Burn, Baby, Burn

By Jake Barton

Marcus was special. He'd always known it. Even at the age of six when he'd decided to kill his father. His privileged background should have produced a doctor, an academic, perhaps a diplomat. Instead, he killed people for fun.

Donna O'Prey is the most junior member of a small private security firm. A routine search for a missing teenage girl escalates into something very dangerous indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jake Barton
• Release date: Dec 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465956491

Jake Barton

Jake Barton - not at all what he seems. Used to be someone completely different - this is a massive step down. An unconventional life, touched by wanderlust, involving much movement around the globe. Writes, sporadically. Very occasionally, his writing meets acceptable standards.

Book preview

Burn, Baby, Burn

by

Jake Barton

Copyright 2009 Jake Barton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

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All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Prologue

Ramsdon Hall Assessment Centre, Cheshire. 2002.

Marcus was special. He’d always known it. Even at the age of six when he decided to kill his father. His privileged childhood should have produced a doctor, an academic, perhaps a diplomat. Instead, he killed people for fun.

Now, his world was one room. Most of the time just a blank and empty wall.

Like himself.

He focused on a crack in the plaster – eyes fixed, lips slightly parted, the indiscernible rise and fall of his chest the only clue to his continuing grasp on life. Four hours since his last meal. He possessed no independent means of measuring the passage of time, but a wristwatch would have confirmed the accuracy of his estimate almost to the second. He fixed his eyes in the middle distance, allowing his head to drop ever so slightly forward. He could maintain this level of concentration for as long as it proved necessary.

He’d been in this room for over two years, biding his time until the doctors washed their hands of him. The rows of softly humming machines with their trailing wires, the bright lights shining into his eyes, all taken away when they moved on to more exotic specimens for their future amusement.

His only daily contact being his warder, Grimes; a man of no interest.

He heard a key grate in the lock.

The heavy steel door swung open. Grimes lumbered through the entrance, key ring bouncing off the ridges of fat surrounding his waist. The single bed, metal table and revolving chair were bolted to the floor – but Grimes still managed to bang his hip on the table as he moved into the room, bringing with him a sour melange of rancid sweat and cheap tobacco. The odour always lingered long after his departure.

You can come in now, Grimes called out. Two figures entered. Marcus could tell by their leather shoes creaking on the tiled floor.

Marcus remained motionless, staring at the wall, senses on high alert. This was a change of routine. His last visitors had come more than a month ago; thirty-six days to be precise. Marcus liked to be precise. On that occasion it had been Doctor Rogers and his team of white-coated acolytes.

They pronounced themselves satisfied with the status of their patient; stable, with no prospect of reversion. Marcus exhibited the proper level of contrition and no longer needed to be regarded as dangerous, but under the conditions of his enforced detention would remain at the facility pending a Home Office decision on his future. That future had arrived. They were taking him to prison.

Is this him? one of the visitors asked. He’s only a bloody kid.

Marcus slowly swivelled round in his chair, gazing impassively at the newcomers.

Fuck me, the man continued, Talk about the face of a fucking angel.

He’s seventeen, and don’t let that pretty-boy face fool you either, Grimes said. Nasty little bastard."

Grimes jerked a contemptuous thumb in the direction of the Administrative Centre two floors above. That lot upstairs, reckon he’s some sort of misguided kid who maybe done wrong, as if it were something out of character. Bloody crap. He narrowed his eyes. They don’t think to ask me, do they? Oh no, what would I bloody well know about anything? Never mind that I’ve seen him every day for the two years he’s been here. Not just when they come round and he’s on his best behaviour. I know what he’s really like.

Does he ever speak?

Grimes shook his head. Hardly ever moves. Just looks at that fucking wall all day. He nodded at Marcus. Hey, pretty boy. They’ve come to take you away. You’re out of here.

Marcus didn’t move.

The second uniformed man moved into Marcus’ line of vision. He looked carefully at Marcus but did not speak. He was slim, almost puny alongside Grimes. The cropped ginger hair, intense pallor and prominent Adam’s apple, only emphasised his lack of stature. His dark blue Prison Service uniform, liberally stained with rain splashes, hung off his narrow shoulders.

