Last Gasp (7 page)

Carver entered at the back of the
Royal Northern College of Music Concert Hall, just as the woman on stage hit
the soaring highs of
Povo Que Lavas No Rio
. As he settled into his seat,
the hairs on the back of his neck rubbed against his collar, just as they had
the first time he heard it.

Rosanna Nogueira looked stunning in the glittering white
dress that fitted her like a glove and which she’d anguished about buying for
weeks before he’d finally told her ‘Buy the damn thing. I’ll pay. You know
it’ll look great.’ And as he’d told her the several times she’d tried it on
since, he was right.

After the day he’d had, Carver was tempted to close his eyes
and let the music transport him back to the smoky depths of Barco Negro, but he
resisted. He rarely got to see her perform live. Barco Negro was the Lisbon
nightclub where he and Gill had fetched up on the last night of their final,
make-or-break holiday in Portugal - break as it turned out. The memory of the
flame-haired
fadista,
as he later learned the term, singing a type of
music he had never heard before but which sent shivers up his spine, was all
that stayed of that abortive week. When he chanced across her again three years
later, at a Liverpool music festival to which a lady Police Doctor friend
dragged him in an effort to force him back into the real world, he was glad it
had.

Checking around, he gauged the hall was two-thirds full. Not
bad considering the limited audience for Fado in the North. At least it was
enough she would feel it had been worthwhile. The past two weeks she had been
checking the website’s ticket sales daily. For the thirty minutes remaining of
her set, her voice did something he’d tried to do many times the past few weeks
but failed – wipe away thoughts of murder, dominatrices, past misjudgements
and, more recently, Megan Crane. After her closing number and the obligatory
encore, she joined him in the basement Camerata Bar. He had a large Rioja
waiting, alongside his pint. She was eager for his opinion.

‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘As always.’

And though she pressed him for detail – ‘How did it sound?’
‘What did you think of the dress?’ ‘Was the volume right?’ his critiquing
skills weren’t up to the job.

‘Fantastic.’ ‘Great.’ ‘Amazing.’

‘That’s all you ever say.’

‘That’s all you want to hear.’

She tossed her hair and laughed the throaty laugh that
always did it for him.

Over the next half-hour they drank and talked through the
concert – as much as he’d heard. She was surprised but glad he’d managed to get
there at all, and teased him about, ‘showing her gratitude,’ later. He hoped he
would be up to it, and tried to act like he knew what he was talking about when
he mentioned the hall’s ‘great’ acoustics and the clarity of the guitars.
‘Guitarra,’ she corrected. In reality they were both aware that if he knew a
tenth as much about music as he did football – like his father, he was die-hard
Liverpool fan – he would sound more convincing. It didn’t matter. They both
knew that the fact they were polar opposites – she a cultured artiste with a
taste for fine wine, he a beer-swilling detective whose only real interest
apart from her was football - was one of the reasons the relationship worked, so
far at least. Eventually there was a lull. As she sipped her wine, she regarded
him over the glass’s rim.

‘How did it go today?’ She tried to make it sound casual,
like it wasn’t a big deal.

He gave her a long look, thinking on how much to tell. Right
from that first night in Liverpool when he introduced himself and told her he’d
seen her perform in Lisbon and talked her into dinner, Carver had resolved not
to repeat the mistakes he’d made with Gill. It meant sharing more about his
work than he was used to. Rosanna knew he hadn’t been looking forward to his
meeting with the Crane woman. She even knew some of the reasons why.

‘Not too well. But we’re not giving up. We’ll try again next
week.’

‘And your Jess? What did she think?’

He thought on it. ‘Difficult to say. I don’t think she’d met
anyone like her before. She said she was, ‘interesting.’

‘What about you? Do you think she is ‘interesting’?

He checked her face. It was giving nothing away. ‘She’s a
possible lead. Of course she’s interesting.’

Rosanna pulled her chair closer to his, cupped her hand to
the back of his head. She stared deep into his eyes, as if searching for
something.
What?

‘You must be careful, Jamie Carver. Some women, they are bad
for you.’ She paused then added, ‘You know this.’

He nodded, thought he could joke himself out of it. ‘Like
you, you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’ But then she lightened. ‘I, on the
other hand, am very good for you. This, you also know.’

