Authors: Sheryl Browne
Matthew nodded slowly. Counting silently in an attempt to quell his temper, he fixed his gaze on a skeletal guide on the opposite wall. ‘No body fluids, I take it?’
‘Nothing,’ Nicky confirmed what he’d already guessed.
Matthew closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. ‘
Bastard,’
he uttered. ‘Is the cause of death confirmed?’ he asked, his jaw clenching.
‘Definitely asphyxiation.’ Nicky indicated the dark brown ligature marks around the girl’s neck. ‘With a tie probably.’
‘No DNA there then either?’ Matthew sighed. He wondered why he’d bothered harbouring the hope that that there might have be a sample of skin left behind.
‘Sorry.’ Nicky shrugged, as if that too were a foregone conclusion.
Unbelievable.
Matthew shook his head incredulously. He was beginning to wonder if Sullivan hadn’t worn the same protective clothing the SOCOs wore. If it was Sullivan, which Matthew’s every instinct was screaming at him it was. If he hadn’t attended to business while his minions kept lookout, he’d have had one of them do it for him. And they had
nothing
to go on? Matthew struggled to comprehend it. Not even a footprint? The SOCOs were still on it, meticulously combing the area for signs of trace evidence, but short of coming up with a conveniently discarded spliff end with Sullivan’s prints and saliva on it, they had absolutely nil.
‘Time of death?’ despondently, he asked for confirmation there, too. As if it would make any difference. Sullivan would have a cast-iron alibi whatever time it was.
‘Judging by rigor and postmortem hypostasis,’ Nicky glanced at her notes, ‘almost certainly two a.m. or thereabouts.’
Sighing again, heavily, Matthew nodded his thanks and left Nicky to finish her job, while he went off to establish Sullivan’s whereabouts at two a.m. No doubt he’ll have been tucked up in bed with his wife, which, of course, his wife would confirm, claiming she went to the bathroom at precisely one minute past two, noticing the time on the digital alarm clock, as she did. God, he could use a drink. Checking his watch, Matthew decided that, however soothing to the nerves it might be, a double brandy at four o’clock in the afternoon wasn’t such a good idea. How, he considered, as he made his way to his car, did people like Sullivan ever sleep with their conscience?
****
Patrick Sullivan pressed his hand to the back of the girl’s neck, holding her down. Finishing the business he’d come to attend to, he released her, sorted himself out, and zipped up.
‘See how easy it is, Natalie?’ he enquired, almost pleasantly.
Choking back a sob, Natalie got shakily to her feet, wiped her hand under her nose and tugged her skirt down, attempting to make herself decent.
She’d be hard pushed to do that. Patrick noted the ladder up the back of the hold-up stockings she was wearing and her scuffed heels, which did nothing for him. Did the girl not realise they were supposed to be an adornment to her legs, a turn-on? How were they going to do that when they looked as if they belonged in the bloody charity shop? Sighing despairingly, he headed to the bathroom.
‘You have rent to pay, sweetheart,’ he called back, checking his nose for stray hairs as he washed his hands. ‘Now get your act together and get your arse out there.’
‘But Patrick …’ the girl implored tearfully.
Patrick’s sigh was agitated now. Shaking his hands dry, he came back into the lounge area of the apartment.
‘But what?’ he asked impatiently.
Natalie blinked at him beseechingly. ‘I still don’t feel well, Pat. I …’ Noting his uncompromising expression, she trailed off, biting worriedly down on her bottom lip.
‘Mr Sullivan,’ Patrick corrected her stonily.
Shrinking back, Natalie nodded hurriedly and glanced down.
‘You’ve had an abortion,’ Patrick informed her impassively. ‘Not given birth to bleeding triplets. And that was weeks ago. Now sort yourself out.’
The girl nodded again, not too keen, Patrick noted.
He was getting seriously annoyed now, wasting valuable time when he had more pressing things to attend to at the club, the guy whose drugs consignment had gone astray, for one, which was enough aggro for one day.
‘Are you hearing me, Natalie?’ He walked across to her and clutched her face in his hand, his fingers digging hard into her cheeks.
Patrick noted Natalie’s puckered-up mouth, as she attempted a more fervent nod, and curled a lip. Like a bloody sow’s arse, he thought wearily. How old was she now? Nineteen? Twenty, he made the calculation, and already well on the way to being past it.
