‘Tom’ foolery
Written by
Colin Llewelyn Chapman
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Colin Llewelyn Chapman on Smashwords
‘Tom’ foolery
Copyright © 2012 by Colin Llewelyn Chapman
This book is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance it bears to persons living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental. The characters and locations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ADULT READING MATERIAL
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I would like to thank my wife Michele for her continued support and assistance in this project, from the very first “I think I could do that” to the final cut. Finally thanks to all so far for your constructive and supportive comments. I hope I haven’t shocked you too much mum!
I hope you enjoy reading this as it will drive me on to finish my second book (‘Skull’duggery)
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CHAPTER 1
34 PELDON RISE
Adam Pickering strode along the balcony of the tenement block with his usual sense of urgency. Like every day of his life he was ten minutes behind pace. Adam worked in a bustling seafront bar in Southend’s main tourist hotspot collecting glasses, wiping tables and other menial tasks. He longed for the favour and limelight that was bestowed on the bar staff, rather than the disparaging comments and ‘Pot Man’ insults he suffered almost daily. At 22 Adam had seen plenty of the brawls and bust ups that Southend’s drunken revellers indulged in every Friday and Saturday night. The bloodshed bruises and broken bones were common place. Nothing he had seen before could prepare him for what he was about to stumble upon. The cool night air struck at his cheeks as he neared the staircase at the end of his block. Below him in the square, amongst the litter, broken benches and dogs excrement, three hooded lads shouted at each other as they kicked their ball against the rusty garage door that bore the tags of every youth in the district that could lay their hands on a paint can or permanent marker. The tinny twang of a mobile phone speaker greeted the echoing passages with its inaudible drone of rap music, distorted and scratchy.
Adam was two yards short of the first tread, preparing himself for the descent into the dark and dingy flight, the stench of stale urine and discarded beer cans was already greeting his nostrils. As he glanced back to his flat, he caught sight of the sharp rays of light from his neighbour’s hallway, searing into the darkness of the balcony through the part open door. With his foot firmly planted on the first treat he paused. A cursory glance at his watch told him that he was well behind time. The door ajar, the watch ticking, he sighed deep into his chest and turned back to Katya’s flat.
“For fuck sake” he raged, almost silently to himself. “Like I need this, silly bitch always leaving that fucking door open”
“Katya”, he bellowed through the hallway, one hand on the door, one foot in the hall and one eye fixed on his wrist. Time speeding away from him, one more late showing and he really would have more time than he wanted.
“Katya, you’ve left your bloody door open again........ Katya” Silence met his frustrated groans. He rounded the door, stepping into the warmth of Katya’s first floor flat, anxious to complete his neighbourly deed, so that he could return to his journey. Adam’s helpfulness was more selfish than it would first appear, trying to get into Katya’s good books and ultimately in time he hoped, her knickers. Adam held a torch for his sweet foreign neighbour despite her allusive and introvert nature.
Passing the empty kitchen and moving through to the lounge, the TV’s dulcet tones filling the small room with some wannabe teenager singing on yet another get famous overnight talent show. Nothing, no sign of his pretty Polish neighbour. He exited back into the hallway and turned sharp right to her bedroom door, a room he held dear, a room he longed to be invited into. Tonight he would enter Katya’s bedroom for the first time, but not in the way that he had dreamed of or fantasised about. Tonight, however, what he would witness in Katya’s lair would feature in his dreams for years to come, but those dreams were not of copulation and fornicating. They would be nightmares, ravaging his mind and tormenting his sleep.
The sparsely furnished flat, devoid of homely knick-knacks and family photos, with its grim decor and peeling wallpaper exuded poverty. His hand reached out to her bedroom door and met the steely cold of the handle. “Katya” one last call to her, before he entered her room. Adam turned the handle downward and pushed tentatively. Now more hushed with his voice as if not wishing to disturb her, he uttered her name again as he pushed at the door. As it creaked open slowly in front of him, he hoped to find her asleep inside the room.
What met his gaze in Katya’s bedroom caused Adam to reel backwards sharply, bashing his elbow heavily on the door jamb. He all but fell back into the hall, his hand clasped firmly to his mouth, stifling the pained cries. His eyes filled instantly with tears and his stomach convulsed, the retching pulling from the very depths of his gut. Adam vomited uncontrollably, the contents of his hastily consumed dinner burst through his clenched fingers onto his coat and splashed across the hall floor. He crashed through her flat to the open door and hit the waist height balustrade opposite her home with a force that nearly broke his ribs. “Help” he screamed with a mix of terror and desperation. The fish and chips Adam had scoffed earlier that evening surged once more from his gullet, billowing over the balcony and cascaded haplessly onto the dishevelled pavement below. One of the boys looked up initially. With his cocky streetwise bravado he shouted back up,
“Watch it, you fucking loser” His temper showing all the signs of a virile young lion. But he quickly realised that the man above him was suffering a serious traumatic experience, not just one of the usual rowdy piss heads they encountered every other night.
Adam was now screaming at them to call the police. The distress in his voice unnerved the boys; the panic now engulfed them too. They knew Adam well and couldn’t imagine what horror could cause their normally balanced pier to become so distraught. Fumbling for his mobile, Ben hesitantly struck three nines on the keypad and engaged the operator at the emergency centre with his finest South London patter.
“Which service do you require?” she asked.
“Police innit” replied Ben with some trepidation.
“Hold on while I connect you” she then paused briefly as the police call centre clerk took the line.
“Police emergency, who is calling?”
“I have a mobile number 07762 4**2134 requesting assistance.” From the first floor balcony Adam was now screaming
“I think she is dead, there’s blood everywhere, help, help, get the police.” Ben now relayed what he had heard to the officer in a blind, incoherent panic, rather than in his previous blaze tone. His street slang had gone and he was now a young frightened boy. “Calm down please sir and repeat yourself slowly and clearly”
“He said she is dead, hurry she’s dead”
“Can you give me your address sir?” Jennifer Sage was used to handling emergency calls and filtering the usual panicked waffle, prank calls and needless domestics that deluged their office every day without fail.