As they held each other's gaze, he felt her other hand on
his thigh. And as she leaned in to press her lips to his, he felt an unexpected
stirring. Driving into Manchester, all he’d thought about was how he’d messed
up, what he needed to do to make it right. He’d worried it would cast a shadow
over their whole weekend. But as he returned the kiss, he thought,
Maybe not
.

Corrine Anderson jerks as the
flogger's stinging tails rake cross her back. Again, it is harder than she
thinks necessary. It adds to her growing concerns.

To begin with, the scene had played out strictly as per the
script. Her ‘dutiful slave’ had obeyed her every command, without question. But
the last couple of lashes have been heavier than expected. It makes her wonder
if it’s inexperience that is the problem, or something else. Either way, she
decides, if her next instruction isn’t obeyed, precisely, she will issue the
safe-word, and bring this part of the encounter to a close. Time for a stern
reminder.

'That was too much,' she says. 'I told you, I am not to be
marked.' She waits for the whimpering apology the rebuke demands. Silence.

'Do you hear me?' She lifts her voice to signal her anger
and tries to twist round. But the ropes securing her to the post are tight and
the way her wrists and arms are secured in front and above her, restricts her
movement. She waits, unsure whether her slave’s lack of response is due to fear
at having upset, ‘Mistress’, or the need to indulge in some strictly-forbidden
self-relief - which will itself require punishment. Whatever the reason, the
lack of response means it is time to re-assert herself.

'Red.'

Nothing. She tries again.

'Red. Do you hear me? I’ve given the safe word. Release me
at once.'

Still no response. Corinne is shocked. It is unheard of.

For experienced players such as Corrine, the safe-word is
sacrosanct. In all her years as a Dom, she has only ever known it be ignored
once. She never saw that person again. For the first time, she feels the
stirrings of unease.

Just a few minutes before, her slave had seemed the same,
natural submissive she had come to know during their previous meetings. And it
was her co-player’s compliance with her commands during those meetings that had
convinced her she could play out this element of the scene safely. That her
slave will bend to her will on command. She hopes she hasn’t miscalculated.

The answer comes in the form of another blow, the hardest
yet - across her buttocks this time.

'OOOWWWWW. Red. RED!' The stinging pain ripples through her
body. But before she can remonstrate further, she feels a hand balling in her
hair and her head is yanked back, hard.

A voice, breathless and menacing, whispers in her ear. 'You
can shout, ‘Red’ as much as you like,
BITCH
.
I’M
in control here
now, not you.'

The vicious tone and the threat implicit in the words are
enough for Corinne to realise. This is no momentary aberration.
I’ve been
set up
.

Icicles of fear radiate through her as she realises her
vulnerability. If the whole thing has been a contrivance, then what else lies
in store for her? Feelings of panic begin to well up. But she doesn’t say
anything. Her instincts tell her she is no longer, 'Mistress,' and it will do
her no good to try to act the part. Too late, she admonishes herself for being
so gullible.

But she isn’t allowed to ponder on it long. A red ball-gag
appears in front of her. Before she can react, it pushes hard into her mouth,
behind her teeth, making it impossible to spit it out. She shakes her head,
violently, to no avail. She feels the strap being buckled behind, tight. Her
former sub is making sure their roles are well and truly reversed. More rope is
wound about her legs, lashing them to the post. To her horror, she feels
something soft about her neck. She tries to call out through the gag, but her
cries are cut off as whatever it is tightens, choking off her efforts.

The combined effect of fear, the gag, and whatever is now
about her throat, forces Corinne to gasp for breath. She squeezes her eyes
shut. When she opens them again, she finds herself gazing into two dark pools.
Earlier, the eyes had been respectful, compliant, underpinned with the
submissive’s desire to obey. She had put her trust in those eyes. Absolute
trust. Now they are cold, clinical, reflecting nothing but … what? Hate? Her
fear spreads. It is the sort of fear a mother experiences when her child is
away from her care and she sees a policeman walking up the path. She knows
something bad has happened, but doesn’t yet know what.

She tries to ask, 'What are you going to do?' But the words
come out a meaningless jumble of 'Wha’'s and 'oo's.

In response, her captor’s face closes in on hers and she
feels hot breath on her cheeks. The chilling voice rings in her ears once more.

'You’re under my control now, Mistress! And we are going to
play the game the way I want to play it. Understand, Mistress?'