Grimes began to bluster. Watch yourselves, that’s all I’m saying. Nice as pie he is when the doctors are here, but when they’ve gone, there’s something about the way he looks at you. Gives me the bloody creeps, it does.

The smaller man snorted. Don’t worry about us. I think we can cope with a bit of a kid like him. What about his visitor? Hadn’t you better sort that out before we take him out of this fucking holiday camp?

Grimes started to speak, apparently thought better of it and left the room, his receding footsteps echoing on the tiles as the uniformed officers exchanged amused glances.

A minute passed in silence, broken by the reappearance of Grimes in the doorway. He took a step into the room, looking backwards at the open doorway.

Marcus stiffened, the slight tremor passing unnoticed, as a slim figure squeezed past Grimes’ distended paunch. Fragrant and light of foot. A woman.

Leave me. she said in a gravelly tone. Nobody moved. Leave me, she repeated, commandingly. You’ve seen the letter - permission for me to see him alone. Doctor Rogers said the patient was no longer even rated as a low-level threat.

Grimes shrugged. Can’t do it, sorry. My responsibility, see? Never mind what Doctor Rogers says. He’s in my care. Tell you what; I can stand just over there, by the door. That suit you?

The woman nodded. Thank you. What about them?

The two men made their way past her. Marcus could tell by their body language that they disliked the woman’s hectoring tone.

We’ll need to have him out of here in an hour, said the larger man to Grimes, clearly speaking for the woman’s benefit, About time that pretty boy of yours found out how we go about things in a proper nick.

Behave yourself, Marcus, Grimes said, transparently eager to follow the prison officers out of the room. I’ll be right here, he added, in the doorway. Grimes moved away, banging his hip once more on the table in his rush to leave.

The woman waited until Grimes had taken up station in the doorway while Marcus looked on impassively. She inched forward to stand beside him, peering closely at his profile.

I’d forgotten how young you were, she said. You would have been no more than fourteen or fifteen when I last saw you. At the trial.

Marcus raised his eyes to hers. He remembered every detail of the trial, right up to the moment when the judge had sentenced him to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for an unspecified duration.

The doctor asked me why I wanted to come here, to see you. What could be gained by it? Her voice was calm, but a betraying hand shook as she fiddled with a stray tendril of hair.

I told him the truth; I need to repair my life. My sister and her two baby girls are dead because of you, and not a day goes by that I don't miss them. A solitary tear trailed down her cheek.

At the trial, she continued, her voice shaky but under control. You looked so young, so innocent, a tiny figure dwarfed by the lawyers. I almost convinced myself there must have been some dreadful mistake. Yet you sat throughout the trial as if the proceedings were an irrelevance; right up to the moment the verdict was announced. I was watching you then. You terrified me. Your eyes were empty pools, the deadest eyes I’d ever seen.

She breathed deeply, exhaling slowly, as if cleansing herself of the past.

Marcus’s eyes held hers. He smiled at her, briefly glancing at the doorway where Grimes leaned against the corridor wall, then rose to his feet with an easy grace. Raising a hand he touched her tear-stained cheek.

Don’t cry, he said.

Slim fingers enclosed her wrist, drawing her closer. She caught her breath as he touched her hair, fingers closing on a metal hairgrip; deftly slipping it into his hand. The woman winced as his fingers tightened on her wrist. Slowly and deliberately, he moved the hairgrip towards her eyes. She stared at it in horror, unable to move.

Grimes clearing his throat in the corridor interrupted the spell. Grasping his hand firmly in her own she forcefully yanked the tiny metal grip away from her face. The point pierced the skin of his forearm, slicing a shallow groove into his flesh. Ignoring the blood escaping from the wound he leaned right into her, almost touching. How they screamed, those little pretties, oh yes, for such a long time, he whispered, smiling as she shrank from his voice. She broke away, frantically sucking air.

I’ll find you, Marcus hissed, his voice urgent and compelling. They’ll have to let me out eventually. I’ll be a model prisoner who has seen the error of his childish ways. Then I’ll come for you.

CHAPTER 1

When they put me away…it was nothing. When I was freed, I was five times richer, a hundred times more intelligent and a thousand times more dangerous.

Nicholas van Hoogstraten, property developer and once Britain’s youngest millionaire, speaking in the 1960s following his four-year prison sentence for ordering a grenade attack on the home of a businessman whom he claimed had refused to pay a debt.

