Blake felt his stomach
churn violently and fighting to find his feet, he had to lean heavily on the
wall. As he moved even closer there was other evidence to the poor creature's
demise. Apart from having half his face smashed in with a piece of wood, which
lay by his side, caked in blood, there were stains in his thighs and groin.
It didn't take a genius to work out that someone was after a little information.
Someone without police ethics.
Blake, aren't you in position yet?'
The words went by, unable to promote response.
The young officer shook his head and then stagged to the other side of
the lane, to disgorge the contents of his stomach.
Blake, damn you!'
Somehow he found words. Don't bother.' A second flood of bile prevent
What the hell are you up to back there?'
He didn't make it home. I think you had better come round to see
The inexperience of youth, he didn't make the connection, one that with
hindsight could have saved a lot of pain. But then that is the trouble
with hindsight, you can't use it before the event.
We've one sick mind behind this. Why? Just in case he let a little
But though that may have been behind the murder, it was not the motive
for torture. The stakes had been raised, crime, as is often inevitable
gets more violent. To make matters worse they still had no idea who was
the ringleader. Then, the following day, Blake had a call from one of
his snitches and thought things were on the up.
When he got to the informer's flat the door was open, sounds of anguish
drifting out into the street. The poor sod had his tongue nailed to a
table. In his blood was written a mobile phone number.
Blake had to call, not knowing what to expect.
I don't like thieves.' hissed a bland voice, any thieves.'
You shouldn't take the law into your own hands, the insurance surely
covered your loss. Why risk imprisonment?'
Insurance, you don't get it, do you?'
Who are you?'
But the line was dead.
Blake reported the incident, but it was like piece twenty seven, on a
thousand piece jigsaw. Not a lot of use until there were more around it.
That evening, Blake was with Michelle, comfortable in her arms after making
love. Just for a while, all was good with the world. Tired, relaxed, they
drifted into the comfortable arms of the night. Whether Blake actually
dropped off, he couldn't decide immediately, but he soon knew what had
woken him. It was the cold steel pressing against his temple, not sharp,
that was the problem. Staring cross eyed he could make out two shapes
in the gloom. The closest, barely in focus, was the butt of a semi automatic
pistol, behind it a leather clad figure.
Like I said, I don't tolerate thieves.'
What?' Blake had yet to make the connection.
Damaged goods.' The figure looked to Blake's side, forcing the young
policeman to turn. An action he would regret for the rest of his life.
Michelle was breathing heavily, her eyes wide, but strangely lifeless.
There was a red line stretching from between her firm breasts, to where
all men long to travel. It was a three dimensional mark, broad open and
revealing. The incision cut into the abdominal cavity and where the sheet
muscle had pulled apart, it revealed a dark swirling mass of viscera.
The pain had hopefully pulled Michelle into a world where she could no
longer feel, no longer know how heinous were her injuries. That was the
reason behind her glazed expression.
Doesn't give a shit. I didn't want her back, not after you soiled
her and anyway, pussy is never hard to replace, another couple of years
and she wouldn't even have been a good earner.'
You bastard, you didn't have to kill her.'
You have to keep up appearances. She knew what would happen if she
tried to get out of the game.'
You're her bloody pimp?'
I don't pimp, I own. So, let's get down to business.'
I could do with a bright copper like you on the payroll. If you
have scruples I can pay you in kind, something nobody can trace. Maybe
a nice sixteen year old virgin.'
Christ, how sick are you?'
You aren't worth killing, no profit in that. I'll give you a couple
of days to make up you're mind.'
The barrel pulled back, but a swift movement brought darkness to Blake's
eyes. When he came around it was hard to breathe, a weight heavy on his
chest. A dead weight. Michelle was no longer breathing. Blake couldn't
move, even if he had wanted to, he could only cry, in fact tears were
still flowing freely half an hour later, when his colleagues broke in.
The blood drenched knife, with only Blake's fingerprints was on the floor
beside the bed, where it had apparently fallen from his hand.
But the figure in the night had made a mistake, had not allowed for the
fact that Blake loved Michelle more than life itself. Grief had frozen
his muscles, preventing him from tossing the limp body to one side. If
he had managed that, then after the three month's suspension he would
most likely have faced trial. Luckily it was decided that without doubt
he could not have moved Michelle. Apart from there being no reason to
be found pinned down by her lifeless body, there was no blood on the bed
beneath him. Despite meticulous efforts to obliterate the signs of a third
party, it was obvious that Blake could not have slashed his beloved, whatever
the motivation, without stirring from the bed.
The time apart from the force had done nothing to ease the pain, it was
another three months before he had been fit enough to return to work.
One thing had made that possible. A casual conversation one evening, at
a pub with his friends.
We finally put a name to that mobile number you found. Connaught.
Not that is any use, we could trace the phone when it was in use, but
there's no proof to put the bastard anywhere near any crime.'
Once the devil had a name, Blake finally had reason to live. Reason to
be back on duty.