Terrified, Corrine Anderson can only nod. Whatever the game
is, she hopes it won’t last too long, or be too painful. She dare not even
think of another possibility, which is even worse. Far worse.

It is years since Corinne has cried from fear. She does so
now, tears running down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and onto the shelf
the entwining ropes have formed from her jutting breasts, as her former sub
goes to work.

It took Carver’s mobile several
rings before it penetrated the depths where he dreamed these days enough to
register. As his hand groped over the bedside table, Rosanna stirred beside
him.

'Wh- Who is it?'

'Shhh. S'alright. Go back to sleep.' Finding the source of
the annoying buzz, he checked the screen. His eyes weren’t focusing yet. ‘Tch.’
He jabbed a finger at the green circle.
First bloody weekend off in
months...

'Yes?'

'Jamie. It's Rita.'

It took him a moment. 'Rita. Whassup?' He prised himself
onto an elbow.

'I'm at Carnegie Avenue. You need to come.' Her dull tone
told him it wasn't for debate.

He swung his legs out, sat on the edge of the bed, mind
clearing, rapidly. 'What's happened?'

'Kayleigh's stabbed Stuart.'

‘WHAT?'
Shit.
'Is he-?'

'Dead? No. But it’s a right mess. Your people are here. I
need you.'

He checked the clock. 03:05. He stood up.

'Forty-five minutes.'

Carver saw the blue flashing lights
reflecting the length of Carnegie Avenue long before he got anywhere near
number twenty-five. Along the approach he counted two ambulances, several
Police cars, a couple of plain, CID cars. Someone had hit the button hard on
this one.

He parked behind the last police car and got out. As he
headed for the house that was once a pair of semis until the project converted
them into one, he was already working scenarios. Then he remembered where he
was. Turning, he pointed his keys back at the car and waited while the lights
flashed. Nearing the house, he saw every window was showing a light. Likewise
the houses either side, and opposite.
They’re used to it.
The front door
was open. There was shouting coming from inside. Several voices. A young
policeman was on point at the garden gate. Beyond him, further down the street,
dark figures roamed. Not all were in uniform. Carver hoped none were press. He
needed to get a lid on, fast.

‘’Morning, Mr Carver.’ the officer said, as if it were a
nice sunny one.

Carver nodded. ‘’Morning, Matt.’

As he turned up the path, the shouting got louder. Some from
upstairs, some down. Stepping into the hallway, two things struck him. First,
there was carpet on the stairs. He’d only ever seen them bare. Nothing fancy,
just a plain mid-brown. But it was an improvement. The second thing was the
smell of fresh paint – another first. He remembered an email a couple of weeks
back, something about a local decorating company offering sponsorship. To his
left was the main living-room, directly in front, the stairs. He was about to
go up when a voice he recognised came from his left.

'SIT DOWN RUSSELL.'

He turned to it, then realised something else. The door was
back on its hinges. Checking up the stairs he confirmed what his sub-conscious
had registered as he’d come in. The upstairs doors had been re-hung as well.
When the project started, they’d found all the internal doors stacked in the
back garden amidst all the stolen motorcycle parts. It had taken many weeks and
much bridge-building before the older kids told how they’d taken them off so
they would have early warning of their Dad’s approach. As he entered the room,
Carver saw the night-CID DS, Paul Hill, nose to nose with Russell Lee. A
uniformed PC stood off, watching, ready.

At seventeen, Russell was the oldest of the family’s nine
siblings. With a history of showing violent aggression towards the police, he
had been the hardest to bring on board. It wouldn’t have happened at all
without Kayleigh. To Russell’s credit, the way his fists kept jerking up into
the ‘ready’ position then dropping, Carver could see he was fighting against
the instincts telling him to show the man in his face he was no longer a kid.
On the couch behind him, Billy, fourteen, was watching wide-eyed, waiting to
see which way things would go. The door into the kitchen was shut. Women’s
voices drifted through.

Hill had his back to Carver, but must have seen the change
in Russell’s face as he came in. Hill turned. When he saw his DCI he looked
relieved.

Russell didn’t waste a second. ‘Mr Carver, this twat’s just
assaulted me.’ He pointed to somewhere on his face. As long as Carver had known
him, it had always been a patchwork of battle-scars.

Hill spun round on the youth. Carver could see he was close
to losing it. ‘If I’d assaulted you, you wouldn’t be shouting about it, you
little shit.’