Wirral, Merseyside. 1:15 am. 2010.

Rain fell steadily on the broad leaves of a tree in the adjoining garden, like the relentless footsteps of an army of marching warriors, but Marcus was impervious to the elements. Glancing upwards at the slate roof, glistening with languorous black slickness, he allowed himself the luxury of a wry smile.

The roof and solid stone walls might protect the occupants from the wind and rain, but they wouldn’t protect them from him. He savoured these moments, watching while unobserved. Hiding in the dark, making his plans, he was totally absorbed in his task. He devoted countless hours to the study of a target’s routine and in planning his escape routes, accumulating the essential information he needed.

The pale light from a gibbous moon on the rise revealed a bedraggled kitten, stranded under a parked car, too fearful to venture out, but shivering with the bitter chill of the night air. Marcus gave it no more than a glance. The shop doorway where he stood was deep-set, the yellow glow of street lighting struggling to probe its inner recesses.

Opposite, a large square house stood mainly dark and empty, just one lit window held his attention. Yet, even at a time of maximum concentration, his defence systems were fully operational. Was anyone watching him? Watching the watcher?

Each passing car, a single scurrying pedestrian, an area of dark shadow behind a bus shelter, each evaluated, their risk potential carefully considered – instinctively, without any conscious effort on his part. This talent for self-preservation was an integral part of his life, for he was at risk, at every moment of every day. He had no fear of imprisonment; he had planned too well to make another mistake, such concern was not a factor. What he feared was discovery.

Discovery would prevent him from his work, from what he had to do. As a young man, he’d survived many years in prison, seizing every opportunity. Freedom to study, honing his already formidable intellect was only a small part of his continuing education.

Surrounded by dangerous men, Marcus refined his skills, ensuring he was both respected and feared by his fellow prisoners while representing himself to those in authority as a contrite and respectable member of society.

The routine of prison life brought a kind of perverse satisfaction. He’d slept like a child, surrounded by the myriad sounds confined men make at night. The clipping of steel-tipped shoes along interminable corridors as the screws made their rounds, the screech of metal on metal, and the slap of plastic flip-flops on polished floors. To other men, prison was bedlam where peace was an impossibility, but Marcus had found it soothing. Sleep now was more difficult. Brain racing he’d lie awake for hours, planning his moves, sharpening his levels of hatred.

Four months ago, he left prison without a backward glance. He’d learnt from his experience and learnt well. He put behind him the mistakes of childhood. Planning was the key. Planning ensures freedom. Freedom to escape when threatened and freedom to continue doing what he enjoyed more than anything.

Freedom to kill.

From the very first, his murders had gone unknown and undetected; only he and his victim aware that a life was extinguished. Murder - the ultimate thrill – exquisite ecstasy. How he had missed it.

In the bitter chill of the night, his body almost closed down, like a bear in hibernation. Impervious to the cold or the cramped surroundings, his mind remained scalpel-sharp. Breathing softly, heart beating almost imperceptibly, he would be ready, the instant his senses detected any change in the immediate surroundings.

Marcus returned to full alert as a shaft of light came from a small window. Bathroom, he murmured, the frosted glass confirmed this. A figure materialised, identifiable by its size as an adult male, but blurred by the swirls and bobbles in the glass. The face came closer to look out, but the watcher knew that all would be dark beyond the window. The shadow resembled one of those camera-obscured faces shown on television, when the person does not wish to be identified.

Another slim finger of light, further along from the bathroom, pierced the gloom, prompting a fierce intake of breath and a slight shift of his position. Through the partially drawn curtains, the girl was invisible to everyone but himself. She examined her body in the mirror, gently caressing breasts, as tenderly as any lover. The girl behaved naturally without any false posing, opening herself up for him.

The time of sharing, rich and satisfying, was no less poignant for being one-sided. The subject of his vigil remained secure, with no reason for fear, no knowledge of the patient, wary, calculating watcher, or of any prospect of her impending part in their singular relationship.

*****

Marcus watched the girl. Celine. She didn’t know he was there. She was undoubtedly cold – he could see goose-bumps on her soft naked skin. Unable to move beyond the fixed boundaries imposed by the restraints which held her captive, exercise was difficult.

