Susan Dax: The First Susan Dax Adventure

By Stevenson Mukoro

Sloughville was the place where just one man has control. It was a modern-day Xanadu, with a playground of exclusive clubs, pretty girls, and handsome men. Not to mention police and officials with expensive tastes on the take.

Enter Susan Dax, a mysterious woman who has lethal fighting skills and a secret. She flies into the city after receiving a message from a friend requesting her helpfast.

Susan Dax had no idea how fast until she arrives in Sloughville and finds her friend dead. Suddenly, it seemed that everyone wanted her out of town immediately.

The police made it obvious that an influential millionaire made it crystal clear and so did his glamorous wife and his son, each threatening to make her stay very unpleasant if she didnt heed their advice.

However, somewhere in Sloughville, a murderer was having themselves a holiday. Susan Dax meant to find that person sitting on easy street, including the mysterious person who was the last person to see her friend alive. Because there was one thing the citizens of Sloughville where unaware, Susan Dax was dangerous in her own way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514447635

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Susan Dax

The First Susan Dax Adventure

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Stevenson Mukoro

Copyright © 2016 by Stevenson Mukoro.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-5144-4762-8

                eBook          978-1-5144-4763-5

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

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/22/2016

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Also by Stevenson Mukoro

The Doomsday Organism

Cold Heat

My Name Is Susan

The Lighthouse Guards

Dying Hard

OTHER SUSAN DAX ADVENTURES

GUNS, DEATH and MR. KRAKAUER

In their latest adventure Susan Dax and Seymour Krakauer tangle with an old foe thought dead and a new one. Seymour Krakauer discovers when he saves a woman and her daughter on Baffin Island from hired killers that he has opened up a can of worms held by an old enemy.

Seymour Krakauer's undertaking plunges him into a slew of uncanny events drawing both him and Susan Dax into the inexplicable fluxes of political intrigue and corporate espionage. Seymour Krakauer must unravel the mystery of why the rescued damsel and her daughter is a target. What secret do they hold that is worth dying over?

Finding an uncanny gift, Susan Dax faces her foes in a terrifying death chase while Seymour Krakauer launches a deathly attack against an enemy he cannot defeat. The struggle against seemingly impossible odds is fought out to a desperate finale.

SILENCING THE THUNDER

Susan Dax is coerced by the American Intelligence into not only aiding an unethical shady friend, who has been captured and imprisoned but also to look into the theft of an undisclosed weapon.

The developing plot takes her from the easy confines of Washington D.C. to Yemen, across the Middle East and the Mediterranean. Ending with her being double-crossed, captured and at the mercy of an extremist intent on poisoning and delving a crippling blow to the American public.

MY NAME IS SUSAN

Seymour Krakauer was the seventh to go missing and no one seemed to have any idea how him and other wealthy individuals were going unaccounted for. Susan Dax refuses to accept the obvious verdict of his disappearance.

To locate and free her guardian from the nightmare he finds himself in, she enlists the help of her aide and friend Daniel Anderton. But no sooner have they begun their investigation they tangle with a hellish assortment of villains in an effort to solve the list of clues they find.

Their voyage across the States invites danger froth with violence.

In their fierce and devious battle, Dax must outwit and shatter the illusions of those she's up against, including learning a terrible truth of her past.

Readers, Simply Read.

CHAPTER ONE

I HAD GOOD REASON to have listened to my silver shadow before the plane landed, because it was raining hard when I arrived in Luton airport. There were no doubt, the cats and dogs and other mongrels of the scoundrel persuasion had already scampered into their dry dusty cubbyholes. Who could blame them? My tits were tinkling with wetness, so I knew I would rather be in there with them, than in this downpour.

Oy! Here, I was back in England the land of cobbled streets, bad beer, bad teeth and rain. However, notwithstanding the weather the first thing that attracted my attention as I came out of the airport arrival lounge was the tall handsome man in a plain blue flannel shirt and leotard skin pants, a face cap which was a size too big for his head and ray-ban style sunglasses. Ray-Bans in this weather.

His skin was - and you could see a lot of it - wafery pale and thin. A peculiar sight, because the weather was a couple of points below normal and he was not exactly being shy in showing himself off but posing.

He scurried slowly but surely towards the parking lot and disappeared into a soft-top yellow Rolls Royce. A yellow Rolls Royce Damn! Now I've seen everything. Yellow was absolutely an absurd colour for a Rolls.

My fellow loungers who were feasting their eyes on him and knew like me, that he was posing for their benefit, because, without a doubt, for us, the female sightseers he was a bloody handsome if not cheeky devil.

The poser settled himself behind the driver and surveyed the small kingdom he had created with his look and lifted an eyebrow. He gave a cheeky grin and whispered something illegible to the driver and the Rolls sped away.

