Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton E-Book

Kevin Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The quiet village of Brompton is shaken when the body of former sex worker Suzanne Hoskins is discovered in Bluebell Wood. To add to the mystery, her husband Steven has disappeared.

PC Don Barton's life seems to be going nowhere. Moved from the coveted motorcycle section to a rural beat as a result of misconduct, he is morosely standing by as his career passes before him.

Soon, his quiet life as a village bobby is shattered, as he enters a world of pornography, S&M, drug dealing and terrorism. But can Don find the killer before more lives are lost, and redeem himself?

Leseprobe

NINE O’CLOCK BUS TO BROMPTON

THE COUNTY MOUNTIES BOOK 1

KEVIN FITZPATRICK

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Kevin Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by CoverMint

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.

To Janice

Special thanks to Helen Susan Swift, without whose help this book would never have been completed.

PRELUDE

BELGRAVIA, CENTRAL LONDON - MID 1960S

From the outside, the house appeared perfectly innocent. A grey stone building, exactly like so many of its neighbours. Located in an exclusive area of the city, it was conveniently situated a short walk from the nearest Tube station and, for all intents and purposes, had the appearance of being the home of a highly paid accountant or maybe an exclusive private doctor.

The street outside had recently been furnished with coin-operated parking meters, and smart wardens, wearing hats with yellow bands, were frequently seen patrolling the area, much to the disgust of drivers hoping to park their cars. However, parking was rarely an issue for these premises. Clients, mostly middle-aged men in smart suits, almost always arrived and departed by taxi.

There was a flight of three marble steps that led up from the pavement to an imposing front door made of oak, painted black and sporting a highly polished brass handle. There was also an old-fashioned bell-pull, however, there was no nameplate on the stone pillar next to the door. The house was discreet and anonymous.

At a gesture from Steven, the two young women in Waffen SS uniforms, complete with miniskirts and jackboots, put down their whips and the taller of the two picked up a key ready to free the prisoner from his bondage. It took the woman a couple of minutes to undo the four padlocks that held the poor man securely chained to the X frame. However, even after he was free, he was very stiff and needed assistance to walk over to a chair and sit down. The girls giggled as they helped him massage some life back into his aching limbs.

The “prisoner,” a fair-haired man in his twenties, was tall, muscular, and completely naked. The oil that coated his body glistened in the bright lights and gave the appearance that he had been sweating profusely. The marks that covered his body that were made to look like cuts and bruises were, in reality, nothing more sinister than clever make-up. But the ball and chain that had been attached to his testicles was a real device – and he was very relieved to have it removed with no harm having been done to his greatest assets.

“Was that okay then, Steve?” the man asked the photographer once he had somewhat recovered from his ordeal.

The man to whom he spoke, Steven Hoskins, was a meticulous little photographer with a compulsive attention to detail. Although only thirty-five years of age, he looked, acted and dressed like someone far older. His outlook on life was similarly old-fashioned, and he considered himself a perfectionist.

Other people, his models in particular, thought of him as a fussy little so-and-so who was very hard to please. Steven didn’t care what they thought; he would much prefer it if they didn’t think anything at all. As far as he was concerned, the less the world knew about him, the better.

“Yes, pretty good,” he replied, actually smiling for once. “In fact, very good. Well done, Andy. Are you all right, though? I’m sorry we had to keep you chained up for so long.”

“No problem, I’ve had a lot worse.” Andy grinned. Then, having quickly checked that the women had by now left the room to go and get changed, continued, “I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of that Irene though. I got the distinct impression she’d rather be doing it for real than just posing.”

“Suzanne says she’s priceless,” Steve replied. “Most of the women who work here do it just for the money. But Sue reckons Irene’s the real deal, a genuine sadist. Believe it or not, they’re hard to come by, even in this game.”

Andy nodded. “You down the club tonight?” he said, changing the subject.

“No, I’m staying in with Suzanne this evening.”

Andy laughed. “I can’t imagine you married. She definitely knows you’re ginger, right?” he said, using the contemporary expression Ginger (ginger beer) to refer to a homosexual.

“She’s actually perfectly happy with that as it happens, and so am I. We just get on well. There’s more to life than sex, you know.”

Andy shook his head and went to the corner to get dressed from a pile of clothes that he’d left there earlier.