‘Thanks Paul,’ Carver said. As the detective turned back to
him Carver threw him a meaningful look before turning to the youth he’d been
berating. ‘Russell. Calm down and do as you’re told. I’ll speak to you in a
minute.’ He didn’t wait for a response but said to Hill, ‘Where’s Rita?’ Hill
nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Ok. I’ll see you outside in a few minutes?’

Hill got the message. As he turned to leave, he gave Russell
one last warning look.

Russell mouthed, ‘Fuck off,’ before dropping into the couch
next to his brother.

The kitchen was full of women and kids. Most were in tears.
The mother, Paula Lee, was sitting at the far end of the long table Rita had
scrounged off Social Services weeks before so the family had somewhere they
could all get around for family conferences. It was still too early to hope
they may one day use it for eating together. A big woman with greasy hair,
Paula’s saggy arms were draped around a couple of the younger girls who were
cuddling into her. There were tears and sobs a-plenty. Kayleigh, herself was
stood off to her left, leaning against a worktop, hands cupping a steaming mug.
She was wearing flowery-patterned pyjamas. The top was stained with dark red
patches.

At fifteen, Kayleigh was the eldest of the five girls. Slim
and dark, like her father, her black hair was growing out of the punkish style
she’d worn the last time he’d seen her. As Carver entered, she turned him a
resigned look that seemed to say, ‘Here we go again.’ He could see she’d been
crying, though right now she seemed in control. Good. Whatever she’d done
tonight, he would need her if they were going to sort this lot out.

To Carver, Kayleigh was still something of an enigma. When
the Government launched their ‘Problem Families Initiative’, the Lees were
number one on almost every agency’s list; Police, Local Council, Social
Services. And it quickly became clear to all that if the Lee Family Project was
to ever achieve its aims, Kayleigh’s part would be vital. One of those kids
whose existence seems to run contrary to both sides of the nature/nurture
debate, she was the one family member everyone else was prepared to listen to.
Mature beyond her years, intelligent and committed to the project from the
start, she’d brokered truces from stalemates on several occasions, both within
the family and with the ‘participating agencies’. During early case meetings,
Carver had mused on how, if it weren’t for the slightly weaselled features that
echoed her father, he’d have put her as the product of one of her mother’s
once-notorious sexual escapades. There had been times the past six months when,
seeing her in action, fighting to hold together a family who sometimes
questioned both her motives and loyalty, he’d felt like taking her by the hand
and leading her out of the nightmare that was the Lee household. Now, as he
noted the calm-but-sad expression that said she was resigned to whatever
outcome fate had in store for her this night, he felt it again.

At the end of the table, her back to him, a
colourfully-dressed black woman with an abundance of braided hair turned as she
heard him come in. Seeing him, Rita Arogundade, Lead Case Worker for the Lee
Family Project, rose from her chair.

‘We need to talk,’ she said, motioning to the back door.

The lack of greeting didn’t surprise Carver. Rita always preferred
action to words. He following her out into the garden, closed the door. They
could still see by the light through the kitchen window. She got straight to
it.

‘I hope you’re going to be able to sort this.’

Her expression was serious and Carver returned her a neutral
one. What she’d meant was, ‘You
are
going to sort this
.
’

‘Give me the story, then I’ll tell you if I can. First,
where’s Stuart and how is he?’

‘He’s upstairs with the paramedics and a couple of yours.
He’s got a hole in his stomach which they think is probably superficial but
can’t be sure. He’s refusing hospital. They’re trying to convince him.’

‘Good luck to that,’ Carver said. Since childhood, Stuart
Lee had trained himself to never cooperate with anyone wearing a uniform.

Over the next two minutes, Rita summarised what she’d
learned since she’d answered the phone at two-o-clock to hear Kayleigh’s
quivering voice saying, ‘I’ve stabbed me dad.’

The previous evening, Stuart and Paula had argued over
Benny, the youngest boy, four, continuing to see the child psychologist.
‘Stuart hates her guts,’ Rita offered. ‘You know what he’s like.’ Carver nodded
but said nothing. Losing the argument with Paula, as he always did, Stuart had
reverted to norm and taken himself off to The Cricketers. There he’d proceeded
to fall off the wagon, returning home at midnight drunk out of his skull and
high on something. When Paula saw the state he was in, it all kicked off like
it used to in the old days. The kids got involved and, as always happened, the
family divided along gender lines. The girls blamed Stuart, the lads sought to
defend him. Kayleigh tried to call a conference, but by then Stuart was too far
gone to listen, so were most of them. Things spiralled out of control and
eventually Stuart just blew and went for Paula. He put his hands round her
throat and pushed her down into the kitchen table. The kids tried to prise them
apart but couldn’t get him off. Stuart was wiry, but strong. Paula began
turning blue. Kayleigh thought he really was going to kill her this time.