He’d been away since the first rays of watery sunlight pierced the woodland gloom. The small window gave no hint of the sun’s movements. Marcus knew the time down to the last second but she wouldn’t know. All she would know was that he’d been gone a long time.

She never heard him approach. One minute she was alone; the next he was there. Dripping water from his naked body, he stood in front of her, reaching out to check the security of her shackles.

I’m cold, she stammered. Marcus stood over her, his face expressionless.

*****

The steady rain of an hour earlier had died away; replaced by sunshine which illuminated the imposing iron gates set in an immense stretch of high stone wall.

The sky, the shade of blue which great painters yearn to immortalise on canvas, stretched like a great bale of cloth tight over the roof of the world, appearing close enough to reach out and touch. Standing outside the gates, and waiting with her customary lack of patience, Donna was beginning to regret wearing a heavy duffel coat now the weather had so radically improved. It had been one of those mornings, and she’d only been out of bed two hours.

She thought back to the start of the day and shuddered at the memory. Her father’s body hanging, his eyes bulging, staring straight at her, blood vessels cracked. No matter that it was only a dream; no matter that it happened two years’ ago. No matter that it wasn’t even a new dream, that it was old and all too familiar. She’d woken, screaming, throwing the strangling bedclothes away, her heart thudding, the image flashing in front of her eyes, even when she forced them wide open. Peg, her grandmother, rushed in and slapped her face. Tough love, she called it. The doctors reassured her she was much better now than she used to be: she only had the dream once or twice a month. They told her the memories would fade with time. She was still waiting.

Donna relived the dream, like a scab she couldn’t help picking. She had just turned eighteen, waiting nervously for the results of her A-levels. She arrived home late after a storming row with her boyfriend. He wanted them to share a flat; she wanted something else. She didn’t know what it was, but setting up house with Lee wasn’t it. On the long walk home, Donna worked out a compromise: take a gap year, do some travelling perhaps, and keep the option of going to university next year.

Lee wasn’t part of the plan. She needed to talk it over with her Dad, and she was pleased to see the lights burning brightly as she turned into the drive. Donna knew he wouldn’t stop her doing what she wanted to do. She didn’t remember her mother, but her Dad had always been there for her.

Donna found his body in the stairwell, hanging from a length of cheap clothesline, face blackened and swollen, tongue protruding, eyes bulging.

Donna had been in therapy for over a year – screw-down furniture, no hard surfaces and a permanently dry mouth from the tablets. One day meandered its way seamlessly into another – Tuesday became Wednesday without any discernible sign to mark its passing. Like a drunk on a bender where time and space ceased to have any meaning.

Donna closed a door on memories. Put the morbid thoughts behind her and moved on. Tried to move on. The trouble with doors in the mind is they don’t stay closed for long, always liable to swing open without warning.

*****

Celine stirred; her arm twitching as she awoke. Marcus saw her eyes open, she looked blankly at the wall, clearly uncertain of her surroundings. She half-turned her head and saw his naked figure alongside the bed, watching her.

Recognition was instant and dramatic in its intensity, he was pleased to note. All expression drained from her face, like a blind being drawn to shut out the glare of the sun.

The light went out of her eyes, leaving behind blank empty pools reflecting no hint of personality. He stroked her hair, barely making contact, but she flinched at each caress. Lying on her back, naked; arms and legs outstretched and securely tied to the metal frame of the bed with strips of cotton towel. She glared at him. Interesting. Hatred briefly overcoming her fear.

Untying her, he removed the towels, dropping them on the floor. Pulling roughly at her wrist he dragged her to a sitting position, and then pulled her ankles off the bed, forcing her to stand. Reached out for her as she staggered, supporting the dead weight for a moment, before she stiffened her limbs and stood erect, head held high in a desperate attempt at dignity. Releasing her arm, he left the room. She was no threat. There was no possibility that she would attempt to escape.

He knew what she was thinking. She could feel his contempt and her cheeks would be flushed with shame as she realised that his opinion of her was in no way misplaced. She was terrified, paralysed both in body and in spirit. She felt his strength, his overwhelming physical superiority.

She had looked into his cold eyes and seen the depth of his cruelty. No, she wouldn’t move. She would stand immobile, maybe swaying slightly, and watch the empty doorway.