Andy had known Steve for several years; they’d even slept together a few times. The photographer was a “face” in the local community of West End sex workers; well-liked but known to be quiet and of a somewhat introverted disposition. The society they both moved in was extremely tolerant, by general standards, but they were still bemused by the fact that he wanted to marry, and spend his life with, a female dominatrix.

For his “day job” Steve made his living as a freelance photographer for the advertising and property industry. That was the employment the tax man knew about. However, what the authorities did not know about him (he hoped) was that he also ran a lucrative side-line in off-beat pornography. The session just finished had been shot in a room known to the “models” as The Dungeon; and The Dungeon was located at the business premises of Steven’s fiancée, the senior dominatrix known to her clients as Mistress Stern.

Steve carefully removed the exposed film from the expensive Pentax camera which he then unscrewed from its tripod. He placed it into its felt-lined metal case, closed the lid, and snapped the catches shut. The Pentax had cost him hundreds of pounds, and the lens alone was worth more than his car. He knew he had to be careful around here.

In his own studio, all his photographic equipment was solidly mounted and protected from any harm. However, inside The Dungeon, it was a different matter altogether. Things could get out of hand in here. Especially when the sessions became ever more energetic and the excitement mounted. Violent action could easily lead to unintended consequences – and optical equipment was eye-wateringly expensive to replace.

Not only that, but Steve wouldn’t have put it past one or two of the working girls to take a perverse delight in his despair should any of his precious kit get damaged. He knew he needed to be vigilant around this place.

However, the shots that were now safely captured on the two rolls of film tucked away in a leather case had posed no particular risks. Andy was a regular. A professional young porn actor, and the two girls, employees of the establishment, had obviously not really been beating a confession out of him. The fearsome-looking canes and whips had been genuine enough, but the fluid that was liberally spread around the place was nothing more sinister than chocolate sauce – the perfect substitute for blood in black and white photography.

Steve was very happy with the day’s work. Once developed, those pictures would be worth a small fortune in the seedy little back street shops in Soho. Andy was extremely well-endowed, so his naked body would have huge appeal to the “ginger” fraternity. And the sadomasochists would love the girls with their evil postures and expressions. The women had gleefully projected into the camera sufficient cruelty and sadism to satisfy even the most ardent followers of that particular fetish.

About twenty minutes after the shoot ended, Steve heard the sound of shouting, banging, and clanging emanating from somewhere along the corridor outside the Dungeon. It appeared to be coming from a room used by the girls as a dressing room.

Andy, now fully dressed, was totally nonplussed. He simply shrugged his shoulders, blew a kiss to Steve, then made his way towards the front door, ready to go home. Steve, on the other hand, was more concerned.

Wondering what on earth was going on, he decided to go along the corridor to investigate.

He put his head round the door of the changing room just in time to see Irene, the woman he had been talking about with Andy, brandishing a vicious-looking riding crop that she slammed down with terrifying force onto the top of the wooden table in the middle of the room.

“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Steve. “Irene, what’s got into you?”

“Oh, it’s you is it? Tell me, are you really going to marry that fucking bitch? I feel sorry for you if you are, the fucking cow!”

Irene was still dressed in her fetish outfit and looked a fearsome sight as she marched towards the hapless photographer – with her whip still in her hand. For a moment, Steve feared for his safety, but he stood his ground and held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

“Calm down, Irene, what’s Suzanne done to upset you? I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t sort out.”

Irene was still furious but, with a visible effort of will, she stopped, threw the crop across the room, then clenched her fists by her side and stamped her foot. She grunted in frustration.

“I went up to tell her we’d finished the session, like she told me to, and she’s only gone and bloody fired me!” she said through gritted teeth. “Paid me off and told me to get out. After all I’ve done for her! Fuck off, Irene, you’re not wanted. Just like that.”

“I don’t believe it.” Steve was genuinely shocked. “She told me just yesterday you were the best girl she had. A natural, she called you, worth your weight in gold. Why on earth would she want to fire you?”

Irene’s fists were still clenched, but now angry tears sprang from her eyes. Her naturally red hair seemed to stand on end.

“I need a fucking drink,” she said finally. “Take me down the road and buy me a drink – unless you’re scared the precious Suzanne might object. I need to talk to you anyway.”

“Give me a minute to speak to her, then I’ll go with you. I need to find out what this is all about. Hang on here, and I’ll be right back.”