If I had my way he would be a strong candidate for relocation to the arctic. See how he likes it up there I thought to myself.

The purser with my baggage nudged me.

'Sorry honey we ain' got Archibald Leech no more, we got to do what we can wit' what we got' he said sniffing in the cold air 'You be needin' a cab?'

'Archibald Leech?' I enquired. The name was familiar, a TV star I think.

'You know big film star from Bristol' he explained, taking out my luggage and placing them carefully on the taxi ramp.

He saw the perplexity on my face.

'Cary Grant!'

Oh yes I knew of Cary Grant. I never realise he came from Bristol, I thought he came from the east end of London.

'Hah! Are they more like him?' I asked slightly damp from the shower of wetness.

My attendant was not listening 'D'you wants a cab miss?' he asked after he was done loading my baggages.

I told him I wanted a cab, took out a tissue from my handbag, and wiped my nose.

It was ten-fifteen a.m. and the weather was a sorry site but not too unpleasant for a March morning. People made small dashed into shelters, bus stations, into waiting cars, cabs or coffee shops. This was a wet miserable day. Moreover, so was England for that matter at this particular time and I earnestly hoped that my friend who was the reason I was here had given a thought to reserve a warm room for me.

My purser waved a hand and a black cab drew up. He piled in my baggage neatly. I tipped him generously and he went quietly away without saying a word.

'The Calpunia Hotel in Sloughville' I said to the driver as I climbed into the cab.

'Sloughville miss?' he asks

'Yes, is that a problem sir?'

'No miss but it'll cost you more than a bob and half'

'That's OK, I think I can afford the fare' I said taking out another tissue to wipe my dripping nose again. Hell, I must be coming down with something.

The driver nodded and gunned the vehicle.

He fought his way through heavy traffic and after twenty or thirty minutes of furious cuts and turns, he finally turned onto a freeway and headed westward towards Berkshire. After three hours of driving, he turned into an imposing, broad boulevard of smart looking shops, oak trees, and community constables in warm heavy polka coats and uniforms.

This was Sloughville.

From the brochure, I retrieved from the airport, Sloughville was one of the oldest and most unique towns along the greater Slough River. From first impressions, it was a town that had a rich pretentious historical look to it. However, the big black Mercedes and SUV vehicles that lined the streets on either side with every one of them the size of a small bus curbed that view of mine very quickly.

Known especially for its fresh seafood, fishing charters, crab festivals, and historic centuries old live oak trees. It is one of the last remaining communities on the Slough River where a slower more leisurely pace of life is known to still exist. Strand River is about 20 miles to the north of the hustle and bustle of Borough Beach, so residents and visitors' alike share more peaceful days in this quaint town. Strand River is also home to some charter boats and commercial anglers. One can choose between small party boat fishing trips near the shore or spend entire days fishing downstream of the South Downs towards the deep waters of the La Manche otherwise known as the English Channel.

There was not much for those with a perchance for play on the river, but there were ski-bikes and pontoon boats for hire. The property values and real estate were through the roof whereas most everyone who visits, wants to move here. Yet Strand River is just a short drive to all the Strand's famous attractions a golf course, unique array of theatres showing variety shows, shopping outlets with excellent entertainment.

Sloughville also had two Las Vegas style gambling boats docked somewhere on the Strand River where residents and visitors flock to two maybe three times a day, every day, for world class gambling excursions.

I could tell the very difference it made from where I had just come from. It was unlike Dublin in numerous ways, chief of which was that it was acting on my sinuses.

Dublin, which is one of the most cosmopolitan cities in Europe, was very unlike Sloughville. Primarily, Dublin is vibrant with a wealth of history and literary heritage, while Sloughville attracts visits from all over the country and parts west as a consequence of its outstanding synthetic scenery, pretentious tranquillity and indented coastline delta filled with fish that streams from the River Lough. Though mass tourism has yet to hit Sloughville, from what I could tell, the people were for the most part friendly and the pace of life -- at least in the afternoons - is somewhat laid back.

My mind drifted to last night and the thought of Steve Duggan. Despite myself, my hands and crotch warmed to the notion of memory I had of him.

Yesterday morning in Ireland, it was unusually but deliriously warm so we decided to hike through the woods of Cookstown near the south of Comeragh Mountains. He was on assignment photo cataloguing the birds of Ireland and their habitats, while I was there just for the pleasure of having a good time with him. It was sometime about noon when he found a nest of Marsh Harriers and delved into making rudimentary touches for a vantage viewpoint. A bird crib he called it, when I suggested we head back to the village for some rest and refreshment. It was not long before we found ourselves quite out of breath and a bit fatigued, near a little pub called the Seven Horses Shoes Pub.

