Public Enemy

By Alan Cooke

Maxine is a great detective. She's smart too. So how did she come to marry a paedophile? Maxine, the mother of a young girl. Great cop but bad mother? Roxanne is a cold blooded killer of evil sickos. A vigilante in the right; but on the wrong side of the law.
Sisters of no mercy. They play rough, love hard and fight dirty. And when it comes to taking revenge... Hell hath no fury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Cooke
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9780951972229

Alan Cooke

Alan is a British actor living in London.He works as a part time drama teacher and a sometimes play-write. He also enjoys playing the saxophone and messing about with 3d Studio Max. Alan hasn't owned a car for six years, preferring now to ride a push bike.We all know what happened when Arnie said, "I'll be back" in Terminator. Well in Alan's first film, Death Wish 3, he uttered the immortal line "Now you gawn die," just before being killed by Charles Bronson. The director Michael Winner loved it so much, he decided that Alan should feature in another scene. And so it was; he lived and died twice in the same movie!

Book preview

Chapter 1

She pulled open the door, took a hold of his shirt and dragged him into the room. She could usually tell from the initial phone call the kind of thing they liked, and this guy liked it rough. They kissed. Hard. It was a wild animal like body grappling face eating encounter. He slammed her up against the wall with his grip on her throat. They paused a moment panting, their lecherous eyes locked.

Show it to me, she demanded. He removed a small packet of Gravel from his pocket and waved it under her nose. Pamela inhaled its stench as if it were a heavenly aroma. It immediately fired the intensity of her arousal. She gripped his butt, sinking her fingernails into his flesh, moaning as the edge of his teeth ran down her neck. Her breathless whisper only just met his ear.

If you’re a good boy, I’ll shove this, hard, right where you like it.

He shuddered at the sight of the twisted and ribbed rolling pin like instrument she held in her hand. The submissive part of him that liked to be insulted and abused then exhaled a breathless and effeminate moan. Pamela pushed him down on all fours, lifted his chin with her foot, then shoved her toes into his mouth. She worked her saliva dunked heel into his eye sockets, down his face and across his forehead. He had modified the comb-over on his bald head to fall lower on his brow in an attempt to hide the stain. But once she’d disturbed his fringe, it was plain to see. See the bright red mark that said that he was soon to die a violent death at the hands of The Slayer. She froze.

The mark! She exclaimed, then began a slow retreat.

Hey, hey, where you going? Relax!

You have to get out of here. First time you’re Branded, next time you’re dead.

You don’t have to be afraid babe. Next time I’ll be ready for the sucker.

The client lifted the right side of his jacket to reveal a gun butt tucked into his belt. She hesitated. He was thinking that the sight of the gun had startled her. But it was the packet of Gravel, lying on the floor that had made her stop to consider her options.

Gravel had changed the game worldwide. It gave the user whatever they needed. It replaced Viagra, Cocaine, Heroin, and Ecstasy all in one hit. The Client would be paying for her services in Gravel. It was more sought after than cash. The cash was going to be used to buy Gravel anyway and Gravel was sometimes hard to find.

Uh... Look, I’ll be back in a second.

She’d left all her belongings behind. If she had taken them he might have guessed that she would not be returning. He might then have forced her to stay.

It was good Gravel. But it wasn’t worth dying for.

*

He got undressed, turned off the lights and slipped beneath the sheets. Moments later he heard a knock to the hotel room door followed by a sexy voice.

Room service.

The client went to the door and pulled it open. He was delighted to see Roxanne standing before him.

"Another hot babe!"

Though the way she was dressed made her look more like the maintenance man. And what was with the saxophone case she carried across her back? Full of sex toys he surmised. A threesome? Or maybe she was the Hors d'oeuvres before the main course. He stepped aside to let her in. The Client lay back on the bed, presenting himself to her. Roxanne smiled, then formed her upturned palm as if holding a ball the size of a coconut. His dirty smirking expression took this gesture as an acknowledgement of his ample size. Suddenly, scalpel like blades flicked out from her fingernails.

*

A maid and porter on the floor below exchanged a snigger, mistaking yells of pain, for cries of pleasure.