Returning a few minutes later, he carried a blue chemical toilet, which he positioned at the side of the bed, and a length of heavy chain. He measured the distance from the far side of the bed to the toilet and nodded his satisfaction before pushing her back onto the bed. S

he gasped as he reached casually across her and snapped one link of a handcuff onto her slender wrist. Holding her down with contemptuous ease, he moved her along the bed slightly and attached one end of the chain to the handcuff dangling from her wrist. Hooking the other end through the bed frame, he secured the chain with a second set of handcuffs, snapping down hard on each connection in turn until satisfied with their security.

Let me go, she screamed, her voice cracking with strain. Please let me go.

Marcus lifted his head, a wolf scenting its prey. Do you think I care what happens to you? By the time you’ve served your purpose, you’ll be begging me to let you die.

Her cry came from deep inside – the shrill quavering wail of a soul in torment. Marcus savoured it.

He left the room, returning moments later with a bag of fruit and a plastic jug. He reached under the bed and retrieved a plastic cup which he offered to her.

Water, he said. You’ll be thirsty. One of the side effects of that little jab I gave you.

Her expression showed she recalled how he’d held her down in the back of his car. The careless manner in which he’d pushed the syringe into her arm and continued to hold her until she’d lost consciousness.

His strength was incredible; controlling her frantic struggles with little effort.

Not so friendly now, are you? Marcus admonished. You were eager enough when we met. I didn’t have any difficulty persuading you to do anything then. She flushed.

Please. Can I have my clothes? Her voice trembled. He walked to the open doorway, as if she had not spoken, pausing to look at her. She would see no compassion in his face, no spark of humanity. He offered a beautiful smile and left the room.

Marcus left the isolated cabin to stand on the porch, watching and listening.

Detecting nothing out of the ordinary, he checked the dinghy in which he’d carried the unconscious girl to the island, now carefully hidden behind a screen of brushwood at the side of the cabin. Nothing had been disturbed.

Thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance, but the clouds overhead were high with no imminent threat of rain. He jogged through the trees to the water’s edge and waded into the icy pool of the lake. Waist deep, he struck out in a powerful crawl, pushing his body to the limit as he set off for the opposite bank, far in the distance. Behind him the cabin was invisible and the tiny island looked like a single clump of trees growing out of the surrounding vastness of the lake.

*****

Marcus paused at the edge of the woods, vigilant and watchful.

Behind him, the darkness was absolute, as he approached the house, a faint beam of light danced in the shadows.

Marcus glanced at the dimly lit window of the house next door and smiled, stepping onto the lawn. Within seconds the light was extinguished and the smile broadened, dark eyes burning through the darkness.

Hello Clive, he said softly. Did you think I’d forgotten you?

Passing under the outstretched branches of a tree, Marcus pushed open a battered wooden door and went inside. In the bedroom, a woman slept, hair fanned across the pillow. Marcus entered the room as silently as a stalking cat; the light from the landing sufficient to show every detail of the woman’s face.

He reached out towards her, caressed her cheek with a touch as soft as summer pollen, and then grasping the bed covers in one hand, drew them slowly down until her naked breasts were revealed. Marcus lightly touched one heavy breast with his palm. The woman stirred restlessly, on the verge of waking, he released his hold and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.

After several minutes, he stood and softly removed his clothes, placing them neatly over the arm of a chair. He moved towards the sleeping figure once more and pulled the top sheet completely away. The woman slumbered nude, lying on her back with one knee half bent, he watched as the faint chill brought her softly awake.

She gasped as she opened an eye and saw his body alongside the bed. Marcus bent forward pressing his lips to her left breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue. He raised his head and smiled at her.

Hello, Mummy, he whispered. I’m home.

CHAPTER 2

Donna debated the wisdom of pressing the button a second time, but chickened out, reluctant to provoke the anger this act of sedition would inevitably cause.

A metallic voice from the square grill above the buzzer interrupted her deliberations. What’s the problem today, Miss O’Prey? Alarm clock struck by lightning?

Donna turned to face the camera placed high on the wall. She dreaded having to confront Martha’s calculated sarcasm.

Sorry Martha, I forgot the code changed today. I left the new number in the glove box of my car, but had to leave the car at the garage this morning, that’s why I’m late. Donna knew she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself.