Steve is a friend with whom, when the occasion arises, I fuck. A friend's with benefits package, I prefer to call it. Though at times, I regard him as a bit more than my personal fuck buddy. He was an innocuous gent but capable debonair.

Steve, like me was a retired Royal Navy officer but unlike me, he was now wage earner. A freelance photographer-cum-mountaineer who lent his services mostly to the National Geographic. Travelling to all parts of the globe, taking and compiling photographs of all sorts of amazing things. Animals, landscape, exotic tribes and people.

We met during one of my travelling stints, in the Australian outback near a barren town called Barrow Creek. I was carrying out one of my own quirky traditions of trekking in some unknown area in the world and had chosen to experiment on the Australian aborigine's ritual of walkabout. About eight days and four hours into my trek, I found a straggler who like me was not from that part of the world, huddled in the cove of a dead tree. He had broken his ankle, but was more concerned for his camera equipment and his friends who had left him alone for almost a day to get some help. After lending him a hand, which was taxing, with him nagging me about the condition of his rather expensive camera and his missing friends, him calling me a Sheila, wondering who I was and what I was doing out here. I grudgingly became fascinated by his self-abnegation and eccentricity. Before long, during the days that followed we became acquaintances. Over the years, our rapport extended to having sex with each other. Anyway that was three years ago and since then we make it a point to see each other three maybe four times a year. I have always obliged because despite his awkward hardness, he is not inquisitive about me and I quite enjoy his company.

Yesterday, after our hike that ended in Seven Shoe Horses pub that doubled as a B&B, we stared into each other's eyes while draining the last of our drinks. We looked at each other knowingly, the measure of seduction in that look alone was enough. Speaking softly in my ear with his Irish accent, he sighed 'O' you exquisite little Sheila, we should find a bed so that I could ravish you repeatedly' I reciprocated with a luscious innuendo by requesting that he do with me whatever he wanted. A seductive request of an evening of ecstasy was exactly what we both needed following our long trek.

Steve was a tall, languorous man who was very passionate and though he was a very capable person, he was truthfully a tad bit clumsy when it came to lovemaking. Also, I loved his soft spot for the band Led Zeppelin and their tunes that he hummed under his breathe during our lovemaking sessions, not always but sometimes.

My predilection for him stemmed from the fact that he was just this side of being a bit uncanny. Strange in the sense that he took great photographs, deserving of a Pulitzer and yet he suffered from an acute case of myopia, including a lazy eye that I nicknamed his quarter-past eye. He had a pair of prescriptions glasses, which he chose not to use. From his childhood years before he joined the navy, I gathered that he had been at the brunt of some very sloppy ridicules by his peers in the past which made him a little too sensitive for a navy man. However, for me his lethargic eye more than his camera eye was the first thing that attracted me to him, apart from his shattered ankle, of course.

When we got to my hotel and upstairs to my room, we expressed our feelings for one another. He flipped off the tiny latch holding the top of the crochet cover-up dress, while I unbuckled the belt of his Demin pants. His trousers fell slowly down his legs hindered slightly only by the stiffness of his cock. As his jeans hit the floorboards, my dress fell open revealing my caramel-pink half-naked body. I rotated my head to one side to give him better access to my neck.

As his lips brushed against it, I could feel the stress of the day melt away like the distance past.

His hands as always trembled slightly as they touched my skin, while his eyes held a dazed look of disbelief. As if to say Why do I deserve this, she is too beautiful or God, how am I supposed to tap this. In my eyes, I hoped he could in turn perceive the desire I had for him.

I could smell the trace of cologne on his collar and feel the wet anticipation building up within my legs as he moves his lips from my neck to my breast and to my lips.

The sun's rays streaking through the curtains were slowly moving across the headboard when he found the soft roundness of my breast caressing them both softly while his lips, that tasted like sugar-cane, were busy with sucking the juices off my tongue. Kicking off my dress, I responded in kind by moving him slowly towards the bed, enveloping him with my legs. He whispered in my ear promising not to hurt me but give me himself. Lifting me, he turned me over on the bed and began his search of my eroticious zones.

Most men do not have the foreknowledge to find and use the sensitive areas of a woman's body. Steven, easily found three of my G-spots. One touching the lips of my vargina, the other just inside my thigh and the third under the niche of my left breast. He massaged each in time to the un-hurried progression of our bodies.

His lips traced itself down my body between my cleavage, over my abdomen down the curving line of my stomach and my belly button while his right hand guided by me massaged the area around my swollen pussy lips, a finger finding the connexion between my urinal and erogenous spot. We went through our foreplay with such passion, for what seemed hours or day depending on which of us you ask. Eventually, I tightened my legs that circled his waist as he thrust himself in me. It was what I was, possibly, what we both were waiting for. Slowly we thrust ourselves deeper into each other slowly at first until our rhythm became much faster and faster. Writhing with pleasure his nimble fingers explored every part of me.