Chapter 2

Used condoms and dirty syringes in filthy alleyways. Half naked Hookers strutting pavement stones like caged leopards. Hip hop breaks hitting out from the windows of Curb-Crawlers, patrolling twenty four seven... Well, at least that's how it used to be. Now since the spate of murders, the girls, their clients and pimps were all too afraid to come out... All except one it seemed.

Roxanne stepped through the front door of the hotel and stood on its porch. Though the scalpel like blades were now retracted, the client’s blood was still wet beneath her fingernails.

From the moment he saw her he reckoned he knew the score. Detective Joseph Riley wasn't fooled by her disguise, she was a Scarlet Woman as far as he was concerned, and as soon as she made an illicit move, he planned to run her in. Riley took out his note book and began jotting down his report.

‘Having observed a woman acting suspiciously while exiting a known den of iniquity, I followed her to the junction of Romford Road and Green Street where this young lady proceeded to loiter with intent.’

There's always one, he muttered. One so desperate she didn't care. She must know she’s risking her life!

Riley could have observed her from the warmth and relative comfort of the car, but he chose instead to stand in the freezing cold. He had just finished eating Eight Pieces of Chicken, with Double Fries and a Mega Sized Shake. He'd then followed that up with a Dozen Mini Chocolate Doughnut Rings, and a Sticky Toffee Cream Cup... Now he needed to punish himself.

She watched Riley from the corner of her eye. Wondered what the hell he thought he looked like, standing there, hiding behind a broadsheet, legs astride like some sexy film noir private eye. But there was no Trilby sat low on his brow, no ankle length Trench coat floating on the breeze. Instead he wore a jacket at least two sizes too small, with the collar turned up as he imagined a secret agent would. A huge belly hung over his waistband forcing his trousers to sit precariously half way up his fat behind. He looked like a tramp, but Roxanne knew the moment she'd laid eyes on him, that he was a cop.

It suddenly began raining hard, Riley’s newspaper was getting drenched, and the detective was suffering in the downpour. Yet he refused to give up the pose. He then let go one blizzard of a sneeze. Sneezed so hard it felt to him as if part of his brain had got lodged in his left nostril. With ears ringing, eyes aching, and head pounding, he cussed angrily at the sky, then at Roxanne, the fried chicken, chips, donuts and shake for his predicament.

Riley was just about ready to give up and go home. But then he noticed the interest that Roxanne seemed to be taking in a rusty old blue Renault. The car had pulled up outside a row of shops just a few yards from where she stood. A Catholic priest got out and slowly made his way towards the off-licence. She called to him, just as he was about to enter the shop.

Excuse me father, do you have the time?

The priest paused only to shake his head, he then continued on without a backward glance. Detective Riley though had seen enough. Roxanne, he'd decided, had tried to solicit a client right before his eyes. He rushed to her and thrust his badge under her nose.

Police, He yelled. Then sneezed violently into the rain. Achooo!" Riley sneezed again, then dug down into his pocket for a handkerchief. He lifted the frown on his brow and looked at Roxanne through bloodshot eyes.

I have reason to believe that... you... you... Achooo! ... Are soliciting for...

I look like a prostitute to you?

She made it sound a ridiculous question. Riley was suddenly stumped. Now suddenly he wasn't so sure. She had to be running a scam of some kind though, and for that he was going to run her in.

What's your name?

Blackwood, she said. Roxanne Blackwood.

Riley watched her eyes follow the priest as he stepped from the off-licence, and got into his car. She was for a moment totally preoccupied with the sight of him driving off. She knew where he was going, and that's where she planned to be, as soon as she'd shaken off the stupid cop. Riley sneezed again, even harder than before. His now swollen eyes, streaming tears and rainwater could barely make Roxanne out. He asked himself what the hell he was doing. Was there really any need for this? Chances were he would be seeing her again, working some other street. He decided he'd arrest her then. Right now he needed to get out of the rain. Roxanne watched him slope off, sneezing hard on virtually every other step.