‘Tonight, Natalie,’ he said. Then, loosening his hold, he turned away to retrieve his cashmere overcoat, which he’d folded carefully over the back of the sofa.
‘And smarten yourself up. That’s my reputation on the line out there. Don’t ever forget it.’
Looking her derisorily up and down, he fed his arm leisurely into his coat, pulled it on, and sauntered across to the mirror to check his reflection. Not bad, Patrick, my old son, he assured himself, admiring his dark good looks as he straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair, which was still all his own.
Thank God
, he thought, checking his shirt cuffs were aligned correctly with his coat sleeves. He’d been dreading starting to lose it at thirty like his old man had. Patrick worked hard at maintaining his image, but he drew the line at wearing a bleeding falsie. The old man looked like a twat. One of these days, Patrick would take great pleasure in telling him that.
‘
Comprendre
?’ he asked, turning back to Natalie to fix her with an icy glare.
Natalie nodded again, more readily this time.
‘Good.’ Patrick dragged his gaze away and headed for the door, reasonably satisfied.
He’d already given her three week’s grace and still she wasn’t back on the job. She’d been taking liberties, thinking she was special because he’d moved her into one of his more upmarket pads. Well, she wasn’t. None of them were.
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Natalie,’ he warned her, glancing over his shoulder.
‘I won’t.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘Pat …’ she said, as he reached for the door. ‘Mr Sullivan,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘do you think you could, you know, let me have something?’
Patrick stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her, now truly dumbfounded. She really was taking the proverbial, wasn’t she?
Natalie chewed doggedly on a nail. ‘Just to keep me going.’
Shaking his head disdainfully, Patrick looked down to pluck a microscopic piece of fluff from his lapel.
‘I’ll make it up, Pat, I swear.’
Patrick looked back up, his eyes narrowed as he studied her, wondering how she actually had the gall to ask him for drugs. For
free
? When she’d been sitting on her arse watching telly instead of working? He was astounded. He really was.
Natalie gulped back hard, she’d clearly noted the look.
‘I’ve been sick, Pat, honest, I have, but I’ll be back on my game tonight, honest I will. You’ll get your money, I swear.’
Patrick massaged his neck, the mother of all migraines threatening.
I should shove her out now
, he thought, attempting to keep a lid on the fury bubbling inside him.
Move her to one of the shithole bedsits reserved for drug-addled tarts on their way down. That’d teach her a lesson
.
‘Are you having a laugh, Natalie?’ he asked quietly, then lifted his right hand and circled the palm of it slowly with the thumb of his left.
‘No!’ she refuted, panic fleeting across her features as her eyes shot from his face to his hands and back. ‘I wouldn’t, Mr Sullivan. You know I wouldn’t. You’ve been good to me.’ She hesitated, swallowing again, as Patrick studied her mutely. ‘I lost my confidence, that’s all. I’m good now. I’ll make it up, Pat. You know I will.’
She stopped and waited, her expression telling him she knew this could go either way.
Nah, he’d leave her be, for now, Patrick decided, in a rare moment of extreme generosity. She was good when she was on her game, brought in a tidy wad normally. One more chance he’d give her. Just one, no one could call him heartless, after all. Slowly, he reached into his inside pocket.
Natalie closed her eyes, wilting with relief when Patrick drew out the contents.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out a twist of crack cocaine. ‘That’s top stuff, Natalie,’ he said, as the girl took a tentative step towards him.
‘Thanks, Pat.’ She smiled and reached greedily for her fix.
‘My pleasure.’ Patrick caught hold of her wrist, as she made a grab for the package, and yanked her towards him. ‘Make sure you deliver, Natalie, do you hear me,’ he pushed his face up close to hers, ‘unless you want Mummy and Daddy to know how you pay your rent.’
‘I will!’ Natalie locked panic-struck eyes on his. ‘I promise.
Ouch!
Pat …’ She squirmed in his grasp ‘… you’re hurting.’
‘You’d better, Natalie,’ he snarled, twisting her wrist cruelly. ‘Or you won’t be sitting pretty. Trust me, you take liberties one more time and you won’t even be breathing.’
With which Patrick shoved her away hard. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.
You’d
better have something for me, Natalie. I’m warning you.’
Tossing his offering at her, Patrick eyeballed her meaningfully, and then turned to stroll to the door, leaving the girl sprawled on the floor.