As I panted and moaned faster trembling, trying to hold back my orgasm he made a little moan that instinctively told me that he was reaching his point of rapture. I pulled him much closer to me and wriggled my hips, urging him onwards. The scream of eternal rapturous satisfaction from both of us at the same time made me glad that the B & B room's ligneous panels were insulated. We both quivered for a long moment before we fell limply apart. He panted hard as little sounds of pleasure escaped from my lips. He lay on his side cradling me with a grin of complete satisfaction on his face. We lay there silently for a long time, our bodies touching, contemplating to have a repeat performance. Just before we drifted off to sleep, he slowly turned his head towards me opening his eyes without looking up, he murmured.

'If you want a soft-boiled egg do you let it boil in water for 3 or 5 minutes?'

I have long since grown accustomed to non-sequiturs. So I simply told him that he would know the difference when he woke up.

Before he drifted off, he said

'For God's sake Susan, we have to formalise this relationship'

Lazily I grinned obliquely at him 'Darling, right now I'm thinking that too'

Rising up on one arm, chuckling he looked down at me 'So why don't we?'

'I'm not a settling down kind of girl Steven, you know that'

'I know' he said falling silent clasping me much closer to him. After a short while, he enquired 'Don't you ever dream of that white picket fence?'

'I don't dream that far'

'But ...'

'Steve ... please don't spoil the moment?'

'Come on Susan there must be ....' He could not finish. The pierce vibrating ping of my iPhone from my handbag broke his sentence. Retrieving the phone, I saw that it was a text message. I read whom it was from.

'It's from Maura'

'Maura ... of course Maura' he exclaimed meaningfully before pausing, then asked 'Sorry darling who is Maura and who gives her the right to ...?'

He paused, noticing that I was not listening.

I read the complete text message again. Thought for a moment, then making an apology to Steve, I swiftly flung off the bedspread. I was dressed in record-breaking time and out the door over Steven's complaints, objections and my apologies, wishing I had more time with him and cursing Maura's lousy timing.

Anyway that was several hours ago. Maura, otherwise known fully as Maureen, blasted text message was why I was here now and thankfully, at the time it did bestow me with an excuse to ignore the subject matter of formalising relations with Steve. To be frank, I wasn't keen on discussing the subject.

The jerk of the taxi returned my thoughts back to the present.

As we crawled through the ambiance of traffic sounds and sights, I leaned forward, staring out of the cloudy boggy window at the people. Most of the men were in long black or grey woollen coats. Some in suits but every now and then I spotted a pippin, but most of them were young and fresh-face and still with their baby-teen teeth. The women were dressed alike, in dreary looking dresses or blouses, except for the differences in their footwear.

The driver caught my tense expression in his wing mirror and half winded down his window.

'Your first 'ime away from 'ome missy' he enquired in his Anglian twang.

'Huh ...? Oh no. no' I replied

'Ah, not long gone 'hen?'

'No and yes'

'Changed much since you 'ere last missy?'

'I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever been in this part of the country before'

'Ah makes you a 'ourist to 'ur dear 'ld city then?'

'You could say that'

'Likin' 'he 'ld girl do'ya huh?'

'A bit' I remarked as I sat further back in the car seat

'Somethin' on your mind miss?'

'Um ... no ... I was just wondering what Sloughville reminded me of'

'Like no 'ther place in 'he world I reckon. 'here's no place like merry ol' Sloughville' he explained pleasantly, without being urged to.

He was right of course. I glanced at the drenched shop windows, at the sales offers going on now and wondered if I had enough cash on me. All I had on me where a few English pounds and Irish notes, some euros and two or three credit cards.

Maureen can be terrible with money and there was no way in hell I would ever get to borrow any money from her. Furthermore, from her text, money might just be the farthest thing from her mind.

We went under a tunnel, I think under a river, then another major road before finally turning into a quiet street lined on either side with autumn trees shedding their leaves, which gave the street the look and feel of an orange brick road. The driver drove the taxi several hundred yards down the street and pulled up alongside a hotel.

I glanced at Calpunia hotel as I climbed out of the taxi. There was not much of a deluxe look about it. The kind of hotel I would expect Maureen to have chosen.

Maureen is the type of person who with eyes wide open would choose to pick the one bad apple in the barrel and would have no qualms about it. It was a picturesque eight-story brick building built sometime before or after the fifties. It sat amid a grove of oak trees and sweeping lawns. I was willing to bet that though the service would be terrible, the food would be excellent. Whatever her choice, when it came to picking out hotels to stay in, Maura did have a talent for seeking out hotels that prepare and serve excellent meals. By her own right, she was a talented chef and knew exactly what to look out for. She is known prominently in culinary circles for her preparation of American meat loaf, Frittata, Gnocchi, Cakes and Vegetable and Potato bake.