“I think its flat 34 or 36, I’m not sure” Ben replied, clearly unsure and distracted.
“Peldon Rise, first floor, you know near the council offices”
“Okay son, just take a deep breath and calm down, is that near Winchester Crescent, off of Victoria Avenue?”
“Yeah, yeah the flats on the first floor, the main entrance in the courtyard” Ben’s heart racing at a hundred mile an hour, sweat starting to seep from his forehead.
Meanwhile, Adam had started to sway backwards as the gravity of the nights events beat through his skull, causing a massive clamping sensation in his head, like a migraine from hell. His voice seemed to be distant, even to his own ears. His heart sounded louder than a nightclubs bass in his own disillusioned mind, pushing, thumping. His vision blurred, his ears rung, he slumped backwards stooping down to his haunches. Then his body went limp as he passed out, falling forward onto the damp asphalt walkway. Ben saw Adam dip slowly behind the concrete barrier and feared the worst. Ben’s friends fled the melee, leaving him to face the music alone.
“He’s hurt as well, for gods’ sake man hurry up”
Sage listened intently to the antics at the other end of the line and momentarily thought it was just another ‘pot head’ freaking out after a bit too much puff. Oh well here we go again she thought, procedure dictates that we must put a car out to every call like this so she patched it through.
Peldon flats were a regular haunt for Southend’s emergency services. If it wasn’t the communal bin store ablaze, it was one of the countless junkies comatosed in a pool of their own sick and urine, or the Flanagan family beating seven bells out of each other, or any other mug that dared look in their direction.
Ben eased his way to the external staircase at Peldon flats main entrance and looked nervously at the staircase, his phone pressed hard to his ear, making occasional comment to Sage as he rose up the steps towards the first landing. Kicking his way through the strewn takeaway packets and beer cans, Ben turned to the second flight of steps. He was in no hurry to get to the top, although he was a brave 14 year old boy when it came to smoking, bunking school and fighting, this was unchartered territory.
When he reached the top and glanced to his left Adam was stirring from his panic induced sleep and was gingerly pushing to his feet. Ben edged to the door of No 34 Peldon Rise and peered cautiously round the open door. In the distance the all too familiar wail that beseeched Southend’s streets drew closer. The sirens growing stronger and more deafening by the second. Ben stepped into the open doorway and was suddenly, unexpectedly and violently hurled sidewards to the floor by Adam.
“Don’t go in there, seriously, fucking don’t!” Adam bellowed. Ben pulled from his grip and bolted towards the stairs faster than he had ever moved before. As he reached the stairs he crashed full weight into the chest of the fast approaching uniformed officer dispatched moments earlier by Jenny Sage.
“Slow up lad, where’s the fire!” was the wholly inappropriate opening gambit of a fresh faced rookie P.C. Paul Semple. Hot on Semple’s heels was P.C. Vicky Ward, who was puffing, panting and clearly more taxed by the stairs than her younger, more keen colleague. Mind you she was nearly twenty years older than her young charge.
In her eighteen years service, Vicky had mentored countless young P.C.s, all full of vim and vigour, diligently exercising all the authority and knowledge they had gleaned from their brief but intense training regime. She had witnessed first hand the slow burning despair that eats away at them. In their formative years, vowing to change the world and make a difference. Then the stark reality of life on the beat slowly creeps into their lives. Nowhere to be seen was the rush and tear excitement depicted in crime dramas and movie screens. Instead endless paperwork, slip ups, hurdles, politics and obstacles would be put before them. ‘Don’t even get me started on the judicial system, for when you did get a scaly before the beak, it would be slapped wrists, warnings, community service and other meaningless chastisements’ she would say to anyone that would listen.
Today would totally engulf both Ward and her fledgling partner, Semple. It would call upon all their training, strength and composure. Today both Semple and Ward would become ‘Bonafide’ police officers for the first time in either of their careers. Not just ‘yes’ men breaking up fights on the Kursal door, or chasing shoplifters through the labyrinth of shops that made up Southend’s shopping precincts.
P.C Semple wriggled with Ben at the top of the staircase. Ward concerned herself with Adam, who was now on his feet again, leaning over the balcony, choking and retching once more. This time his stomach was empty, nothing but bile to wet his palette.
“Come on fella, take a deep breath, breathe slowly and compose yourself” She spoke with compassion and patience, unlike Semple who was still wrestling with poor innocent Ben. Handling him roughly, treating him like the delinquent ‘hoodie’ he portrayed himself as. In Semple’s mind Ben must have been guilty of something, why was he running, why was he trying to get away. Not even Ben could answer that one; he hadn’t witnessed the macabre scene inside flat 34 Peldon Rise.
Adam pointed to the open door and shook his head vigorously; he fought hard to speak but was devoid of words. His emotions were in tatters, all he could muster was “Katya........ Katya!” Then again he collapsed to his knees, distraught and inconsolable. Semple in his infinite wisdom now had Ben in a half nelson.
“Get off me, leave me alone..........I fucking called nine, nine, nine you cock!” Ben none too pleased at Semple’s over zealous restraining.
“Ease up Semple, let go of him for Christ sake” Ward said whilst eyeing Ben.
“Calm down young man.......was it you who called the emergency services then?”
“Yes, yes it was me, please let me go” Ben replied.
Semple loosened his grip on Ben, who had now stopped squirming. The second Semple released his grasp; Ben was off down the Stairs, like fire through paper.
Ward shot Semple a look as if to confirm his ineptitude and mouthed
“You prat” Semple Shrugged his shoulders woefully and proceeded to berate today’s youth. Ward, not wishing to become entrenched with Semple’s failure, turned and walked off towards flat 34 and muttered her distain as she breached the threshold of Katya’s humble abode. She inched her way into the flat with her asp extended, right arm raised. The other hand lay on the holstered C.S. spray which she had already unclipped. Momentarily she paused as she levelled with the kitchen, then bathroom. Her senses heightened by the unknown peril she had yet to see.