*

She stood across the street from a primary school. Children were running from the building into the playground. A street that ran alongside the entire length of the school was empty, except for a rusty old blue Renault. The priest sat behind the wheel. The voices had been right. They were always right.

Roxanne looked about her, low, then high, up and around. Eventually her eyes settled on the top floor of a four storey block of flats. She glanced back briefly at the Renault before heading off for the building.

The floor indicator lights above the lift descended and eventually came to rest. As the doors separated, the pungent stench of stale urine hit Roxanne's nostrils. She turned away, took and held a deep breath before walking into the lift.

Roxanne stepped out at the top floor, expelled the stale air in a puff, then inhaled deeply several times. She reached inside her jacket and drew out a stainless steel hip flask. It took a long swig of the alcoholic beverage to satisfy her. She went to the edge of the balcony and peered down onto the street below. The car was still in the same place but the priest had moved. He was now leaning up against his bonnet watching the children in the playground. Roxanne placed the saxophone case on the ground and opened it. Inside, packed neatly in fitted compartments, was a dismantled rifle. She began to assemble it with expert speed and precision. Moments later she was looking through the target site of a high velocity weapon. She took her aim from the children playing in the playground to the priest leaning against the parked car. He strolled over to the school gate and began trying to attract the attention of a little girl. Roxanne watched as he beckoned to her. The child approached hesitantly. The priest threw a nervous look over his shoulder, then back to the child. He waved confectionery through the railings. Again he looked over his shoulder, then strangely up to the sky. Almost as if afraid that God might be watching him sin. His posture was now perfect for Roxanne to pick her favourite spot. She fired and hit him right between the eyes. The priest hit the ground hard. Up above, Roxanne began dismantling her weapon at speed.

The priest held his face, weeping profusely into his hands. He had taken a shot to the head, but was still alive. That could only mean one thing. He had been caught, and his forehead now bore a bright red mark of indelible ink. He had been Branded by the Sniper.

Chapter 3

A beautiful face, her skin the colour of coffee with cream and a figure that curved in all the right places. She could have been a celebrity, but all she’d ever wanted to be was a cop. DI Maxine Spencer Bailey approached the hotel room where the Client had been killed that morning. DC Fletcher, a rookie officer, stood bent over double, throwing up into a bin liner. As Maxine pushed open the door, she was greeted by the razzmatazz of clicking shutters and flashing lights. It was as if a movie star had just entered the room. A photographer twisted and tilted his camera, dancing a side-step as he snapped bloody entrails on stained bedclothes, from increasingly new and numerous angles. He seemed excited by the endless possibilities available, taking many more pictures than seemed necessary. Maxine looked from the dead man’s remains to the stain on the wall, and the trail of blood running down the wallpaper to the scrotum perched against the skirting. She mimed a series of poses presumed necessary to get the man’s testicles from where they should be, to where they actually were. Her action resembled the swing of a scratch golfer. One of the forensics team looked curiously at her, then quipped under his breath from the side of his mouth to a colleague;

"Bet she’s done that before."

Maxine cut him with a stern look.

And I may do again, if I hear another stupid wisecrack come out of your face, okay?

She spoke through a neutral British accent bathed in a sultry Caribbean huskiness. There was just no denying it, the woman looked hot and sounded sexy, even when she was angry.

Maxine pulled open the door and called to the rookie officer who still hadn’t quite finished chucking up his lunch. Fletcher walked in unsteadily, careful to avert his eyes from the atrocity.

So what the staff have to say about this?

Fletcher ran his eyes over his notebook then forced himself to swallow before speaking.

The room had been booked for the day by a young woman calling herself Mrs. Smith. After approximately ten minutes a man came to the room. The couple were joined by another woman after a further ten minutes.

Three people in a room, two of them female, yet the man ends up dead. The obvious conclusion to be drawn from this was that the women were somehow responsible for the man’s demise, but Maxine wasn’t convinced.

As she scanned the room her eyes fell on a pile of male clothing discarded carelessly to a bedside chair. In amongst the garments were a set of handcuffs, a vibrator, and a couple other instruments she wasn’t quite sure about. The packet of Gravel lay on the floor, eliminating robbery as a motive. She turned into the room and asked for the time of death.