While Irene changed out of her outfit, Steve climbed the stairs to the top floor of the innocent-looking three-storey Victorian townhouse. This was the part of the house where he and Suzanne Blenkinsop (aka Madame Stern) shared a flat. There was a small box room just off the landing that Suzanne used as her office, and the lady herself was currently sitting on a swivel chair, with her back to the door, looking out of the window.

Like Steve, Suzanne was aging before her time. After years of work in the sex industry, she was no longer the stunningly attractive woman of her youth. But she was certainly still beautiful and, with her trim figure, well capable of turning men’s heads whenever she ventured out of her lair.

She spun her chair around to face Steve as he entered.

“From all the noise, I gather Irene’s told you what happened?” she said.

“She says you’ve given her the push. She wants me to take her out for a drink.”

Suzanne opened the top drawer in her desk and withdrew a wad of notes.

“Here,” she said. “Have the drink on me. I owe her that much; she’s made me enough money over the past couple of years.”

“So why are you getting rid of her?”

“I’ve no choice. You know who some of our clients are. They’ve all been scared shitless since that Profumo business, and now one of them’s been tipped the wink that Irene is a security risk.”

“Bollocks! That Profumo thing was a Secretary of State sharing a prostitute with a Russian spy. Not quite our scene. Oh, but wait a minute…” He paused, then said, “Could it be because she’s Irish?”

Suzanne sighed. “As if they’d tell me! All I know is they don’t trust her all of a sudden. You know what these pervy politicians are like, none of them have any balls when it really comes to it.”

“It does seem a bit unfair, though…”

“Steve,” said Suzanne, cutting him short, “do me a favour, take her for that drink then give her the rest of this cash. I’ve already paid her what she’s due, but it won’t keep her for long. Tell her if she needs any more she knows where to find me. I think she may struggle to find work from now on – in our line of business anyway.”

The pub was beginning to fill with early evening customers, but Irene and Steve were lucky and found an unoccupied table in a quiet corner. There were three chairs at the table, and Steve was about to allow another customer to remove the extra one when Irene stopped him.

“Leave it there!” she snapped. Steve was concerned to note that she hadn’t calmed down much since her earlier outburst.

“Why?” Steve asked. “We don’t need it.”

“There’s someone joining us that I want you to meet. I phoned him while you were up with Suzanne. I was planning to introduce you to him sometime later on. Of course, now the bitch has forced my hand, and I need to get things moving.”

“Suzanne’s told me what happened,” said Steve, wondering who the chap might be that Irene wanted him to meet. “I had no idea.”

“The reason you didn’t know about it is because she only knew herself this morning. The fucking bitch had her chain pulled, and that was it.”

“Any idea who pulled her chain?”

“I don’t know exactly which one it was, but it was definitely one of those high-up politicians we’ve been servicing recently. Whoever it was, he complained about my Irish accent. He told Suzanne she’d be blacklisted by his friends if she didn’t get rid of me.”

“Well, like everyone else, I’m aware of some trouble brewing in the North of Ireland,” said Steve, leaning forward so their conversation couldn’t be overheard. “But you’re from the Republic, aren’t you? How does it affect you?”

Irene remained silent for a moment then looked Steve directly in the eye. She took a deep, theatrical breath.

“There’s only Ireland, Steven, no north, no south, no republic, just Ireland. Don’t you ever forget it – or you and me will be falling out. Got that?”

“Okay, steady on, no offence intended. You know how I feel about the old country. My mother’s family suffered dreadfully during the Troubles, you know.”

Irene took a long swig from her drink and motioned over to the barman to pour her another. She gave Steve an icy stare.

“Yes, you’ve told me. Well, you never know, you may just get a chance to do something about that injustice. You’d like that now, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean. There’s a war coming, and you and every other man of Irish descent is going to have to decide which side he’s on. If your mother ever taught you anything, then you’d know that. And if you’ve got a pair of balls, you’ll stand and fight.”

A cold knot of fear gripped Steve’s stomach as the realisation struck him that Suzanne was probably right to get rid of Irene. Prominent politicians sometimes had strange desires, needs that only women like Irene could satisfy. It made these men very vulnerable. People in Irene’s profession had access to knowledge that would be invaluable to a blackmailer – and solid gold to a terrorist.

“I–I don’t know what I could possibly do to help,” Steve stammered. “I never even get to see the customers. The photos I take are posed by models and actors – nobody of importance would ever let himself be photographed.”