On the left hand side of the hallway the small bathroom was empty, to the right the kitchen equally bare. Nothing untoward in it, just fast food remnants and surfaces laden with unwashed crockery. Further along the hallway to the left was the lounge, a baron room which contained very few comforts. An ageing two seater cloth sofa, stained and frayed. A TV sat inside a black dated cabinet with shards of laminate fractured from its edges. On the nest of tables in front of the sofa lay a clutch of old magazines, some in Polish and others tattered and dog eared like those in a doctor’s waiting room. A solitary cigarette smouldered in the bottle brown glass ash tray, adorned with a vivid pink lipstick, fresh from Katya’s plump lips. Whatever had happened here tonight had happened only a very short time ago. With nothing to captivate Ward’s attention she moved to the bedroom door. She knew as she touched the tarnished gloss of Katya’s bedroom door that the time for wondering had elapsed. With a hint of regret she pushed her hand further through the ark of the doors swing. The sight of Katya’s mutilated body smashed through her eyes like a freight train.
CHAPTER 2
ALTER EGO
A full three and a half hours earlier Robin Bradford sat in his car, with his mediocre life stretching before him. His work phone nestled neatly in its cradle on the dash of his tired Ford Focus. His pens, CDs and other effects arranged in different compartments, all neat, tidy and regular. He perused the contacts list of his personal phone and found his girlfriends mobile number. Just for a second he halted, his conscience pricked. Then in a flurry of taps the call proceeded.
Lizzie stepped briefly from her equally shabby Vauxhall Corsa and greeted her friend and confidante, Maria. They exchanged the usual hugs and air kisses and moved towards the school gates. Full of tattle and gossip about this mum, that child, the handsome new supply teacher, idle prattle from their mundane lives. Maria begged Lizzie to go with her that evening to a new Yoga class that was opening in nearby Billericay. Lizzie dutifully agreed, after all, what was there waiting for her at home. Back in her Corsa her phone buzzed excitedly on the dash. Then it fell silent once more.
Robin greeted this silence with a smile; it’s so much easier to lie with a text, so much less hassle. Robin put his personal phone back on the dash in a second cradle next to his work phone and sat nav. Smiling broadly to himself he leafed through the back pages of his local paper. ‘Cherries Exotic Massage’, ‘Tiffany’s Massage’, ‘Crystals of Leigh’, ‘Ebony and Ivory’, they all sounded so alluring, so exotically named. These beautifully crafted names and descriptions certainly had Robin hot under his collar. His finger came to rest on one that drew his attention, ‘Bubbles, Uniformed Girls, Visit Us – Visit You’. He pushed his hand deep beneath the seat of his clapped out Focus and felt, his fingers searching, probing. The cool hard plastic of his ‘very’ personal phone again raised a smile.
He was very careful to dial 141 followed by the number for ‘Bubbles’, tracing his hand up his thigh and across his crotch, he let out a slight groan.
“Is that Bubbles?”
A mature female voice replied in an almost sexy, deep Manchester accent,
“Yes my love”
“Who do you have working today?” Robin squeezing himself ever so gently.
“We have Anja, an Eastern European blonde, 22, a shapely 38DD bust, or Tamara an English brunette, who is 19 and very slim with legs that go on forever”
“Tell me more about Anja” he pressed the lady.
“She likes to please. What sort of service would you be looking for?”
“Just a little on the rough side”
“Cool, she does like to be treated rough, but she expects more money, it will be £80 for half an hour”
“Fine, that’s fine! The address please” A rush of sexual tension now lifting over him.
“34 Peldon Rise, just off Winchester, do you know it”
“No but I’ll find it”
“4.30 ok for you, but don’t be too rough on her tiger”
“Thank you, I won’t” Robin hung up his phone, switched it off and returned it back under his driver’s seat, his naughty little secret safely stowed away. Reaching to the dash for his own phone, he began compiling his text to Lizzie. Robin’s penchant for indulging in illicit sex in Essex’s dark and seedy underworld surfaced once more.
‘Got 2 more appointments yet love. Shud be home bout 6ish. Call u when I get out of last 1. Phone off 4 a while now. x x’.
Robin’s job took him all over south east Essex. Maldon, Wickford, Basildon, Canvey and Southend amongst others, all featured in his daily routine of meetings and sales spiel. He boasted to his clients that his business sold lucrative slots in plush European timeshares. He advertised his wares in the very same local rag which contained his massage parlour beauties. His business had served him well till the recession hit, crippling peoples spare cash. Robin’s outfit was nowhere near as fruitful as it had been in previous years. Both he and Lizzie had enjoyed a lavish lifestyle in the last few years, providing them with countless holiday opportunities, flash cars, a nice big house and only the finest restaurants.
Robin began to visit massage parlours and lap dancing clubs on the premise of entertaining male clients. His own sexual desires and needs not being met by his less than forthcoming long term girlfriend. Lizzie had noticed a change in Robin and his kinks, growing more alien to his needs as they became more outrageous and demanding. Robin loved his devilish assignations; quickly learning he could have what he wanted if he paid. Robin was addicted to the buzz and thrill of ‘strictly business’ sex, craving more and more, his salacious appetite was spiralling out of control.
He was always smart and winkled money from the unlikeliest of sources, but sadly not shrewd enough to hang onto it in the leaner climes. Despite all his promises his clientele suffered the same bad luck as he did, their opulent dream apartments were rarely available and usually either run down or only part built. Robin’s small print tied them up in knots and left them with little chance of reimbursement should they pursue him.
Robin Bradford was about 5’8” tall; his rotund physique was testament to his fine dining. In his youth he had been strong and muscular, but time and laziness had decimated his once muscular frame. Robin’s unkempt mop off jet black hair showed signs of greying, but his face was always clean shaven, just like his sales patter, smooth and silky. His morals where not as clean and fresh as his sales skills, they were more akin to a sewer rat!
Robin keyed ‘Peldon Rise’ into his satellite navigation system and his cheery host led him on his way.
Katya received a call around 4.00pm on her mobile, from her madam advising her of her new client’s imminent arrival.
“You have a gentleman due at 4.30 love He likes things a bit rough. You know the boundaries, so stick with what you are comfortable with darling, ok?”