A member of the forensic team told her it was around 11am.

Broad daylight, just like the others. Why would you do that? Why choose not to use the cover of darkness?

Fletcher took a slow deep breath of air through his nostrils, then exhaled with a tremble, as if shivering in the cold.

Maxine could see that Fletcher was struggling to hold himself together. She glanced over at the bed then back.

Looks rough I know. But I’ve seen worse. You get used to it.

Yes ma’am.

Maxine turned away from Fletcher and began casing the joint for clues.

So what do you think?

Me? Fletcher seemed surprised by her question.

You’re a detective constable right?

Yeah but...

But nothing. Just lay it out on the table. What you do, and don’t know. What can, and can’t be. Then consider your options. Okay, we have one torn up John. Very dead. Murdered by unknown. Although the prostitutes who left in a hurry without their things have got to be suspects.

Maxine looked closely at the face of the corpse, the frozen expression of excruciating pain, and then at the red mark on his forehead. She had expected to find it, although she’d hoped it wouldn’t be there. Hoped that this mutilation had not been the same as the others. But it had. He had been branded. That was the name the media had given to the mark, and because it was the result of a rifle shot, the perpetrator had been named The Sniper. The story went something like this. Those who had allegedly committed crimes against children were marked, so that we would know who they were. Should the paedophile reoffend, they were then Slain by the Slayer. Logic would have it that the Slayer and the Sniper were the same person. But the tabloids preferred to have two stories rather than one, and so we had The Sniper, defender of the innocent, and The Slayer of Sleaze. Vigilantes from hell..."

The rookie looked sideways at the mutilation, then took a moment to steady his nerves, he turned back to Maxine with intense eyes and a conspiracy laden voice.

I’ve seen this kind of set up on the internet, he said almost whispering. It starts out as a threesome, but ends up like a snuff movie.

They stood eye to eye and expressionless. For a moment neither moved and nothing was said. He raised a brow as if he’d just imparted a revelation so wow, It would have her begging for more. Maxine instead instructed him to;

Go find me a coffee from somewhere. Cold, black, no sugar.

A bewildered Fletcher took off on his errand. Maxine turned to the forensic guy she’d threatened earlier.

Any sign of the murder weapon?

He shook his head.

So what are we looking for, a bowie knife?

Possibly, he said. But more likely a scalpel.

A scalpel? She wondered about the murderer being from the medical profession. But the operation looked messy, whenever a doctor or nurse had got involved with this kind of thing they’d always taken pride in the act, used their skill to make the mutilation look good. But who knows. Maybe that was the best they could do. Maybe that’s why they’d failed their exam. And now they want revenge. Sex and slaughter? She pondered. A kinky nurse with a grudge? She shook her head with a wry smile. Was this the best she could come up with? They sounded like bad B movies, and she was beginning to sound like the rookie.

*

A gang of youths hung around by the doorway of a second hand Computer Games store. A few feet away, a couple skateboard mounted sixteen year old kids, zipped out from the mouth of an alley way at speed. The alley had been paved over and blocked off to traffic supposedly to accommodate pedestrians. But since its adoption by the skaters, walking down the alley had become far more hazardous than negotiating the traffic had ever been. About thirty kids were whizzing around. A skinny lad, mid way through performing a roller stunt, fell and brought down a couple of larger boys with a thump to the concrete. The two enraged boys grabbed the skinny kid and violently slammed him up against the wall.

Are we gonna beat the shit out of you, the fattest of them said. You're gonna need a straw to eat your dinner tonight.

Suddenly there was silence in the alley. Everyone had stopped completely what they were doing. But it wasn't the ensuing fight that stopped them. It was Pamela's long legs. Her tight arse bulging through her shiny leather mini skirt. Her pert breast bouncing up and down in time to the click-ity clack of high heels on concrete. That's what stopped them. Thirty adolescent erections rose like a team of synchronized swimmers. Yet no one dare utter a word until Pamela had gone from the alley, turned the corner and was clear of the second hand computer games store.

