Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (25 page)

‘Best
not take off your jacket,’ she warned.

‘Wasn’t
going to.’

‘Brr!’
She had on her only eveningwear, an electric blue, crushed velvet strapless
dress with separate sleeves. She dashed over to the bed, grabbed the thick grey
wool cardigan she used as a bedjacket and put it on. She kicked off her shoes.
‘OK, it looks weird. But I’m cold.’

‘Looks
fine,’ he said. To him it wasn’t the clothes that mattered - although as far as
bits of him were concerned, they helped. He added, ‘That dress looks grand on
you.’

She
made a face. ‘What is the saying? Best of a bad job.’

‘Honestly.’

‘Thanks.’
Her smile was the only warm thing in the house. ‘Even though I know it’s
bullshit, what you say.’

‘It’s
not bullshit.’

Embarrassed,
she covered her mouth with a hand. ‘I can offer you a hot drink.’

‘
Have
to be hot,’ he said. ‘What’s
going?’

He
followed her downstairs in the dark to the kitchen diner at the back of the
house. The drink was, she warned him, conditional on her fellow tenants’
practice of intermittently thieving the groceries. They had, as it turned out,
been in Jasmin’s Ovaltine tin, but there was still just enough left in the
bottom. She found some milk that hadn’t turned and poured it into a pan to
heat.

‘So,’
she said, searching the cupboards for biscuits, ‘a good night out,
ja
?’

‘For
some.’

‘I
prefer to remember the fun parts.’

‘Best
way.’ Jeff fingered his collar. He wasn’t about to loosen it, though, let the
draught in down the front of his neck. He added, ‘Think Nina’s going to be OK?’

Jasmin
shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

‘Sandra’s
been putting her up, did you hear her say?’

‘Uh-huh.’
She hugged herself. ‘I wonder what she said to her. Outside.’

‘Probably
unrepeatable.’

They
laughed, full of warmth for their extraordinary colleague. For a moment the
cold house seemed less oppressive. ‘Sometimes,’ Jasmin said, ‘I think that if
Sandra was not a cop, she would make a good doctor.’

‘Dunno
about that. Imagine her bedside manner.’

Their
Ovaltine ready, they went back upstairs.

‘Sit
on the bed. I have only this one chair and it’s not comfortable.’ He sat,
pulling himself back so he could lean against the wall. Jasmin said, ‘Can I
come right up close to you? We will keep each other warm.’

‘Be
my guest.’

Uncertainly,
he extended a welcoming arm. She slipped within his embrace and snuggled up to
him, her head resting on his shoulder.

‘People
would talk, if they saw us,’ she said.

‘No,
they wouldn’t. Their teeth’d be too bloody busy chattering.’

They
giggled.

‘Left
our mugs on the mantelpiece.’

‘Let
them stay there for a bit.’ She clutched his waist.

‘I
think this is as warm as we’re going to get,’ he hazarded.

‘Maybe,’
Jasmin said softly.

Given the presence
of a car registered to a known violent criminal, Nina knew she should call for
backup. But at this hour police vehicles would be heard approaching a long way
off; and while marching up to the Clarkes’ door now might well bag them Quaife,
it could not only rob them of the chance to find any link to Porter, the fire
and Mark Watkins, but also endanger more lives.

Besides,
she was feeling reckless.

She
decided to reconnoitre.

In
between several of the houses were alleyways, of the kind that lurk between the
back-to-back gardens of suburbia, offering a run to urban foxes and a
convenient repository for grass cuttings and weeds. She walked to the nearest
one, noting the number of properties between it and the Clarkes’, knowing how
different houses could look from the back. A few steps took her out of sight of
the street, in between high plank fences that smelled of fresh creosote. A
smile crossed her face, a sudden childhood memory. Left to amuse themselves in
school holidays, she and her sisters as a trio of African explorers, creeping
unseen through forbidden places.