Sadly Katya no longer recognised where the boundaries started and finished, this former strict catholic girl had left her ethics behind when she arrived at London’s Victoria three years earlier. Lured to the U.K. under false promises of wealth, Katya had left her beloved family and rural life back in her native polish village. She found no cash rich jobs waiting for her, no posh flats, just loneliness and ultimately prostitution.
‘Turn right at the next junction’ he dutifully obeyed.
‘At the roundabout
take the third exit; continue for two hundred meters’. He was close
now.
‘Take the next right; you have reached your destination’.
Robin eased his car into a space opposite Peldon Rise and surveyed the building. For those on the outside looking in, the dank exterior held no clues to the debauchery that lay behind numerous doors on this squalid estate, drugs, prostitution and probably much worse. The darkness of the winters evening began to creep over the county and one by one the street lights fused together creating safe passage to Peldon’s entranceway.
Checking his watch, robin began the ritual of hiding his Sat. Nav. and phones in the glove box safely out of site. After all, people round these parts had no scruples. With a series of beeps and flashes he locked his car and was away across the courtyard. He removed his cash from his pocket and placed his money inside his sock before stepping from the shadows. Robin was rightly worried that he could be mugged, or jumped on and relieved of his dollar. Nobody in their right mind would report a mugging at a whore house least of all Robin, certainly not with his track record.
A quick P.N.C. check by one of Robert Peel’s finest would reveal a whole host of misdemeanours levelled at Robin. In 1989 he had been convicted of malicious wounding, in ’92 saw an assault charge added to the list. In ’96 he gained a blot on his good character for kerb crawling. Finally and more significantly in ’97 he had an aggravated sexual assault charge brought against, which he vehemently denied. The Magistrates saw through Robin’s meek facade and sentenced him to 6 months at her majesties most eloquent hostelry, HMP Chelmsford.
The two latter charges pointed more blatantly to his sexual predatory instincts, whereas the former two, less so. They masked the reality of his violent sexual history.
In 1989 he became embroiled in an argument with Jason Smeek, the boyfriend of a working girl. Jason was somewhat disgruntled at Bradford’s heavy handed romp with his girl. Despite knowing her chosen vocation involved numerous hours on her back, he felt that Bradford’s behaviour was excessive. He couldn’t accept punters like Bradford mauling, slapping and scratching at her. Jason rightly took exception to this heinous act and fronted Bradford on his next weekly visit. The young fit aggrieved boyfriend was no physical match for Bradford’s raw strength. Bradford dispatched him easily with one deft head butt. When the police arrived neither would say why they had argued, but several witnesses came forward and Jason Smeek thought pressing charges would teach Bradford a lesson. Nobody could shed any light on the fracas, but all who saw it agreed it was callous and cold.
In 1992 Robin’s temper flared again and a ‘tom’ felt the back of his big hand for daring to seek extra compensation for the humiliation and sexual torment she had suffered during her ‘trick’ with Bradford.
“Cheeky bitch....... how fucking dare she” Bradford was arrested again and charged with assault. No one knew it was a sex related incident, frankly no one cared either. The fickle and secretive sex industry in Essex had papered over the cracks and gaps in Bradford’s beastly past. Many girls suffered at the hands of Bradford’s grotesque character, but most just accepted their fate and resolved not to book him again. They could not or would not involve the law’s ‘long arm’ for fear of recrimination. Bradford had been flying well under the police radar, unchallenged for quite some time.
Bradford neared No.34 and stopped momentarily in front of Katya’s small frosty bathroom window, adjusting his tie in the reflection and smoothing his eyebrows down, as if he were about to attend an interview. He cleared his throat and reached for her doorbell. Cathedral bells chimed under the thrust of his finger and resonated around Katya’s flat. She rose from her grubby sofa and went to greet her guest, shutting the doors to her dismal existence as she travelled the hallway to towards the front door. Before she reached out to release the door, ironically she underwent a similar last minute ritual to Robin Bradford. She straightened her short pleated skirt and released one more button on her tight white blouse so that her already heaving breasts spilled out gracefully over her red lace bra. A quick pucker of her pink lips and ‘Anja’ was ready too.
Pulling the door back tightly on its chain, Katya spied through its gape into the eerie half light of Peldon’s balcony.
“Hi, Anja?” enquired Robin
“Tak, Tak....yes, please come in” Although Katya was excellent with her English she still held a distinct accent which accompanied her ‘pigeon’ dialogue. Robin perused Anja’s body from top to bottom. Her blonde hair was closely cropped, her modest make up immaculate, topped off with tarty shocking pink lipstick. Katya, held herself well, had fate been kinder she could easily have graced the pages of the countless magazines she endlessly pawed over. Her blouse parted gently at her bosom to reveal her ample pert cleavage, Robin could see clearly what he would soon be enjoying. Her mid riff was exposed showing of her slim, sleek waist, which was adorned by an angel shaped belly piercing. Her skirt hung just over her hips and barely covered her buttocks, leading neatly down to her fishnet hold ups. Anja had chosen well, these were Robin Bradford’s favourite garments. To finish, Anja had selected a pair of the shiniest black patent high heeled shoes, which gleamed back at Robin as his gaze faltered at her feet.
“You come through please” Beckoning Robin inside, Anja turned to reveal her shapely cheeks, teasing out from below her skirt, her matching red lace knickers just visible and barely covering her modesty.
Robin was clearly elated at the sight of Anja’s arse winking at him as she guided him to her boudoir. Robin resisted the urge to slap her bum as she sauntered sexily in front of him, his time to slap and grope was looming fast.
Anja’s bedroom was a complete contrast to Katya’s flat, although they were one and the same, Katya’s alter ego Anja commanded the bedroom, it was after all, her office, it needed to befit its purpose. To this end Katya despised sleeping in her bed, the only decent room in the house just served to remind her of her own failure. Sadly Katya envied Anja, she was confident, wanted and sometimes even loved. One of Anja’s well off regulars begged her to give up her degrading job and take up residence with him. She declined, at least this way she was only a part time tart. Not at his beck and call all hours of the day and night. Katya was so very different to Anja. Katya was demure, shy and quiet; she liked the arts and had studied the historical buildings and monuments that scattered far and wide through Poland’s old cities. Like a well schooled actor, Katya played her role as Anja brilliantly, if you could win an Oscar for being a brass, Anja would definitely be in contention.