“But you’re an advertising executive, aren’t you? In your day job, I mean. There are other pictures you could take without arousing suspicion. Pictures that could be useful to us in our plans. Locations in the City, for example. You’d just have to carry on as normal. All you’d have to do is do your job, carry on as normal. You stay out of trouble; you stay invisible to the authorities. You’re lily-white until we call you. We may never call you – but one day, we just might. That isn’t too much to ask is it, you know, for the Cause?”

“But, Irene, the authorities probably know about me already,” Steve protested. “I must be on their radar with my little side-line.”

“Exactly, and it’s that that gives you the perfect cover. They expect you to be secretive, but they’ll assume it’s your perverted snapshots you’ll be protecting. They’ll take no notice at all of your legitimate photography. We’ll even give you genuine commissions. So stop worrying and get yourself another drink.”

The enormity of what this woman so calmly suggested was overwhelming. Steve felt physically sick. He stared at the door of the bar as though looking for a means of escape.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked quietly.

“No, Steven, not any more you don’t. Not now I’ve spoken to you.” Irene spoke evenly but her voice was loaded with menace.

She looked over into the gathering crowd where a smartly dressed young city gent was weaving his way towards them with a glass of beer in his hand.

“Ah, here’s your man now,” said Irene.

“Brendan, come over here!” she shouted. The young man nodded to her. “This is Steven,” she said to the newcomer as he reached the table. “He’s the chap I was telling you about.”

“Hello, Steven.” Steve was surprised to note that Brendan spoke with the middle English public-school accent of a stockbroker. He even probably played “rugger” instead of rugby, Steve thought sourly.

Brendan held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you at long last, Steven. Irene here’s told me so much about you. We’re delighted to have you aboard.”

CHAPTERONE

WEST BERKSHIRE – MID-1960S

Despite it being a bright, sunny day, the wind had a keen edge. Gusts of cold air, like whispering thieves, rhythmically drifted over the countryside and stole away any warmth that the rays may have produced. In response to one particularly icy blast, Emily Pritchard shivered and pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders. She was still the right side of sixty years of age, but her painfully thin body constantly struggled to retain anything like a comfortable body temperature.

That is not to say that Emily was at all frail. She was an energetic lady and her level of fitness, from years of cycling, would put many younger women to shame. However, she did feel the cold.

She was frequently cold – and often lonely.

Emily was a widow; her husband had been killed in war, and she had never remarried. For many years she had lived alone but, as the secretary of a local high school, she was kept reasonably busy and looking after the garden of her secluded cottage kept her fully occupied in her spare time.

She sighed. She had to admit the flowers were lovely; however, like so many pretty things, they were becoming rather unruly and needed a firm hand to bring them under control. Emily very much believed in the use of a firm hand when it was called for, as many disrespectful children at her school had learned to their cost. The boys and girls knew that it was best behaviour only when Mrs Pritchard was on the prowl!

Her quick, deft hands worked the secateurs with surgical precision as she clipped and pruned. After half an hour or so, she paused and straightened up for a minute to ease her back. It was then that she heard the sound of a motorbike approaching in the distance. As her cottage was the only dwelling for some miles, she surmised she was about to receive a visitor.

Hands on hips, Emily watched as the Triumph motorcycle of the Berkshire Constabulary pulled up outside the wicker gate that led into her garden. She’d had a good guess as to which policeman likely to be visiting her, but, even so, her heart missed a beat as she recognised the rider to be PC Fred Weston. Fred was a special friend.

The officer killed his engine and dismounted, swinging his leg across the seat of the machine in a movement so entirely masculine that Emily could only approve.

Having effortlessly hoisted the heavy machine onto its centre stand, the powerfully built policeman slowly took off his white-backed leather gauntlets and placed them, fingers outward, on the tank of his bike just in front of the radio handset. He then removed his black “Corker” crash helmet with the word POLICE emblazoned across its front. He gently placed the helmet into the crook of the handlebars, on top of the gloves.

Emily was no stranger to police procedure and knew what to expect next. She was aware Fred wouldn’t even acknowledge her until he’d checked in with his control room a few miles away at constabulary headquarters.

