a relationship with a woman who was amenable to such ideas?

ALEX BOULTON: A woman who allowed me to…

MARGOT: … To drink her urine, yes.

ALEX BOULTON: Oh, that would never happen.

MARGOT: Why shouldn't it?

ALEX BOULTON: I should never suggest the idea in the first place.

A short pause.