Robin brushed up tightly behind Anja as she slid her hand across the door handle, the warmth of his breath breezed past her neck and partly exposed shoulder like a zephyr, sending a chill through her. She quickly opened the door and made for the bed. Robin removed his watch and placed it on the purple leather stool at her bedside, next to his neatly folded jacket. The decor in here was tacky to say the least, but far more inviting than the emptiness of the other rooms. Anja had clearly had the leading handing in this room’s makeover, not Katya.
The room was awash with pinks and purples, everything neat, tidy and clean. The bed sheets pristine and freshly laundered lay invitingly open. The bedside lamps glowed orange, smothering the room in an amber backlight. Fluffy pink and mauve heart shaped pillows snuggled together at the head of the bed, creating the illusion of a loving romantic assignation. Hanging roughly around the walls appended to the picture rail were various work clothes, slinky, sexy and some outright slutty. Anja’s outfits were not the normal comfortable blouses, jumpers and skirts that most would associate with a day at the office. Hers were provocative, indecent and tarty, designed to get the hearts and pulses of her rampant clientele racing. Anything Anja could do to speed up the inevitable climax and get it over with, the better.
Robin was pleased with her attire, she reminded him of his pubescent fondling with Sarah Pearson in fifth grade of Secondary school, young, but far from innocent. He removed all of his clothes in a flurry and stripped down to his boxers and socks. Anja ran her hands across her bare stomach and began to unbutton her blouse.
“Wait, leave it on... please” Robin stern at first, relented and improved on his request.
“How old are you Anja?”
“I am twent two”
“No surely you are younger. You look much younger” Robin steering Anja in a direction she was not comfortable with. Despite the obvious similarities with a school uniform, this was a role she did not want to portray.
“16, I think 16, maybe even younger, you could pass for 15 no sweat” Robin’s obvious arousal was now evident with the swelling in his baggy underwear. Anja remained silent, thinking this would convince Robin to change tact. He reached up the back of her stocking thighs and caressed her firm arse, before steering her to sit on the edge of the bed.
Anja was more than familiar with what this meant and dutifully obliged by grasping Robin’s penis firmly with her warm clammy hands. Leaning forward slowly she reached to her dresser where the tools of her trade lay waiting, like a surgeons trolley. Oil, tissues, K.Y., condoms, wipes and assortment of phallic shaped toys and lastly an air freshener, to rid the room of sex’s musky odour. She ripped the condom packet open with her teeth and slid it on his shaft with all the skill and guise only a sex worker could possess. Easing a wipe from its packet, Anja stroked the full length of Robin’s glory. After all nobody likes the taste of Spermicide do they. She tossed the wipe into the basket by the bedside table, the obligatory wicker bin, pre lined with a carrier bag for ease of removal; she then focused on the task, quite literally in hand. Leaning into his crotch, Anja’s warm pink lips greeted Robin’s throbbing cock. As she drew her head back and forth she left a trail of candy pink saliva along the length of his latex clad member. Robin placed both hands on her shoulders and squeezed, apply an increasingly firm and steady pressure, gritting his teeth he tightened his grip more and more till Anja winced.
That’ll teach you to fuck about in my class. His authoritarian voice was bitter and aggressive.
“You naughty, dirty little slut, you’ll learn the fucking hard way”
The muscles in Anja’s shoulders recoiled in agony under Bradford’s grip. She tried to back away but Robin was in control, he wasn’t done yet. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and cupped at her breasts through her top with his left hand. The reached round the back of her head with the other and pulled at the hair on the nape of her neck. His large palm all but consumed her petite neck. Gripping, pulling, groping, Robin now used Anja’s head to satisfy his salacious greed. Driving hard into her mouth whilst grunting loudly, forcing hard and deep into the back of her throat. Anja tried to protest, but could not speak, her hands trying to stop Bradford’s thighs from slamming into her chest as he rammed harder and faster. As she pushed him away, she unintentionally scratched his leg with her long painted nails while desperately trying to get free and draw breath.
“Nasty little bitch, you slut, fucking slut” Robin released his unwilling victim from her phallic impalement.
“Bend over the bed, quick, quick....Fucking do it, now” Impatience clearly visible in his menacing voice. She turned her back to him as instructed and bent over the bed, her eyes filling with tears, praying for the ordeal to be over. Bradford pushed her skirt up over the small of her back and snatched at her lacy underwear, dragging her briefs urgently down to her ankles. He thrust his open palm swiftly towards her lily white fleshy cheeks and slapped her with such venom; she felt it right up to her clenched teeth.
“Swinya, grube swinya!” her native tongue surged forward as she felt the warm stinging course through her corpuscles. A raised crimson hand print surfaced instantly and began to itch beneath, amidst the heat. Her remonstrating merely served to spurn Bradford on. With a renewed vigour he pulled wildly at her short hair. She guided his tool towards her Vagina; her hand was shaking, struggling to get him inside her because of his rampant stabbing. Anja was dry, who wouldn’t be, and it was hardly an enjoyable erotic experience. Did Bradford care, like fuck!
With the K.Y. well out of reach Anja elected to spit on her fingers and rub it furiously onto his cock. In one sharp jerk, Bradford was bollocks deep in Anja’s warm nest. He pulled harder at her hair now, virtually tearing it out by the roots, his other hand clawing at her buttocks and hips, his finger nails digging into her flesh and breaking the surface of her smooth soft skin. The faint smudge of blood filled the underside of his nails. With each pump her pushed harder and faster, each more dramatic and forceful than the last.
“Fucking whore....... cheap little fucking whore” Bradford was nearly there now, a few more grunts and humps and he would be quelling his dark urges.
“You filthy bitch....BITCH” Groaning loudly and jubilantly, Bradford was done.