A boy with an oversized brown suit and brown pigtails wrapped behind his head came out and collected my luggage. I gave the driver most of the English notes in my purse, I think an Irish note was mixed up in them, but I could care less. The driver gave me one of those lovable tip grins and handed me a business card before driving off. I followed the pigtailed boy up the steps into the Calpunia hotel lounge.

The lobby was fairly small, but it was warm and cosy. Furnished with red honeysuckle carpets, soft chenille leather sofas and a few drowning plants in large terracotta clay pots. It was not exactly tasteful, but at least it was clean and decent.

Behind the enquiry desk, a thinly balding clerk with a silk cravat to cover up his scrawny neck showed me his teeth, that I believe he reserved for women whom he hoped would take a shine to him or at least make his day.

'Welcome to the Calpunia, Miss. My name is Mr Bookers, the concierge'

'Cheers'

'Would you like to reserve a room or do you perchance have a reservation, ma'am?' Mr Bookers probed

'I do hope so. I am Susan, Susan Dax. Maureen Brown is expecting me. I believe she made me a reservation?'

'Ah ... of course, Miss' he ignored the computer sitting on the counter beside him and looked down at a book ledger in front of him. 'Certainly, Miss Dax. I have put you in the room across from hers' He clicked his fingers and a bellhop materialised. 'Take Miss Dax to room 47' He showed me his teeth again, this time he offered me a pen. 'Would you please sign in?'

'Sure'

'Miss Brown is in room 49. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us ma'am. Anything we can do ... any little thing ...'

That's what I love about my England. The Queens' English is all so originally predictable and when spoken with the accent, it is never hard to forget because it is very memorable. Even when it's being totally obnoxious.

'Much obliged. Is Ms Brown in?' I asked the concierge

'No. She left about two hours ago' he explained, giving me another coy little smile, 'With a young gentleman. I imagine they were off to the fancy Starbucks on the high street round the corner'

That did not surprise me. Maura is no great user of patience and coffee with men as it was with her, were sort of a weakness for her.

'Thank you. Could you please inform her that I've arrived?'

'It will be a pleasure ma'am'

Together with the bellhop and my baggage, we squashed into an ancient elevator, which dragged us up four floors. Every pause, the dilapidated lift made as it climbed to my destination I thought it would be its last.

Room 47 was a bit larger than the reception and as warm as a furnace. The bed in the middle of the room thrust against the wall was large enough to take a giant and his midget cousin at full stretch.

My arrival or my booking in had made someone turn it down, not completely, because there was no miniature sized chocolate mint on the pillows that hotel's much larger than this were very fond of. From what I could tell there was no prominent view from the window and the grey shower curtain was slightly torn. It had no other recommendation, as a consequence it had a trifling stink of stale socks. I only hoped it would be cheap, for Maureen's sake because I couldn't exactly ascertain what she liked about this place, at least not yet. Perhaps when we meet, she could shed some light on her fascination with this place or it just might be where she hangs her hat.

After the bellhop went through the routine of lowering and raising the blind and turning the electric switches on and off and seemingly surprised to find that everything works. I stuffed my last five-pound note into his paw and got rid of him.

I went over to the phone, called room service, and asked for some cocoa and sandwiches. I stripped off my clothes, unfastened my white "Victoria Secret" bra and panty brief, and stood in front of the mirror. For a long minute, I examined my torso, my breasts and the faded little scars on my tight smooth beige coloured skin before getting under the shower. So much grime had accumulated on me from yesterday slowly trickled off from me and as long as I remained under the shower, I began to feel energised and refreshed.

After about ten minutes, I returned to the bedroom, water dripping down the whole length of me. I glanced down at my legs. Whoa! They needed a shave. I was about to climb back under the shower again when someone knocked on my door.

I wrapped a towel around my chest, walked over to the door, unlocked, and opened it.

An average sized man with a hard face and a purple weather-beaten face with freckles across his forehead that appeared as if they had been stamped on him at one time or another. He stood in front of a waiter who had a beverage tray in his hands. He stood there, much like the act of a rugby quarterback behind a line-backer, only in reverse. He had cop written all over him.

'Mrs Dax?' he asked with a gravely grainy voice, ignoring my wet half nudeness. His question was more like a statement.

'It's Miss' I replied in the most politely discouraging voice I could manage

'Ms Dax?' he corrected himself.

'That would be me. What can I do you for?'

He partly rode me back into the room as he took out his wallet and shoved into my face, a silver Metropolitan Police Sergeant's badge stitched into the leather. I barely got a look at the flat washed-out photo in the leather beaten wallet.

'Detective Sergeant Charles Agyeman ma'am, Homicide Division,' he said flipping his wallet closed 'Do you know a ... ahem ...' he consulted a notebook '... a Ms Maureen Brown?'