You’d better come in, Martha droned. I don’t know what Mister Roper will say. You know full well his Wednesday briefing is always scheduled for nine and it must be…

I know, I’m really sorry. The intercom voice sniffed loudly, but switched itself off as if bored with the conversation.

Donna waited for the lock to be released before pushing the heavy door open and entering a cage of iron bars with a further barred door facing the entrance drive.

At her back the spring-loaded iron door slammed, making her jump, as it always did, confining her until the camera confirmed to the watching Martha that Donna was the same person it had been looking at five seconds previously and not some gun-toting terrorist. Satisfied, the system released the electronic lock on the side of the cage and Donna trudged off along the long curving gravel drive.

The house was impressively solid, weathered by a hundred or so years to a rich blend of honey and terracotta. Facing south, the closed shutters on the main door and front windows were bleached of any discernible colour, gloriously distressed by time and climate. Beyond the high outer wall, open fields led to the distant shoreline. Alongside the path were three overgrown buddleia, swarming with droning bees and a myriad of butterflies, fluttering around the blossoms like brightly-coloured guests at a Royal garden party, eager to see all and miss nothing.

Arriving at the side door, Donna fumbled to find the hidden buzzer and was gratified when the door swung open immediately. She set off with a purposeful stride, down the tiled hallway, desperately hoping to avoid Martha, but came to a skidding halt as the mahogany door at the far end of the hall swung open and a familiar gnome-like figure held up an imperious hand. Twenty-three minutes late, Miss O’Prey.

I know, Donna stammered, My car was misfiring and I had to take it to the garage. Then I had to wait for one of the mechanics to arrive so he could give me a lift up the hill.

Martha glared. If you allowed yourself sufficient time to take account of such events, I’m sure you…

I did. I left home at twenty past eight. That’s allowing loads of time.

Martha gave her trademark sniff. Obviously not, as your present tardiness proves. I really feel Mister Roper will be disappointed.

Oh God, not disappointed again, anything but that.

Donna’s employer, Edward Roper, former Royal Air Force, never stooped to express anger at the failings of his most junior employee.

But frequently proclaimed himself ‘disappointed’.

*****

Marcus felt the power of the freshening wind on his exposed neck. He watched the low waves breaking on the sea wall, slapping gently against the red stone, more a caress than an act of chastisement. The relentless power of the tides was an appropriate backdrop to his mood. A constant force, every morning, every night, without fail, nothing could stand in its way.

The ragged line of white foam frothed and surged before its fading power was overtaken by the next wave. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans, whistling tunelessly, he walked down the concrete ramp of the slipway, glancing at the flotsam bobbing on the surface of the water. The sight cheered him for reasons he couldn’t immediately discern. He flicked a stray pebble with a nudge of his foot into the water, the ripples expanding as far as the jetty.

In the far distance, church bells rang. He frowned at the disruption to his reverie.

At his trial the woman who’d visited him in prison, had never taken her eyes off him, projecting her hatred across the courtroom. Killing her would be a pleasure. Over the course of the past few days, he’d watched the woman and her daughter from a distance, the two of them always touching, laughing together. The woman’s daughter was more precious to her than her own life. He was about to make her regret that weakness.

*****

Donna flicked at her hair, a savage spiky crop with a bleached fringe, lightly gelled, glanced at her watch, frowned and headed for the door. According to the watch, it was only twenty past nine, but she’d learned not to rely on it as gospel. It needed cleaning, and probably repairing, but it had been her Dad’s and she couldn’t bear to be parted from it. With her lifestyle, twenty minutes either way was good enough. Her employer wouldn’t agree, but she couldn’t think of a single subject on which she and Mister Roper would be in agreement – a state of affairs that suited her just fine.

As Donna pushed open the heavy door to the meeting room all conversation stopped. The Senior Partners in their leather wingback chairs were in front of her. Dexter at least appeared pleased at her arrival, but Roper, flanked on the other side by his sister, Martha, looked stern and, as promised, disappointed. Andy, the other Associate, smirked with the righteous air of one who’d arrived bright and early this morning.

Sorry, Donna said, quickly taking her seat, conscious of being the unwanted centre of attention.

Roper looked away dismissively, but said nothing. Bad news. After the meeting she could expect a private bollocking.