‘She picked up a knife and tried to warn him. When he didn’t
stop, she stabbed him.’

‘Where?’ Carver said.

Rita pointed up and under her right ribs.

Carver sucked air. ‘Lucky he’s still alive.’

‘She says she only pricked him enough to get him to pay
attention.’

‘Let’s hope so. But he needs to be checked out properly.’

‘He’s saying he’s not going anywhere until he knows no-one’s
going to take Kayleigh away.’

‘So he’s come round a bit?’

‘Oh God, yeah. The neighbours called the police and I got
here just as your guys did. He was like-’ Rita affected Stuart’s nasally whine.
It was remarkably accurate- ‘“It’s all my fault. Kayleigh was only protecting
her ma. If you want to arrest someone, arrest me. I tried to kill her.” Tears.
Pleas for God’s forgiveness. The lot. I don’t think your people know who to
arrest. That’s why I called you.’

Carver nodded. ‘Thanks.’

Rita lowered her voice. Carver knew what she was thinking
even before she said it.

‘If we don’t get this right, Jamie, the whole project could
go down the pan.’

He nodded again. ‘How’s Paula?’

‘She’s got a nice set of finger marks round her throat,
but she doesn’t want to make a complaint either.’

‘Great.’ Carver tipped his head back to look up at the sky.
It was cloudy. No stars.

The one thing Carver didn’t have right now was time to spend
trying to keep the project afloat. Rita was the most dedicated Case Worker he’d
ever come across. But if things went bad, she would need his full support in
getting them back on track. He turned back to her. ‘Stay with the girls. I need
to speak with Stuart.’

He found Stuart Lee in the front bedroom, sitting on the
marital bed that people quipped ought to be doing time for all the trouble it
had caused. He was still resisting the efforts of the two paramedics, a man and
woman, to let them take him to hospital to get checked out. They both looked pissed
off. A uniformed sergeant and another detective were doing their best to lend
weight to the paramedics’ pleas. As Carver entered they all seemed to take a
step back.

‘I tell you. I’m fucking okay. It’s only a scratch.’

The slurred speech and wild expression told Carver he was
still under the influence of whatever he’d taken. It wasn’t going to be easy.

Seeing Carver, Stuart renewed his resistance. ‘T’ank God
you’re here, Mr Carver. Tell I’m okay. I don’t need ‘em.’

Carver leaned in, saw the blooded tee-shirt on the floor,
the dressing the medics had managed to put over the wound in his side. It was
still seeping. ‘You need to go to Hospital, Stuart. If you slip off the plate,
Kayleigh will be in big trouble.’

Anguish flooded his dark features. ‘No-no-no. It wasn’t her
fault. She’s a good girl.’ He appealed to Carver. ‘You won’t let them take her,
will you Mr Carver? Your boys want to lock her up but I told ‘em, “No.” She was
just looking after her Ma, that’s all.’ He tried to stand, shrugging off the medic’s
efforts to help. He turned towards the door.

Carver stepped forward and raised his voice. ‘Look at me,
Stuart.’ He managed to grab his attention. ‘My boys will do what I tell them to
do. Right now I need you to behave. If you go to the hospital, I’ll sort things
out here.’

He calmed some, eyes narrowing as if gauging how far he
could trust the man who’d arrested him more times than Carver cared to
remember. Not that pissed then, Carver thought.

‘Do you swear, Mr Carver? Swear you won’t let them take my
Kayleigh away.’

Carver looked him in the eye. ‘I promise I won’t let them
take Kayleigh away.’

‘In that case I’ll go. But I want to speak to me family
first.’ Turning to the door he shouted down the stairs. ‘I CALL A CONFERENCE.’

Carver groaned, inside. ‘Now’s not the time Stuart. We need
to get you to Hospital. You can do all that when you get back.’

He sat back down on the bed. ‘I’m not going anywhere until
we’ve had, a FUCKING CONFERENCE.’