I felt a prickle of apprehension crawl up my spine. Suddenly my skin felt all clammy.

Maura is no stranger to trouble or to police officers. Several months ago, she kneed a cop in the groin, made a moony, and was fined approximately five hundred francs for it. Before that in the south of Spain, she egged a police car and two police officers, after getting away with paint bombing another vehicle. On more than one instance, Maureen had mooned passing police cars and done a streak in a packed stadium and at a political rally. Yes, her deeds were sometimes all shocking and maybe extreme but overall, it was just harmless fun. However, others did not quite see her point and in some cases neither did I. I always regarded her over-the-top-enthusiasm as attention seeking or adventurous.

Oh, yes. Maureen is a rabble-rouser, a cop hater and maybe she had good reasons to be.

The waiter followed the cop into my room, placed the tray by the dresser, and stood waiting for his tip. I went over to my purse and dropped the last pound coins in his hands. The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear as he went out and closed the door.

'Yes. I know her. What has she done now?' I asked then paused and glanced back at the Detective Sergeant. Homicide meant the involvement of a suspicious death. 'Did you say homicide?'

'Yes ma'am. I did'

'Who's homicide?'

'Can you identify her?'

That really jarred me. 'She hasn't met with an accident, has she?'

'I'm sorry to tell you miss, but she is dead' Agyeman said studying my reaction.

His words were like a slap on my face. I do not know for how long but to me it was more than a lifetime before words could form in my mind.

'Are ... are ... you sure?'

'We need you to confirm her identity' he replied rather casually, following a short silence. 'I've got a car outside, provided that you wouldn't mind coming with me'

'D-dead?' I inquired staring at his red face. 'Wh ... what in hell happened?'

Detective Sergeant Agyeman shrugged his shoulders.

'My Inspector will inform you, he's waiting and he hates waiting' he said. I stood still and I think I was trembling a little. 'Miss?' Agyeman looked questionably at me. He could tell I was shaken by the news.

'Yes ....Yes, I know. OK let's go please' I muttered

'Yes we should'

I began walking automatically towards the door, when Sergeant Agyeman stopped me.

'Er ... ma'am ... I think, you might prefer to put some clothes on' he remarked as he closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in my room.

I towelled myself, fastened on my underwired bra, stepped into its companion panty brief before throwing on a sequin blouse, and printed jogger's jeans. Sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on one of my skin coloured silky over my legs, I discovered my hands were still trembling. I ran a brush a couple of times through my hair, steeling myself against my anguish, before slipping into one of my leather coats.

After fitting my feet into my black Baker leather heel ankle boot, I stood up.

Maura, my dear Maureen.

Maura and I are .... were almost like sisters at one time because we got along fine together. Just as sisters would, I think. I do not have siblings, but if I were to choose, anyone in my life to be a sister, the one person on top of that very small list would have been Maureen.

She showed me the rather opulent nature of wealthy English aristocrat and even was one of the in-crowd of royalty. As I was.

Her one weakness was that she might have on occasion been too vibrant or enigmatic with the choice of people she came into contact with. She always had a fierce enjoyment of life, living every second of it beyond her means and perhaps sometimes to the edge of her boundaries. Gaining much more out of life than I ever did.

I remember a party full of rich cultural hicks we attended once, in which she knew everyone by their first names and always had a story or two to go with any face. I was a bit overwhelmed with the attention she attracted and the ease in the way she fit into with the crowd. I often wondered what it would be like if she were exposed to the opposite eclectic type of people. With that in mind, I introduced her to the seedy side of the London's east-end mob scene. A clientele of dangerous slant eyed men and sharp-eyed women who could slit your throat if you looked at them the wrong way. However, within two hours she was hailed like one of their returned heroes and treated as if they knew her for years, drinking from their dirty glasses and gulping down their harshest bruskies down her throat. Such remarkableness does not just die, yet it seemed unbelievable true that she was dead.

The Detective Sergeant tapped on the door and popped his head through the half-open door to check on me.

'Wo ... would you like something ... to drink?' I asked him, gesturing at the tray.

He hesitated, blinked twice, fought his comfort zone, and won.

'Please miss, we should be going' he said gruffly turning away, 'The guv doesn't like waiting'

We journeyed down the ancient elevator. As we crossed the lounge, I glanced at Mr Bookers who was staring at me all bug-eyed. The bellhop was also glaring. They probably thought I was under arrest.

CHAPTER TWO

T HE WINTER COLD hit us like bricks as we exited the lobby. The wind was chasing the clouds as we walked out into the patio and down the steps where his squad car waited. Agyeman got behind the wheel while I sat adjacent to him. He drove fast, using the back streets as much as his siren would allow and avoiding as much traffic on the main roads.

