Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (16 page)

She must have slept at some point during the night but it didn’t feel that way. A vision of Jasmine in his bed filled her mind. She flicked between anger and despair. Had Spencer agreed to send Ben back to boarding school? Had he confided his decision with Jasmine and excluded her?

The first job was to get Mel and her dad back to the house to pick up the car. Both men seemed cheerful as they ate breakfast in the kitchen. She clicked on the TV. There was only one story. Kate had gone into hospital. A royal baby could be born at any minute. Journalists stood in front of Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, St Mary’s Hospital, Windsor Castle and Kate’s family home. They all gabbled with the same birth fervor. There was nothing to say but they were just going to keep bearing down until some news popped out.

“She’s a lovely girl that Kate,” said her dad. “Did I really play because Prince William couldn’t make it?”

“You sure did—and you were a superstar.”

“You’re a long way from Peckham, my sweet girl. He’s crazy for you but....”

“But what?”

“Don’t get hurt, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I know Dad. I’ll keep my pads on and wear a helmet,” she said with a weary glance at Mel.

“Love’s love. Someone told me it mugs you if you go out and slides under the door if you stay in,” he said.

How different he seemed from the tired defeated man of twenty-four hours ago. She was flattered he’d remembered her words. She drove them back to Bloxington Manor. The Zodiac was alone at the front entrance. There was no one in sight. She followed the men out of the estate without stopping. She didn’t want to consider how the night might have unfolded. Back at the police house her life seemed silent and lonely. She called in to Zulu Delta Control and told them she was working a late shift from 2 p.m. Then she went back to bed, making sure her mobile was on for when Spencer remembered her.

She was in a doze as her phone began to ring. It had to be him!

“Shannon. It’s Max Strauss.”

Her mind went into a different gear. This was the DNA result.

“It’s the same dog.”

She gulped in a lungful of air.

“No doubt at all?”

“Of course not. I can even tell you it’s a Rottweiler.”

“That’s fantastic, Professor. I’m so grateful.”

“Just make sure you’re so grateful that you remember you never ever gave me a sample and you never took this call. The hairs you gave me have been destroyed. No matter who asks or what follows, you know nothing.”

“I understand.”

“And let me know how it all ends.”

“Naturally.”

“And don’t waste your youth, energy, and talents. I give this advice to everyone!”

“It’s good advice.”

“I’m a doctor.”

He clicked off. He was a cool guy. Now she had a mission and she would need help. She checked her phone. Nothing! She was still a cop and it was time to get to work.

Top of the list was the pub’s application to stay open late to celebrate the royal birth. For sure there was no hope of getting a formal permission in front of a magistrate. According to the news the arrival was imminent. She swung the jeep into the pub car park. The landlord, Simon, was behind the bar.

“I’ve got your application,” she said.

He shrugged “Look, I know it’s too late....”

“Simon, when the babe pops out I’ll be the only cop in the village. I’ll make sure I’m on duty. I’ll turn a blind eye but you must assure me there’ll be no trouble. Just keep it for locals. If I have to call in outside units the bosses will skin me alive.”

“That’s great. I’ve got a couple of guys can work the door and keep order. Wow! You seem like a bit of a human being, Officer.”

“Which bits do you think aren’t human?”

“Just the uniform I guess,” he said smiling.

“Sorry mate. Have to keep it on.”

“Cup of tea?”

They chatted about kings, queens, and dukes. She could tell that he was far more interested in the local earl. The more he pumped for inside information, the less she gave.

“You’re a friend of the earl I believe,” he said.

“I’m a friend of the pub landlord and all persons of importance in the village,” she replied.

He smiled and gave up.

“When there’s a babe, England expects that every landlord will do his duty,” she said.

“Aye aye, Lord Nelson,” he replied with a wink.

Next was a complaint of illegal waste dumping in the field where the pony Thunderbolt lived. She met the business pinstripe-suited owner at the scene. A pile of broken roof tiles and a rotten timber post had appeared.

“Disgrace. Utter scum and vandals. I don’t really expect the police to care. People like me slave to create the wealth of this land and this human filth desecrate it,” he said in a loud upper class voice.

Shannon made some notes. This must be the posh stockbroker guy that Corduroy Man described. She decided not to mention the pony’s adventures on the allotments. The man continued.

“Perhaps DNA and fingerprints could solve it. God above, I pay more than enough taxes to provide wages for people like you.”

“People like me are grateful for your contribution, Sir,” she said, handing him the phone number for the council rubbish department. Fly tipping was an issue but there was no way she would call on forensic science to solve it. The victim stalked off angrily muttering that he knew senior police officers in his masonic lodge. She checked her phone. Nothing! She sent him some kisses and waited for a reply. Nothing!

She took a call on her radio. A shoplifting incident had been reported at the village stores. She sat down in a small office at the back of the shop with the proprietor Sanjay. They watched the CCTV images of an elderly woman sliding a can of corned beef into her pocket. The total value of the crime was £2.25pence.

“I cannot afford this. It is a very serious matter. I want official legal action,” he said.

“Has she done it before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How long has she been a customer?”

“Since twenty-one years, I think.”

“Maybe there is a reason. Something must have changed in her behavior.”

The shopkeeper frowned.

“I want the police to arrest her for stealing. There is too much of it.”

“Okay. I’ll need full statements from all of your staff. I’ll need to make sure that your CCTV equipment is in order. I’ll get some of our technical people down from London. Maybe we’ll only have to close you down for a couple of hours.”

“Close the shop?”

“Yes, it will take a while to write all the statements from the staff. Then we have to match up all the dates they will be free for the court case.”

“This is very difficult,” said Sanjay.