Mister Dexter, Roper said pompously, Perhaps you would be good enough to continue.

Dexter shuffled the papers in his lap and squinted through the reading glasses he’d been promising to upgrade for three months.

Donna managed to catch Andy’s attention, smiling ruefully at his gesture of a finger drawn across the throat. Andy dressed with the classic simplicity of those fortunate souls who don’t need to try too hard. No doubt about it, he was drop-dead gorgeous. Think of Brad Pitt on a good day, perhaps even a young Paul Newman. Donna ruminated for the umpteenth time on the unfairness of her continued single status while Andy preferred to cruise the Dock Road for handsome sailors.

Dexter continued to give his weekly overview of the cases in hand. All except Roper were well aware how jealously Dexter guarded the demarcation of roles whereby he concentrated on actual cases and Roper dealt with the rest of the crap. Dexter may have imagined he was keeping his thoughts private, but his opinion of his business partner was clear for all to see. Dexter had been headhunted by Roper while in the last months of his police career and had been glad enough at the time for the opportunity to carry on with the work he knew best. Roper badly needed his expertise, his contacts and the name of an impressively senior former policeman to put on the headed notepaper.

Dexter was in full flow, discussing a case referred by an insurance company which found itself facing a huge compensation payout to a man who suffered a minor road accident and yet received injuries so serious as to render him permanently incapable of work. The fact the man’s son was driving the only other vehicle involved, an old Vauxhall one step away from the scrap yard, was sufficient reason to refer the case for investigation, but nothing had arisen so far to cast doubt on the man’s injuries. He’s working the system, Dexter declared. I’m sure of it; never mind what his doctor says.

That’s the sort of thing I used to find fascinating, Roper said. A real battle of wits. In my career as a Warrant Officer I once had to observe a bent quartermaster who looked both ways every ten seconds. The amount of stock that had gone missing from the stores made it a certainty he was behind some racket or other, but no one had been able to prove a thing. I saw the problem straight away. Impossible to watch his quarters without him clocking me, I solved it by parking a Ford Zodiac at dead of night in the street outside. I put a cardboard box on the back seat. A ‘fridge carton I think it was. He saw the car, every time he went out, by the second day he’d accepted it as part of the furniture and become careless. Roper scanned the room, readying himself for the punch line that would inevitably reveal him as a genius. Of course, what he didn’t realise was I was inside the cardboard box, watching him through a peephole. He thought himself safe and started moving his stolen property out of the house. His face when I burst out of that box and arrested him, never seen anything like it.

There was a contemplative silence as Roper finished his narrative. Andy cleared his throat noisily. How long were you in the box? he asked.

Three days, Roper replied. Quiet reigned once more. Donna tried to imagine the necessary sanitary arrangements, and then wished she hadn’t.

I think that concludes matters, unless… Roper said, glancing around the room as if daring anyone else to prolong the meeting. Right then, back to work. Miss O’Prey, perhaps a word before you leave?

Donna managed a faint smile, conscious of Andy’s amused smirk, and nodded, remaining in her seat as the others filed out. Roper kept her waiting, fiddling with the unopened morning post on his desk and making neat piles of similarly sized envelopes.

Sorry about being late, Donna began, hoping to forestall the inevitable. Roper waved a hand in dismissal. Car problem, wasn’t it? Ah well, these things happen. Make sure and get yourself mobile as soon as possible. Can’t have my Associates relying on a taxi service for transport. Donna blinked. If that was the expected bollocking, perhaps she’d be late more often.

Roper continued to fuss with his desk, arranging everything with military precision. A jutting beak of a nose, sharp chin and deep-set eyes gave him the appearance of a living skull. One glance at those staring eyes was enough to confirm Roper as a man burning with missionary zeal. Wide angular shoulders filled out his suit jacket, but it hung loosely to a narrow waist. Either he’d lost weight since buying this jacket or he’d bought it in a very dim light. His gleaming shoes never bore a blemish. Perhaps he wore a new pair every day. Hair and moustache clipped and combed to parade ground perfection, a few red veins in his shiny cheeks the only deviation from perfect grooming.

Donna had never entered the inner sanctum that was Roper’s apartment at the rear of the house, but could imagine the immaculate nature of the surroundings. Never a cup left