My mind was still suspended in a virtual unmoving cloud of mourning. I held it for long minutes then began to let little daggers of realism penetrate my awareness. Slivers of bewilderment that must be confronted, absorbed and dealt with.

Maureen Brown, my friend, who was all kinds of amazing. There was never going to be another Maura Brown, ever. I must face that and so will her parents. I will have to think of her in the past tense from now on. She had given me more than I could ever repay and now she was no more.

My head cleared and the reasoning portion of my mind came into effect. The portion that was clouded with questions reacted without any constraint.

'Where was she found?'

'Cannery Cabins' Agyeman answered, his jaw seemed tired of working in the cold.

'Cannery Cabins?'

'Yes. A string of lodges at the south end of town used for seasonal trippers and holidaymakers. A cleaning lady found her'

I sat quietly before asking the question that had been bothering me ever since he barged into my room and identified himself.

'Was it a robbery or something ...? Or was it an accident?' It was a silly question. The Detective Sergeant being here made it obvious it was not, but I had to ask something in this dead silence. I knew the answer but I wanted ... I needed to be sure. Getting the apparent out of the way was the only way.

Agyeman touched his siren button again as a Ford Escort and Jaguar struggled for control of the road and tried to edge in front of him. The Jaguar swerved and slowed down at the sound of the siren as Agyeman swept past, glaring at the driver.

'Er ... she was ... um ... well miss you do know she was murdered?' he asked speaking softly.

I sat motionless, transfixed, my hands squeezed between my knees, while I continued to absorb the shock. I did know she was murdered but I could still hardly believe. Even with the homicide cop beside me driving like a bat out of hell.

The world around me was still carrying on as usual. Why was the world still was spinning at a time like this? Was one of the questions reverberating around in my head.

In less than twenty minutes, we had reached the lodge. Agyeman drove fast along a wide road that ran parallel to a river of wet white stone beaches. At last, he came to a row of wooden cabins and a small parking lot.

The lodges were shaded under scrawny looking autumn trees and were barren apart from the odd alfresco adornment here and there. Weeping willow trees flittered heavily in-between each lodge, as we walked by, huddling from the river squall. There were a couple of police vehicles parked about the area, the most significant was the coroner's portentous van. A crowd of about a dozen bystanders, mostly in warm coats and plaid boots were gathered close around the lodges. I spotted the green Benz Maura and I had once used to ride around the English countryside two summers ago.

We pushed through the crowd and under the white and blue caution tape surrounding the scene. The onlookers stared curiously at me. I stared back.

As we neared the cabins, Agyeman gestured at a big man in the middle of a group of cops sipping from disposable cups 'The big bloke there is the guv, Detective Inspector Clark'

The big man noticed the Sergeant pointing at him, downed the last of his drink and came forward tossing the cup at an over flowing sand bin.

He was huge in comparison to Agyeman, who was like a midget beside him. He wore a heavyweight pinstripe suit under his thick coat with a handkerchief in the right breast pocket. He was a man who was nudging forty-five or thereabouts with a smooth chiselled face. His hair was brown-grey, like bronze that had been recently cut. From first appearances, he was neat, dapper but behind his eyes, I could sense he was as hard as nails. I immediately knew I was going to either like this man or hate him for liking him.

'This is Ms Susan Dax, Inspector' Agyeman said, introducing me.

The big cop stared at me, trying to size me up. 'Thank you for coming over' he said still looking at me with a keen interest. His grey dark eyes were as intense as lighthouse lights. In some other situation, I'd be drawn to his intense gazed. He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a note pad with some flimsy scraps of paper and a mobile phone wrapped in a cellophane evidence bag. 'I'm Detective Inspector Taylor Clark' he said inclining his head towards me

I nodded slightly.

He held up the cell phone 'Did you send this?' he asked with his eyebrows on the verge of lifting, as if he was expecting to hear a lie. The cell phone was Maureen's and on the display screen was the text message I had sent in reply to her a day earlier, informing her of my arrival.

'Why do you ask a question you already know the answer to Detective Inspector Taylor Clark?' I catechised.

He cocked his head and gawped at me. I think my curt retort startled him a bit, because his next question was not unexpected.

'Just got back huh?'

'I beg your pardon'

'You've been out of the country recently?'

'What of it?'

'You've picked up a bit of a tan'

'Inspector ....'

Watching me, DI Clark read the text message that got me out of Ireland and onto a plane "119 having very very gr8 time at Calpunia Hotel Sloughville. Would U ♥2 join me" Does she always call you when she's having a good time?'

'Sometimes. She's a stickler for fun'

'What does 119 mean?'

'Must have been a typo'

'Sure about that?'

'Are you implying something Detective Inspector?'

'No. It's just 119 backwards is 911 American style'

'So?'