The radio on the 650cc Speed Twin was located behind the wide leather rider’s seat. The set’s telephone-like handset, and other controls, however, were mounted on the top of the petrol tank. There was a small switch that, in one position, permitted the operator to use the handset discreetly like a telephone, whilst in the other position it switched on a loudspeaker that, in theory at least, permitted the rider to hear whilst travelling along the road.

Fred flicked the switch to the private setting and spoke briefly into the handset, telling his controller, in his slow, broad Berkshire accent, that he was engaged on crime enquiries and would be off the air for some time.

He concluded by saying, “You can get me on Brompton three one seven if required.”

“Thanks, Fred,” came the reply from the operator. “Give us a shout when you’re back on the air – just so we know you’re okay.”

Although he possessed incredibly quick reflexes, Fred routinely did nothing in a hurry. For him, everything had to be done right – and rushing things meant mistakes could be made. He switched off the radio, secured the motorcycle, then, finally satisfied, he made his way through the gate and over towards Emily – who by now had grown tired of watching him and had gone back to tending her flowers.

“Hello, stranger,” she said over her shoulder. Then, sarcastically, “To what do I owe this honour?”

“Now, don’t be like that, Milly,” said Fred with a large smile. “I’ve just called by for a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.”

“Yeah, I bet!” she said harshly, but nevertheless stood up, latched the secateurs in the closed position, and put them away into the pocket at the front of her tweed gardening skirt.

Emily opened the front door but, before entering, she turned and faced her visitor.

“You can take those boots off,” she said, slipping out of her green Hunters wellies.

Fred did as he was told. He unzipped then stepped out of his shiny, black leather, calf-length boots and placed them next to Emily’s wellies on the metal grill under the porch. He followed Emily into the cottage. Then, without waiting for permission, he unbuttoned the heavy uniform “thorn-proof” jacket, took it off, and hung it on a hook behind the door.

Emily took a long, hard look at him. He was just a few years younger than her, and he was a fine figure of a man. Lean, but broad-shouldered and strong. However, despite his youthfulness and energy, age was catching up with him. In a couple of years, once he reached fifty-five, he would have to retire whether he wanted to or not. The same grim prospect faced her when she hit sixty. She was not looking forward to it.

But now, seeing him standing in his shirtsleeves, riding breeches, and stockinged feet, she started laughing.

“You look like a tortoise that’s been winkled out of its shell,” she said. “Will the police force ever join the twentieth century, do you suppose? They actually make shirts with collars these days, you know. I’m surprised you can still get collar studs for those things.”

“These are top-quality Van Heusen shirts, I’ll have you know,” he said pompously. “They’re all the rage in Chelsea, or so I’m told. And Langston’s in Reading still do a very nice range of studs, thank you very much. Anyway, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s only the collar that ever wears out; the rest of the shirt doesn’t. It’s stupid throwing away a whole shirt when you can just replace the collar.”

Emily turned around and began making the tea whilst Fred sat himself down comfortably at the large, well-used wooden table that dominated the room.

“Now then, Fred,” Emily said, “why are you really here? And don’t tell me it’s just for tea.”

“No, not just the tea,” he replied slowly. “To be honest, I was hoping you’d have a little word with Mr Headley for me. A couple of your boys have been up to mischief again.”

Mr Headley was the headmaster at Brompton High School where Emily was the school secretary. A few times over the past couple of years, Fred had arranged, through Emily, to have misbehaving youths punished by the school for misdemeanours committed whilst wearing school uniform. Everyone agreed it was preferable to them being sent to juvenile court and acquiring a police record – besides which, it saved PC Weston a great deal of paperwork.

“So, what is it this time?” said Emily. “More rowdiness on the bus?”

Fred stood up and walked over to his jacket. From the extended inside pocket, known as a summons pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper that he placed face-up on the table.

Emily brought two steaming mugs over from the kettle, handed one to Fred, then sat down herself before picking up the paper.

“It looks like a photo-copy of a five-pound note,” she said.

“Exactly, and it was used to defraud old Jenny in the village Tuck Shop out of a load of sweets. The poor old dear is as blind as a bat and had no idea it was a dud until the bank rejected it.”

“Little sods! But what’s this got to do with the school?”

“Well, the culprits were in school uniform, and it seems the original five-pound note was ‘borrowed’ from the music teacher’s bag during break. Oh yes, and it was the school Xerox machine that was used to make the copy.”

“Yes, but even so, shouldn’t this be put before a juvenile court? It seems quite serious.”