I'd give 'er one! Someone said. The giggling boys resumed their roller skating antics. Someone saying what they were all thinking had brought a bout of spontaneous laughter, saving the skinny boy from a certain beating.

It wasn't that Pamela was unaware of the effect she had just had on the crowd of boys. She had simply grown used to it. After all, she had always been a looker, and had learned very early on about the power she had over the opposite sex. Whistling, cat calling workmen, drooling teenagers, and the whims of unfaithful husbands no longer warranted her attention… Unless there was money involved.

As she stepped into the traffic, a curb crawling saloon car blew it's horn. The guy in the driver's seat called out her name. Pamela turned and smiled briefly, then shook her palm at him discreetly before continuing on her way. For Bernie, one of her regulars, it meant he would have to take one of the other girls or go without. Having just escaped death that morning Pamela was already feeling pretty stressed. And now Tyrone, her pimp had called saying he wanted to see her immediately. He hadn't said what he wanted to see her about, but it was obvious. It wouldn’t matter to him that she might have been killed that morning. He’d want to know if she had killed one of his regular customers. If so he’d be holding her responsible for the loss of future income. Though Tyrone was a puny looking guy who barely tipped the scales at nine stone, he had a liking for knives, and was ruthless with them. Having already escaped death once that day, she would again be facing danger.

Tyrone waited at the bar of the Dollar Inn on a three foot high stool. In front of him a large port and brandy, his favourite tipple. On seeing Pamela, his broad slimy grin exposed his gold capped incisors. She was on time, but he glanced up at the bar clock just to let her know that he was checking.

Tyrone turned in towards the bar, his face suddenly glum.

You seen Crystal? He said nodding to the bar tender. So that's what this is about she thought. Tyrone looked sharply at her. She suddenly became aware of how he might have interpreted her delayed response. He would have slapped her then and there had the bar tender not interrupted the moment.

Same again?

Err? Yeah. Tyrone responded uncertainly. Just then, he didn't need a drink, it was Pamela's blood he was thirsty for. He reached inside his jacket for his wallet.

And for the lady? The barman prompted. Neither Tyrone nor Pamela responded. The bar tender, picking up on the atmosphere, headed off for the brandy bottle.

Tell her I want to see her.

Why don't you tell her yourself?

Tyrone looked at Pamela stone faced. She glared back at him, determined, but fearful. She knew she was standing on dangerous ground. It was even money as to whether he might take out his knife an cut her, or just laugh it off.

She hasn't been returning my calls, he said, upping the volume a little.

Maybe she's sick, she came back, louder still. The bartender returned and placed the drink down quietly on the counter, purposely avoiding eye contact. Pamela and Tyrone stood eyeball to eyeball a moment, neither giving quarter. But then he simply turned away from her, as if she'd never been there. Nothing was said for a while. Pamela was frustrated, but she dare not leave without his say so.

That it? You couldn't tell me that on the phone?

Can't always tell if you're lying on the phone.

You made me miss my appointment, she moaned.

He turned to her grinning. Luckily, today, for no good reason, he seemed to be in a good mood. He enveloped her with his arms as if he hadn't seen her in years. His hands ran down her back until they reached her butt. Each of his palms now cupped one half of her backside. He rubbed his cheek on hers.

You need a shave!

He laughed.

You want a drink? He said squeezing one of her bum-cheeks.

I'm going to the hairdresser, maybe it's not too late for them to do something with this birds nest on my head, she jested. Tyrone laughed again.

She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm and held her firm.

Have a drink.

I'm late! she said, almost pleading now.

Late for what?

My hairdresser!

Tyrone leaned in close, as if about to deliver a secret of good news.

I'll do your hair for you, make them stand on end, he boasted, then poked his tongue out and waggled it like a snake.

Okay, Pamela said. Fifty quid at your place, seventy five at mine. But of course you know that, right?

Tyrone sunk his thumbnail into her cheek, drawing blood.

I don't pay for pussy, bitch!

And I don't give it up for free, dog!

He pushed her face away, chuckling.

You got balls, he said nodding his head, I'll say that for ya.

Tyrone