Anja felt the warmth of Bradford’s seed as it filled the condom, she knew she was home and dry. Her legs buckled from under her and she collapsed on the bed pulling Robin out from inside her as she went. She reached for her knickers in a bid to restore her dignity. As she pulled them up, she turned to see Bradford removing the soiled condom, which he ceremoniously dumped on her purple, heart shaped rug. An act of defiance and humiliation, designed to teach Anja who was the master. Humbly she removed it and placed it in the bedside bin. Reaching for the wipes, she pulled some for herself and offered the packet to Bradford. He snatched the packet from her and set about removing all traces of their lustful, one sided encounter. Unfortunately for Katya, she couldn’t rid herself so easily of her encounter with Bradford. Her shapely derriere bore testament to Bradford’s vile rage, the scratches still weeping blood from his coarse nails.
His clawing would prove to be his undoing. Bradford removed his money from his shoe and slung it across her bed as she dressed beside him.
“Whores wages!”
“Thank you” Despite his disgusting manner, Katya was still grateful for the money; she had bills to pay like all of us. As Bradford finished teasing his tie back into place he swept his jacket from the stool and stepped into the hallway. Katya followed him to the door, one hand on her sore arse, caressing the swollen hand print. As he left Katya re-applied the security chain, bent forward and let her head rest on the cold door, she sighed out loud, relieved it was over, finally over. She resolved to search the job centre walls again in the vague hope of finding a more respectable job. Katya returned to her lounge and began leafing through a magazine, whilst enjoying a post coital cigarette in the solace of her empty lounge.
Robin Bradford placed his keys in the ignition of his clapped out car and the engine rumbled into life. A cursory glance to his wrist to check the time reminded him that he had failed to put his watch back on again as he hastily left Anja’s flat.
“Oh you fucking tosser”
Relocking his car he again found himself heading for the steps of Peldon Rise. Once more the musical chimes echoed through her hallway. Katya, taken aback by the door bell so soon after her last clients exit, looked on nervously. She wasn’t expecting any one else, with some trepidation she placed her cigarette in the indent of her glass ashtray and left the lounge.
The chained door tightened around a foot from the frame.
“My Watch!”
Katya was shocked by the sight of Bradford’s presence and his abrupt statement.
“I left my fucking watch in your room” Foolishly Katya opened the door and bravely set about Bradford verbally.
“I get watch for you, but you not nice man. I tell you that you have hurt me”
“You got paid didn’t you? I paid through the nose for my extras, so get over it. Now piss off and get my fucking watch!”
“You are not nice man!”
Robin brushed her aside and went to her bedroom to retrieve his timepiece. Katya followed, still nagging at him for his brutish behaviour. As he came back out of the bedroom she stood in his path.
“You don’t pay enough for hurt me like that”
Bradford grabbed Katya’s jaw with his left hand and pushed her head up against the toilet door.
“If you don’t shut your mouth.......I will shut it for you”
She flailed her arms at him and broke free from his grasp, pushing his chest with both arms she told him to leave.
“Get out my flat, get out!” With steely determination she pressed him backwards, testing Bradford’s mettle.
“No fuck arse ‘Tom’ tells me when to go!” Bradford drove his palm hard into the underside of Katya’s chin knocking her flying, hate filled his eyes. She quickly fell backwards, not even able to scream. She struck her left temple on the door frame as she lost balance. Her pretty blue eyes shut as her head hit the floor. Katya had no idea that Bradford came at her again, she was already unconscious.
CHAPTER 3
COPPER AND BRASS
P.C. Vicky Ward drew on her wealth of experience, her training and her own sharp wits. She ushered novice Semple to the open doorway of 34 Peldon Rise with strict instructions. “Don’t move, don’t touch and don’t let anybody in”.
She reached down to her radio and spoke to her duty sergeant. After having briefed him on the scene, she returned to the lounge and took a picture on her own mobile of the smouldering cigarette that was nearly spent in the ashtray.
Sergeant James McEwan, or Sergeant Macca as he was affectionately known by his colleagues, sent instructions left right and centre. He had only ever seen a few suspicious deaths in his few years as a policeman. None were ever pleasant and he knew that details, albeit minute, near enough always held the key. Time as they say, was of the essence. Macca carried the news upstairs himself to C.I.D, he wanted to be involved. A sad but rare glimmer of excitement in an otherwise uneventful shift, Macca wanted in.
Vincent Llewelyn sat daydreaming at his desk thinking about the weekend’s police charity golf competition which Southend had the honour of hosting this year. Vincent was a monster of a man, standing 6ft 2” tall with an impressive 56” chest. He held the Home Counties Police boxing belt for six consecutive years in his twenties. Despite being 47, Vincent still trained every day. He was very proud of himself, always preening and titivating. He had divorced 5 years ago and was enjoying his new found freedom. There was a wealth of opportunity for a fit healthy well groomed man and he exploited it.
His confidence, stature and charm had women queuing to gain his attention. His rugged features, bent nose and crumpled ear lobes just seemed to add to his lovable rogue label. Coupled with his generous pay and shrewd property investments, he was sitting pretty financially too. Vince had no desire to change his job as it fuelled his need to be respected and also opened many doors. He had never crossed the line, but often sailed close to the wind with his outside business interests.
When Macca bounded into his office, Vince was pushing papers around his desk trying to look enthusiastic while tapping his teeth with a pen.
“Vol au vents or crolines Macca?”
“What?” Macca was caught off guard by Vince’s random question.
“Sunday week, the golf comp! What do you think?”
“Who cares about vol au vents or golf Vince, will there be lager and strippers?” joked Macca.
“Not sure if there will be lager, it’s a respectable event” Both enjoyed a good bit of banter, it made for an easier ride.
“Vince mate listen, one of my arms and legs has just phoned in a suspicious death on the Dodge City Estate. Much as I would like to keep it to myself, I know you boys will want to poke your flat noses in”
“Why thank you Macca me old mate. How very kind of you. Perhaps you can do some of the more interesting tasks for me. Like door to door, hours of trawling through CCTV, witness statements and of course fingertip searches on your hands and knees”
“So kind Vince, so kind, can I also polish your fat bloody ego too?”