At
the far end, as she’d expected, another alleyway cut across at right angles,
running between the back gardens of Ballards Way and those of the next street.
It was still too dark to see far ahead, and she hoped there were enough
knotholes and gaps in the fence for her to pinpoint where she was. The path was
overgrown with great clumps of bindweed and ground elder, cow parsley and
nettles, and she was thankful she’d changed into jeans. In her childhood she
would have imagined this a fairytale, she hacking through the undergrowth to
free Sleeping Beauty with a kiss.

The
Clarkes lived eight houses along. If she stood back she had a clear view of the
upstairs windows. There were no lights. She stared at the fence, trying to
decide what to do next. And noticed that, providentially, this garden had a
gate.

Warrant?
Reasonable suspicion as to the presence of a suspect, she told herself, lifting
the latch. If that didn’t fly, she was technically already trespassing anyway.
As well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb. The gate was not locked. Another
thing about these alleyways, they were a godsend for burglars. She slipped
through.

Closing
it behind her, she inhaled, but never got to let out the deep sigh of relief
that went next because something travelling at speed hit her below the ribs and
sent her crashing breathless to the ground.

There came a point
when the mood between them changed irrevocably, but it was some time before
they did anything about it.

Was
it Jeff who made the move, lowering his lips to Jasmin’s and, elated, felt her
respond? Or did she, brown eyes raised, invite him wordlessly to kiss her? If
they ever wondered, by that time it hardly mattered.

She
sat up to face him and wound her arms around his neck, caressing it and the
back of his head with strong fingers. He brought his hands up to her shoulders,
easing away the cardigan. Presently it lay spread on the bed behind her, and
her bare shoulders were open to his unsteady hands. She sighed and replaced her
arms, kissing him still more intensely, her tongue fusing with his, pressing
warmth against soft, flexing warmth.

They
were long minutes like that. Then their mouths parted; he kissed her chin, on
down to her neck and shoulders, while she slipped her fingers under his jacket,
her warm hands brushing his chest through the shirt, trembling across to slip
the jacket off, then undoing his tie, fingers tangling and touching his chin
and throat. She was sighing, short of breath, under his kisses. His hands were
trickling down her spine, fumbling fingers finding the tiny hook that took an
eternity to undo, and the zip that didn’t, as the dress opened and clinging
velvet gave way to cold air. And then the dress was being drawn down by gentle
but unpracticed hands as his lips and tongue followed, making the goosebumps on
her breasts thrill before warming them away.

Moaning,
she shifted herself and took the dress right off, allowing him a long glimpse
of the body he’d dreamed of experiencing. She’d worn nothing underneath; clad
now only in the velvet sleeves she crawled into bed, under the blankets and out
of the cold, edging nearer the wall to leave him room.

Watching
her watching him, he stood and took off the rest of his clothes. He approached
the bed, erect and distended in want for her so much as to be almost painful.
Fast. So fast. Uncertain, he checked. He was terrified of making a wrong move,
of having misinterpreted whatever it was she meant. Now, after so long, that
she seemed to be responding to his feelings for her, it must be right. Ruin it
now, and it would destroy him. He was confused, not thinking straight. An inner
voice spoke up. Here he was, standing in all his glory in front of a bed
containing the woman of his heart, naked and waiting for him. Misinterpret
that
, loverboy. Jeff drew back the
covers and climbed into bed with Jasmin.

She
came to him, pressing the length of her body against his, breasts moulding
themselves to the contours of his chest. Their lips reunited, sliding betwixt
and between, discovering all over again. He stroked her back, gliding downwards
to the swell of her buttocks which he kneaded, pushing their groins urgently
together. Waves of spicy perfume washed up his nose. He wished to draw her
whole body inside him where he could keep her forever.