“I understand but these things have to done properly you know,” she said. “It must be very difficult running this sort of business. I see people keep stopping outside on the yellow no parking lines. That must be very annoying for you.”

“These are my customers. They have to park there! That is my business. I didn’t ask for yellow lines.”

Sanjay was working himself up into a panic.

“Yes, but official legal action is very important.”

“Not that kind of official legal action.”

“I thought maybe I could help you by issuing some tickets and stopping people from endlessly popping in and out of your shop.”

“No! No! Officer, that would be very troubling for you.”

“Are you sure, I’ll do anything to help,” she said with a wide smile. “Maybe I’ll let things run along and keep an eye on the matter. Maybe I can also deal with this shoplifting business quietly. To be honest I don’t like being too official.”

“This is very wise indeed.”

“Let’s have a nice cup of tea while I write a short statement leaving the matter to me,” she said.

She drank her tea, completed a statement and shook hands warmly with the shopkeeper.

“It’s wonderful to know we’ll be able to agree,” she said.

“Wonderful, yes. A great pleasure to meet you,” said Sanjay.

She drove away reflecting on her power to ruin a life with a single sweep of a pen. She now had the identity of the thief. According to Sanjay, Mrs Hornet was a churchgoer and a respected member of the Women’s Institute. At a guess she would have been a mother, a wife, a colleague, and a girl on her wedding day. Somewhere behind these events there was a story. She checked her phone. Nothing! She texted some kisses. Nothing!

It was time for her break and she wanted to check out Mrs Hornet for any criminal record. Back at the office her phone was flashing with several missed calls and voice messages. She flicked it on. God! It was Spencer.

“Shannon – where are you? Too much booze and Elvis yesterday. My mobile went to the laundry in my cricket whites. I haven’t got your number. I’ve been locked down with meetings all day. I must talk with you. I haven’t been fair with you about Jasmine. I know how you must have felt last night. Something has come up and I can’t leave you dangling. Please call me back.”

She slumped down on the sofa. She’d always known. This was the conversation she’d had with herself every minute since he’d moved into her heart. Of course he couldn’t take her into his life as an equal. Even if he felt everything she felt, she could never be his woman at his side. How could she rub shoulders with the royal family, meet artists, actors, presenters from the BBC, and dine with heads of state?

She flicked to the next call. It was him again.

“Shannon, it’s a boy. Will’s just called.”

Why the hell did she want to know about his posh royal mates? She was an inner city scum bag with no education by their standards. What kind of stuffed shirt idiot still used the word “laundry” for fuck’s sake? She wasn’t about to cry. She was still who she was. She had tied that girl in the ditch to a nest of serious criminals. This was her life. She had merely awoken from a dream. OK, she’d taken a punch in the face but she was standing and could still fight for respect. Just for a second she pictured his handsome face and strong body above Jasmine. A knife twisted in her heart and made it pump with rage. Jasmine’s face turned into a horse’s head with dirty teeth and rolling eyes as she whinnied her orgasmic victory. God, if he wanted that, he deserved it! The last time she’d seen a face like Jasmine’s it had been fixed on a carousel and you could ride it for money. She smiled a cold smile imagining telling her so.

Phone him back? He could fuck right off!

There was also the matter of Ben. He was a kind and gentle boy. He had a record that would blight his life. She wouldn’t drop that quest because of Spencer. Shannon’s Law went beyond the personal. It was her own fault. She’d dared to dream the impossible dream and it had been the most wonderful moment of her life. It was over. Tonight there was a royal baby. The pub would be open late and she was the sheriff. Her ego had put her where she was. Wise up and shut up. That was everything she’d learned at Police School.

She cruised the jeep up to The Hunter’s Inn. The bars were full and more people were arriving. A couple of middle-aged skinheads in England football shirts were singing “God Save the Queen” in the car park.

She made sure the police vehicle was obvious outside to deter opportunists. She strolled to the door wishing she did have a six-gun on her hip. She felt like a woman missing a big hero bear. Two suitable gorillas—one black, one white—stood guard.

“You guys licensed?”

“We’re just waiting for a couple of pretty girls. You gotta friend?”

“Good answer. Cops do allies not friends. Just keep the peace while you’re waiting boys.”

“That’s the plan.”

She took a walk through the bar. She was delighted to see the Reverend Hoverington, pint mug in hand. He planted a loose wet kiss on her cheek.

“Splendid news my holy child! Wonderful tradition. The royal succession goes on. Bloody God, Jesus, State, and Crown ... what a dream team.”

Several good citizens raised their glasses and cheered.

“Do we know the babe’s name?” asked Shannon.

“Ssssshhhhh! It’s a secret … but if you’ve got a tenner, nudge nudge, wink wink ... go for George. All the clever money is on George. Trouble is ... trouble is his mother’s a bloody woman. Anything could change!” slurred the Reverend Hoverington.

“Women get in on the act everywhere these days,” she said.

“Ha! Wot! I should say so. A gal like you should have a baby.”

“I’m a cop, not a gal.”

“That’s not what Bloxy thinks.”

“Cops don’t have babies.”

“Vicars don’t get pissed!”

The citizens cheered. The football-shirted skinheads had come back in and re-kindled a chorus of “God Save the Queen.”

She left them to their delight and gave a thumbs-up to the landlord. So far, so good. She stepped outside. It was close to midnight. If there was trouble she was for the chop. She went back to the jeep. The police radio was vibrant with emergency calls, reports of fights, domestic violence, car crashes and kids not come home. Until now, nothing in Fleetworth-Green. The BBC had reported that the fountains in Trafalgar Square had been lit up in blue to denote a boy. A nameless friendless girl lay dead in a morgue chiller. Was that life worth so much less? Her own heart was breaking but she was a pro. There would be justice for the memory of her tiny unsung life.