“Nothing fat about me Macca” He quipped patting his stomach.
“I put four offices down there already and called through to S.O.C.O. Probably get that ponsy pillock who wears a syrup again. Do you think he knows how bad it really is?” But Vince now looked deep in thought.
“P.C. Ward was first on the scene Vince; she is keeping it safe for you lot”
“Sorry Macca mate I was miles away, lots of stuff to get sorted. You contacted him upstairs yet?”
“No, that’s one job you can bloody sort”
“Perhaps I will email him or send him a text on his Blackberry”, laughing raucously as they both knew he was far from being a tech head. Vince grabbed his keys and phone off the desk and made his way out into the open space which was littered with desks and busy looking bodies.
“Listen up; we have an unconfirmed report of a suspicious on the Dodge. I need the meeting room next door as an incident room. Nicky, CCTV, Brian you get me an autopsy slot sorted. I want this processed and wrapped up in 3 days. I’ve got the Charity Match to sort still. Come on get cracking” His request was met by a wave of activity, chairs grinding on floors, desk draws clattering and doors banging shut.
Vince took the stairs down to the basement car park and marched towards his vehicle. He didn’t feel the need for sirens and lights as he felt that ‘Katya’ was going to stay put till at least he had given her the once over.
Peldon Flats were now overwhelmed by police officers, their cars and half of Dodge Cities dubious residents. As Vince made his way across the courtyard and under the blue and white tape, his metal tipped brogues clinked against the paving, letting all around him know that he was coming.
When Vince ventured towards Semple at the doorway of Katya’s domicile, Wards directions echoed in Semple’s mind. He stepped bravely into Vincent Llewelyn’s path and delivered his lines with confidence and authority.
“Stop right there sir, this is a restricted area. Nobody goes in here without clear instructions from my superiors” Vince not wishing to cause this ambitious young copper any embarrassment flashed his warrant card and asked him politely to step to one side.
He reached into the inside of his smart designer suit and pulled out a pair of crumpled blue over shoes. Placing them over his brogues he looked down at them in despair. They didn’t make him look quite as cool and sharp as he wanted. Vicky glanced at the door and saw Vince enter, his huge frame filling the open door. She was more than pleased to see him, but wished it could have been under better circumstances. Vince, ever the charmer, embraced Vicky warmly and asked her if she was ok.
“A bit shook up Vince” Her voice trembling and showing signs of anxiety.
“No worries Vic, go get yourself and brew in the incident wagon, then come back up and see me”
“Thanks Vince” As she pulled away from his tender embrace, Vince traced the length of her arm with his huge hand. His compassion was very welcome, Vicky was still reeling from Katya’s grizzly demise.
“Do you want one brought back up?”
“Not unless you’ve got a livener you can spice it up with!” His cheeky spirit unfazed by the gruesome butchery that lay beyond the hallway.
“See what I can do” She said. They left for the mobile unit stationed in the courtyard below. Vince cast his eye briefly over Katya’s meagre possessions that lay around her flat as he made for the bedroom. Already knowing it was a brutal assault made it easier for Vince, he knew it would be a ghastly scene, he had been forewarned, unlike poor Vicky and even more so Adam.
Adam sat in the incident unit with the obligatory ‘warm sweet tea’ cupped in his hands. Vicky Ward entered the wagon, removed her hat and coat and motioned to the officer next to Adam. Forming the letter ‘T’ with her mitts, she approached Adam.
“How ya bearing up?”
“I’m not doing too well” He replied still clearly perturbed.
Back in the flat Vincent Llewelyn had just caught site of the carnage in Katya’s bedroom. Her body lay on top of her prized rug, Bradford’s earlier act of defiance now totally erased by the copious quantities of blood that lay pooling around her. Her blonde hair was stuck almost gel like to her scalp with the blood that oozed from a large strike mark by her temple. Her nose and lips also bled profusely. Her white blouse now torn open, along with her brassiere, was now scarlet in colour, presumably tainted by the blood from the deep cut across her exposed breasts. Her left arm lay upwards between her bed and dresser. The contents of which were now spread across the floor.
Bruising had formed on her forearms already along with numerous scratches. Her right arm clearly broken, lay under her lifeless body. Katya’s silky smooth stomach lay ripped open, her intestines spilling across the laminate floor like a road kill cat. This attack was clearly wild and frenzied, merciless and crazed. Oddly, Katya’s skirt and briefs were still protecting her dignity, unusual for what was clearly a sexually motivated murder. Her left leg which was bent at the knee was tucked neatly under the bed; her right lay straight and unmarked, except for tears to her fishnets.
Within the congealing blood which lay to the right of Katya were two shoe prints, one crystal clear, the other distorted and around twice its normal length. On the wall a scuffed, bloody hand print and numerous splats and splashes, like a mad artist, Katya’s slayer had shown no mercy.
The room was a forensic dream, clues at every turn, blood, fibres, hair, it was all here. The answer was surely here. The bin beside her bed held keys to her day’s visitors. Who was in the musky smelling bin?
Vince stroked his chin pensively and scoured the room; clearly a knife was used to dissect Katya’s insides. So where was it? Vince decided that for now it was best to retire from this sickening scene and let the specialists take the place apart stitch by stitch. Unbeknown to Vincent Llewelyn, the murder weapon was right there in front of him, less than a meter from where he stood. But it would be several hours yet before it was discovered
The mind of a killer is not the easiest thing to decipher. This monster was clearly, seriously unhinged when they carved their mark. Katya’s killer secreted the murder weapon in the most unique and symbolic of hiding place........Inside her warm sweet money box. The autopsy scheduled in for later that night would reveal a carving knife tucked behind the lacy mesh of her blood soaked panties.
CHAPTER 4
FLAT FEET AND THEORIES
As Vince passed Paul Semple on the gangway outside No 34, his usual deliberate and calculated composure faded briefly.
“Sick bastard, what kind of sick bastard man could do that to a woman!”
“I’ve not seen her yet sir” Semple sounded relieved that he had sat this one out.