“I agree, but Jenny won’t hear of it. She totally refuses to make a complaint – and without her statement, we’re buggered. The fact is, I really don’t want the little shits getting away with it.”

“Okay, I’ll do what I can. I’ll speak to Mr Headley for you. Who are the culprits, or do I need to ask?”

“No, I’m sure you’ve guessed. It’s the Churcher brothers again.”

“Oh dear. Poor Mrs Churcher, she’s tried so hard to bring them two up since she lost her husband, but they seem determined to let her down.”

“Does she still work at the school canteen?”

“Yes. She’s actually a very good cook. This will break her heart – again.”

“What will Mr Headley do, do you think?”

“Well, with something this serious he could expel them, but my guess is they’ll both get six of the best… for all the good that will do.”

“What do you mean? I thought Headley was a bit of a demon with a cane.”

“Oh, he is. Most of the boys are terrified of him – he refuses to cane girls, you know. However, the last time those two got into trouble, I had the older boy waiting his turn in my office while his brother was getting thrashed in the next room.”

“And?”

“Well, you could clearly hear the cuts being delivered, but when I looked over at the little monster, he was grinning like an idiot and openly playing with himself.”

“No!”

“It cost him an extra two strokes when I reported him – but he didn’t seem to mind a bit. There’s something very odd about those two boys. More tea?”

“Maybe later.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. He smiled. Then he gave her a wink before he allowed his gaze to travel down her body.

“You’ve got a bloody cheek!” she said. “Where have you been these last few weeks?”

“I haven’t had an excuse to get over here until today – and I’m too close to my pension to take too many chances.”

“I know, Fred, but I do like to see you.”

“Come on, Milly, we both agreed there’d be no commitment, didn’t we?”

“I know, Fred. Don’t worry, I’m not some silly schoolgirl who’s going to get all emotional and clingy. It’s just that I get so lonely, sometimes, here on my own.”

She stood up and walked over to an interior door. “Come on, then,” she said.

“You needn’t think I’m going in there with you while you’ve got those things,” said Fred with a huge grin.

Emily blushed. She’d forgotten all about the secateurs that were still poking out of her skirt pocket.

“You’re right,” she said. “Too much temptation.” She unfastened her belt, and her skirt fell to the floor.

Within a minute they were inside the bedroom and naked. Emily could see that Fred was visibly aroused.

“You must be desperate if the sight of a skinny old lady can have that effect,” she said with a grin, but it was obvious that she was pleased with herself.

Fred grew serious. “Milly,” he said, “you don’t need to say things like that. You’re all the woman any man could ask for. If things were different…”

“I know,” she said, wistfully, “I know.”

She walked over to him and allowed her hand to run down his chest and beyond.

She closed her fingers around his rock-hard erection and led him gently over to the ancient feather bed that they had shared so many times in the past.

CHAPTERTWO

WEST BERKSHIRE – 7 YEARS LATER

It was 9 pm on a warm evening in mid-June, and the brightness of the day was finally beginning to fade to twilight. PC Don Barton, working the late shift, decided it was time to stop to take a short break and bring his pocket notebook up to date. He pulled the Morris Marina patrol car over into a field entrance at the side of the road and then reversed a few yards, turning the wheel, so that he ended up facing out towards the currently deserted country road.

Don did not like this car. The Marina was British Leyland’s replacement for the much loved and reliable, but sadly out-of-date, Morris Minor. The car itself was nicely designed, but for one reason or another it had gained a bad reputation for finish and reliability.

To make matters worse, police drivers were notoriously critical of any vehicle they used. Any faults (and the Marina had several) stood no chance of being overlooked or forgiven.

It had been a quiet evening on the Hampstead Norreys rural section and Don was bored. He was in his mid-twenties and he felt that the world was passing him by. Was it really almost a full year since he’d been kicked off the Traffic Department and dumped into this dead and alive country beat? The days and weeks were flying by, and Don could feel himself growing old before his time.

He knew it wouldn’t take long to bring his notebook up to date, but if he didn’t do it now there was a danger that he would forget to record something. He removed the little journal from its pigskin cover and took out his pen. He placed both items on the seat beside him and reached into the pocket of his tunic for his cigarettes. A smoke would help him reflect and recall the events, such as they were, of the afternoon.