‘Oh,
my,’ she said. She withdrew her hips a little, firmly but very gently so he
would not think of rejection. She rolled to him and let a hand coast downwards,
velvet-covered arm brushing him, exploring for the shapes and spaces of his
hips and groin. Between his legs she went. He cried out in barely controllable
ecstasy as her fingers triggered bombs in his lower body. He could bear no
more. He had to have her. Driven by this compulsion his hand swept down,
coaxing her onto her back. It glided over her belly, combing through the
brittle curls of her groin to find the warm, silky dampness of its destination.
A cry burst from her. Her squeezing hand left his penis and grasped his hip,
fingertips digging into the flesh, tugging him towards her, inviting,
demanding.

They
were still kissing. He broke away. ‘Protection,’ he murmured. Eyes half open,
lips parted, she nodded.

‘Hurry.’

He
hurried, stumbling out of bed, grabbing his jacket, dropping it, picking it up
again and somehow, after seconds that seemed hours, finding the right pocket.
He tore the foil open and stood weak-kneed while she helped to unroll the
condom down the length of his erection. It flitted through his mind that Jasmin
was a Roman Catholic; not, evidently, something she allowed to get in the way
of good sense.

He
climbed back into bed and slipped at last in between her thighs. He took a
moment to adjust himself. Feeling his difficulty, she reached down and took
hold, guiding him. He throbbed at her touch again. He entered her.

And
came almost immediately. A climax he’d been expecting and dreading still took
him by surprise with its intensity. With a few frantic thrusts he pushed
himself deep inside her, but it was all over so quickly, leaving him released,
but unsatisfied.

He
groaned with a mixture of rapture and embarrassment. Then, as abruptly as the
feelings had come, they were gone, replaced by a surge of shame.

‘Shit,’
he panted, burying his face in her neck. ‘I’m sorry. I really, truly am.’

‘Why?’

He
screwed up his eyes, which had been tight shut ever since he’d felt himself
begin to explode. ‘Jeff Wetherby, the one minute marvel.’

‘Is
that all?’ Jasmin said. Her arms were still round him.

A
slow sigh escaped him. Useless to say, true though it might be, that it had
never happened before. This had been it, she was the one, and he’d blown it.

And
yet...

A
former girlfriend had once told Jeff women were attracted to him because he was
the sort of bloke they felt able to have a crisis at. Choosing to take this as
a compliment, he tried grafting it onto the present situation. True, Jasmin was
at a low ebb, but it had been an innocent lift home, nothing planned, both of
them almost completely sober. One minute they’d been in a chaste embrace; the
next, almost without knowing it, they were making love.

But
it was more than that. They both knew it.

Because
she’d whispered into his ear, with a note of wonder, ‘Oh, my.’

At
last, he dared to open his eyes. One look at her, at her face glowing with
amazement, told him all his fears were unfounded. They understood, and smiled
together. Because he’d never fallen in love before, it hadn’t occurred to him
that the feeling might be reciprocated.

He
felt like laughing for joy at the simplicity of it all. Of course he hadn’t
been able to control himself. It would have been like trying to outrun a
tsunami.

Half-stunned,
suffocating, stars blotting out her vision. Someone grabbing her arms, dragging
her along on her back. Over the roaring in her ears, a voice hissing,
‘Handcuffs. In her bag, probably.’

She
was hauled to her feet, thrown against something hard and cold, arms twisted
behind her. A vicious tug, and she felt the bite of the zip-tie restraints into
her wrists. Her legs buckled and she scrambled to stand. She grasped for
control of her lungs, took a first laboured, wheezing breath just as another
blow, higher between her breasts and not quite so hard, slammed her against the
rough surface at her back. There was sharp excruciating pain, a hot, slow
trickle down her legs, and the dizzy sickness squeezed her like a fist. Finally
the stars cleared. Her head was a dead weight, but she lifted it, and was able
to see what, and who, had happened to her.

Dim
as the light still was, dim as her vision seemed swiftly to be turning, she
knew the face. She’d seen it by proxy through a telephoto lens, as its owner,
frozen in time, closed his front door behind him.