“My advice would be avoid it if you can lad, it won’t ever leave you otherwise”
P.C. Vicky Ward had Adam to contend with and was pleasantly distracted from her earlier discovery. Vincent stepped inside the mobile unit and ushered Vicky to the back, away from the earshot of Adam.
“That has to be the worst thing I have ever seen Vince, how could someone do something so awful!”
“What about this lad here, Adam. What’s he given you so far?”
“Nothing, he can barely speak, just keeps mumbling crap”
“Ok Vic, keep a close eye on him, I want him in an interview suite with Nicky Meers and me within the hour”
“You don’t suspect him surely?”
“At the moment he is all we have Vicky”
“No way, he is distraught “
“Wouldn’t you be if you had just slashed someone to death? Jesus!”
“Ok, okay” said she.
Vincent eased through the trailer and confronted Adam. He spoke formerly and with little emotion.
“Adam Pickering, I need you to accompany my officers to the station and answer some questions” Adam froze.
“You’re arresting me!”
“No, not yet! We need to get a DNA swab and ask you a few questions, then hopefully we can start building up a picture of what’s happened here tonight”
“Are you fucking serious, ‘build up a picture’, what the hell is wrong with you people, start looking for the fucking killer” Vincent interrupted Adam.
“Now you listen up sunshine, I will tell ‘you’ what’s happening, not the other way round........ Vicky arrange a van to collect him and get Macca to book him in”
“Vince!” she protested.
“P.C Ward!”
She knew it was pointless to question Vincent’s judgement, he could be very single minded at times. Vincent pulled his phone from his pocket and called into his office.
“Nicky, its Vince, how are things moving?”
“Urmm, Brian has got you a ‘window’ for the body at 9 to 9.30. He has also sorted the incident room”
“What progress have you made with CCTV in and around Peldon?”
Nicky had been trying to get the operators at Southend’s council office to browse Peldon, Victoria and the local streets from their security centre. So far she hadn’t had much luck, but then she was preoccupied. Vince wasn’t going to accept that, so she knew it would be teeth marks in her arse if something didn’t happen soon.
“I am still waiting for footage to be emailed over from Council HQ for the two hours leading up to the 999 report”, blagging was Nicky’s forte, she always scraped by, just!
“Push them Nic, we need those images, also call Simon from Chelmsford and get his backside over to Southend. He is shit hot at enhancement and video editing”
“Ok boss, on it right away”
When Nicky hung up, she immediately logged off the social network account which had been dominating her time whilst everyone else was pandering to Vincent’s pressing needs.
As the meat wagon pulled out of Peldon Rise car park with Adam Pickering tucked neatly in the back, forensics head honcho William Mumford sauntered in bespectacled and studious. Pushing his glasses back up his nose he asked for Vincent Llewelyn or the scenes senior officer.
Mumford was thorough and professional, but came across as seriously lacking anything resembling emotion. His much maligned wig was his only let down. Refusing to succumb to his receding locks, vanity overrode any ideas of him balding gracefully. William Mumford was very unpopular with most of Southend’s Police hierarchy. He had an arrogance that didn’t sit well with the likes of Vincent. He was one of England’s most accomplished forensic impresarios, but had the man management skills of an eastern block dictator. Tact wasn’t William Mumford’s best assets. Finding needles in haystacks was though. Much as Vincent despised Mumford, he was sure William would draw a wealth of hidden information from Katya’s flat.
P.C. Vicky Ward stood close to Vincent and engaged in hushed conversation, they exchanged snips and clippets of information that each thought was of use.
“Cigarette” Vicky shouted excitedly, “Cigarette, the girl had been smoking just before her attack, I think”
“What makes you say that Vic”
“When I first went into the lounge there was a cigarette burning in the ashtray”
“Hers or the killers, do you think!”
“We can’t have been far behind her killer,” said Vince.
“I took a picture of it still alight, thought forensics might be able to put a time to the death based on the burn rate!” Sounding chuffed Vicky showed Vince her phones image.
“Like your style Vicky, well done”, patting her shoulder, almost patronising. Vicky’s radio chirped into life with Macca’s familiar voice bleating from her pocket.
“Vicky can you tell Vincent we managed to track down the mobile phone caller. It’s registered to James Flanagan No 4 Peldon Rise. I think the caller was possibly his son, Benjamin!”
“He is standing with me sarge, but yes I will tell him”
“Ooh lucky you Vicky, watch yourself with him” Macca laughed to himself knowing Vince would be only too happy to give Vicky the once over. Vicky probably wouldn’t protest much either. Sexual tension had always graced Vince and Vicky’s meetings. Subtle flirtations and veiled innuendos simmering between them. Vicky’s cheeks reddened and Vince mustered a knowing grin.
“Who did you have with you Vic when you first went up?”
“Semple the new lad just in from Colchester” Vince asked who had restrained the teenager earlier in the evening. Vicky replied that it was P.C. Semple and therefore he would have the best chance of recognising Benjamin. Also hoping she wouldn’t get the daunting task of knocking at James Flanagan’s flat.
“Take Semple round to No 4 and suss it out, don’t go in too heavy, James Flanagan is a handful”
Vicky knew Flanagan and his family well, although James was a pain in the arse, always fighting, getting hammered and causing mayhem in the bars, he was ‘old school’. He wouldn’t think twice about tipping Semple on his backside, but Vicky was sure he wouldn’t hit a woman. Or at least she hoped!
Semple was relieved of his guard duty and steered in the direction of Flanagan’s flat. James Flanagan had come to Essex from Ireland’s West Coast in the late sixties seeking gainful employ. Soon after, he found Monica, a young singer working the many clubs in Essex’s busy towns. Both smitten, they set up home together and settled into as near as normal life as they could. Monica gave James three sons, each as fierce as their father, reputations spoke volumes on Dodge cities rat run estates. Most feared the Flanagans, only the stupid or pissed crossed swords with James and his Pride.
Ben wasn’t tough like his older brothers, but living on their reputation he got by though. His dad would secretly taunt him and intimate he was not from Flanagan stock, ‘probably the postie’s, he would say. Nobody wanted to provoke the fearsome wrath of Flanagan family, so Ben went about his business unhindered.