He wound down the window of the car and lit up. However, before he began writing, he decided to radio into his control room and advise them of his location, just in case he should be required for anything.

Although his area was part of the Newbury Division, Don’s rural beat was well out of range of the local control room’s UHF radio system. This meant that for radio communication he had call in to the main Headquarters Control at Kidlington via the much more powerful VHF set fitted to his car.

He lifted the handset from its cradle and depressed the toggle. “HT Control from Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, over,” he said into the mouthpiece.

There were three main channels constantly supervised by Control Room staff, and HT was the frequency that covered the southern part of the Thames Valley force area.

“Go ahead, Five Zero,” a female voice answered him.

“Booking ten-five on the Brompton to Bucklebury road, available for commitment if required—Bloody Hell!”

“Is everything all right, Five Zero?”

“Er, yes, all okay. Sorry about that, I was startled for a moment. A white horse has just trotted past me. It’s running along the middle of the road heading towards Brompton. There’s no saddle or bridle, so I don’t think it’s thrown a rider. It’s probably escaped from a field. However, it is obviously a danger to traffic, so I’ll have to try to stop it. Any chance of some assistance, over?”

The Control Room operator put out a general call: “HT Control to any unit available to assist Foxtrot Golf Five Zero with a horse on the highway, please acknowledge with call sign, over.”

“X-Ray Delta Two One, resuming from the break-in in Didcot, I’ll start making, over,” came a male voice through the ether.

A dog handler! Just what the doctor ordered, thought Don. But he’s a long way off.

Control: “Thank you, Two One. Did you copy that, Five Zero?”

“Yes, all copied, many thanks. I’m following the horse now. I’ll advise Two One with more precise details as he approaches this location, over.”

“Obliged, Five Zero. I’ll leave this channel on talk-through and see if we can get other units to put some traffic control in place. Meanwhile, please keep me updated with progress, over.”

Because they transmitted and received on different frequencies, patrolling units could usually only hear the Control Room side of a conversation, but with “talk-through” engaged, they could clearly hear both sides. However, the protocol was that they would stay off the air themselves except for an emergency, or to contribute something to the unfolding drama.

Don had thrown his cigarette out of the window and was stealthily following the horse along the road by the time the radio conversation was completed – but he was already having difficulty. The horse was trotting at around 15 mph and kept speeding up every time he drew closer to it. The animal was also sticking to the centre of the road and showed no sign of slowing down or stopping.

Don was getting anxious. Two years previously he’d been patrolling the M4 when a horse had escaped from a field and somehow found its way onto the motorway. It was in the early hours of the morning, and a lorry coming out of London had struck the animal before crashing into the metal barrier on the central reservation.

The driver had been uninjured, but the horse had suffered a catastrophic laceration that had cut its stomach wide open and left it lying, pouring with blood, on the carriageway.

Don had never seen so much blood. He ruined his uniform when he tried in vain to attend to the poor creature as it lay whinnying piteously on the road. It had taken the vet over half an hour to arrive and put the animal out of its misery, then another forty minutes for a trailer with a winch to turn up and take the body away.

Meanwhile, the motorway had been at a standstill, and huge jams built up as the early morning rush hour approached.

Don vividly recalled seeing the Fire Brigade hosing the blood from the motorway as he now tried, cautiously, to get past this animal. His plan was to attempt to control it from the front. Pressing the accelerator, gently so as not to create too much noise, he crept closer and closer.

He gently eased the car over to the offside. Just a little more and he would be level with the horse’s rear quarters. Gently, gently, closer and closer; just another few more seconds and he’d be in front of it.

The horse suddenly became aware of what it perceived to be a strange creature creeping up alongside him, and it panicked. It tossed its head in the air and let out a loud whinny.

“Easy, boy,” said Don, knowing the animal could not hear him. “Stand still, you stupid thing!”

The horse suddenly bucked, then it kicked out behind itself and began to trot even faster.

By now, the light was fading rapidly and, with the sun setting low in the sky behind him, Don knew the horse would be almost invisible to anyone driving towards them.

The animal trotted even faster.

“Come on!” shouted Don, becoming frustrated, “I’m trying to help you.”

Don was getting worried that another vehicle was bound to appear on the road ahead of them before long. He would need to find a way to warn any oncoming traffic of the danger, but he realised he couldn’t dare use his rotating blue light for fear of spooking his quarry even more.