Is it worth the bloody effort
, he asked himself, reached back into his pocket for his nail file as he waited for the lift, and then worked to free a speck of dirt from under his index nail. All this stress, he could do without on top of a shedload of heroin gone missing, all thanks to Detective Inspector determined-to-get-him-banged-up-again Adams.
Rolling his shoulders, Patrick attempted to loosen his knotted muscles. He had a score to settle with Adams, big time. As for the tarts: ungrateful, the lot of them. He worked his backside off for them. Made sure they had decent digs. Nicely furnished apartments, most of them, where they could do what they want, entertain their clients in style. He watched their backs, beat the crap out of anyone who slapped them around. And did they appreciate it? No. Nothing but grief, thinking they could pull a fast one. Taking the odd day’s sicky, he’d tolerate, occasionally, depending on reasons why. Taking the proverbial he wouldn’t, end of.
And then they had the cheek to threaten him,
Patrick Sullivan
, with telling tales to the police? Detective Inspector bloody Adams, of all people, the spineless little shit, nursing a grudge that went way back. Patrick pressed his forefingers to his temple, his migraine now well on the way to being a full blown one as his mind shot back fifteen years, his old man knocking the living daylights out of him because he’d kicked Adams around a few times. Not because he gave a damn about Adams, as far as the great Michael Sullivan, big shot bullying bastard and drugs kingpin was concerned, the copper’s son could have been found floating face-down in the canal. No, what irked his old man was that Patrick had been dumb-fuck enough to cause the filth to come sniffing around.
He’d called him dumb-fuck a lot, hammered it home with each blow. Patrick was a complete eejit, a disappointment since the day he’d been born, he’d reminded him. Unlike Adams, of course, the straight A grade perfect copper’s son, whose old man bristled with pathetic pride. Every parents’ evening, Adams’ old man was there, patting his goody-two-shoes son on the back, puffing up his chest. The only time Patrick’s old man’s chest puffed up was with pure violent rage, the only physical contact with his fists. Attempting to quell the humiliation, which washed over him afresh every time Adams popped up to remind him of his past, Patrick re-straightened his tie, and tugged down his shirt cuffs.
No one dared call him stupid nowadays. Not even the old man, since it had occurred to him that Patrick was big enough to take him on. No one treated Patrick with disrespect. Not anymore. He pocketed his file, rolled his shoulders again, and stepped into the lift. His head was going to explode soon and spill his brains, he would swear. He could do without his upcoming meeting with Tony Hayes, a big bruiser and a bad loser, who definitely didn’t piss about when it came to calling in his debts. If he was going to keep his legs intact, Patrick needed to buy some more time. Find out which clever bastard had diverted the drugs supply to line their own thieving pockets when Adams had managed to put customs under surveillance, meaning the drugs drop was off. He’d have to meet Hayes, he supposed. Standing the man up wasn’t an option, if he wanted to be able to actually stand up ever again. After that, he needed to get home. Wash the grime off. Do a few lengths of his heated pool and relax. Never mix business with pleasure was Patrick’s motto. His home was sacrosanct, away from all this.
****
Dripping wet, which didn’t help his mood much, Patrick shrugged out of his overcoat as he came into the foyer of
Seventh Heaven.
‘Is he here?’ he asked warily, handing the coat to one of his bouncers.
‘Watching the show.’
The bouncer knew who he meant—Tony Hayes commanding respect wherever he went— and nodded towards the main lounge area. The man was built, his dinner jacket straining across his bodybuilder chest, but his expression was one of trepidation nevertheless.
Swallowing throatily, Patrick tried not to break out in a too obvious sweat.
‘Right.’ He nodded, feeling an unpleasant queasiness gut-level. Knowing there was no avoiding the meet, though, and preferring it to be on his own turf, Patrick realigned his cuffs, braced himself, and went on through towards Hayes and his two henchmen, who were perched on stools at a table one of the pole-dancer’s was performing on.
Patrick looked across approvingly as the girl writhed and gyrated, as if making love to her pole, finally squatting to give Hayes an abundant eyeful. Thank God some of them knew what the punters wanted. Considerably relieved that the man had been adequately entertained while he waited, Patrick walked across to him, attempting to keep his stride purposeful, despite his distinctly shaky legs.
‘Tony.’ He fixed his smile in place and extended a hand. ‘How’s business?’