'Oh nothing just thinking aloud'

'Then think quietly'

'You are British but you have a diacritic' he remarked.

I told him I was impressed by his observational skills.

'Where were you raised?'

'Is that relevant to your investigation? I asked

'It might be, I don't know yet' he genuinely looked flustered 'I don't think .... Oh nevermind, bloody hell ...it is cold .... Ah ... she was a dear friend of yours, yes?' he asked glancing at Agyeman for a moment, while he blew warm air into his cold hand.

'You came to that conclusion all by yourself, did you?'

'Miss please?'

'Yes, she is ...' I almost choked on the word is '... sorry ... was a friend of mine'

His look turned almost sympathetic.

'I do apologise for your loss' Inspector Clark said apologetically while continuing to stare at me.

I asked him if I could see her.

For a moment, he paused just staring at the ground, rubbing his hands together, then nodding he said 'Yes, of course you can, but I think we should talk afterwards. I might still have some more questions'

Hardly hearing him, I ignored him and braced myself as I pushed past him and walked across the soggy sand into the taped off cabin.

CHAPTER THREE

T HERE WERE TWO or three beefy-looking men dusting red and violet powder substances on the window ledge and bedside dresser looking for fingerprints, a fourth and elderly man sat by a small table with a black bag and camera at his feet, a duffle beside that. He was filling out a yellow coloured form. All of them were wearing blue-coloured forensic gloves.

One of them by the table sink looked up at us entering the room.

'Looks like someone threw up here, boss' he said, addressing DI Clark 'There's sick in here'

'Yeah?'

'Bellyache killer huh?'

'Think you could get DNA off it?' Clark enquired

'No dice guv, there's not much of it. We could compare it to a suspect if ...'

I barely noticed them. My eyes went immediately to where Maureen was lying on the floor by a leather beaten sofa, which I gathered, also doubled up as a bed. It seemed she had recently been turned over, meaning she was killed with her back to her assailant. I gazed down at my friend.

'Oy...' I murmured to myself

She was as always exquisite. Her oval made-up white face and vivid black auburn long hair that splayed everywhere was in such a picture that was thrown into a shade of peculiarity.

Dear Maura. My friend. Oh my God. Anger swelled up inside me. My friend, the indomitable Maura Brown. God, she looked so still. Even asleep Maureen never looked still. She was crumpled up, close to the sofa, her body lay in a position that suggested she dropped where she stood like a stone into water.

She was wearing a red robe loosely tied in the middle. From the exposed potion of her thigh, I could deduce that she was naked under it. I could not see the fatal wound until I looked closely at the blood that had slightly congealed under her. Detective Inspector Clark stepped forward and lifted her left arm. In the hollow of her armpit was a dark-red hole. The skin around the hole seemed unaffected, but there was a defiant expression on her moisturised face. It was an unusual wound. A wound that I had seen maybe once or twice before, but on unpremeditated crimes of passion. Not here. Then he turned her head. There was another indiscernible hole in her ear.

Damn! Could it be that Maureen had been involved in a struggle first, and then killed?

On the bed lay a crumpled blue dress and white braided pearl necklace.

'Is this her?' Clark asked quietly, his dark eyes watching me intensely.

I nodded 'Yes'

'I am sorry' he said and nodded at the elderly man 'All yours Doc'

He turned to me.

'I think we should go outside, let the forensic have some room'

I ignored him and slowly scrutinized the room. Taking in everything and anything I could possibly recollect, even the old semen stains just under the red forensic lampshade that stood adjacent to a dresser overlooking the sofa. There was something a bit off with the beefy men. It probably was nothing so I filed them off for later. The place was clean, as clean as it could be, isolated, and encumbered. What would Maureen be doing here?

I followed the sniffling DI Clark out into the cold afternoon.

He gestured to Agyeman, who came over. 'I'm going to escort Miss Dax back to her hotel' he said glancing at his wristwatch 'Macgrady will be down with more men. Have the boys canvass the area, have them go door-to-door if they have to. You know the drill, Charlie?'

'Yes guv'

'See you back at the office by four'

Taking me gently by the arm, we set off across to the parked cars. The crowd of spectators gave way as I followed in his wake.

As we passed Maureen's sixties reconditioned Benz, I asked the Inspector when he would be done with it so I could pick it up

He asked if there was anyone beside myself to claim it.

I shook my head 'I doubt it'

He paused and waved one of his men over.

'Tell Charlie to send the car to Miss Dax's hotel when he's done' Turning to me, he asked 'Will that be okay with you?'

'Yes, thank you' I said with a query in my voice.

'I do hope that you can forgive my boisterousness, we haven't had a homicide like this for some time. Not since I made Detective Inspector at least.'

'And how long ago was that?' I ventured to ask

'Oh a couple of months ago'

We got into one of the police cars