Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (24 page)

“Then it’s forever,” she said.

The day was a blur of water, air, officials, limousines, and goodbyes. They parted at the airport as Spencer had to dash to his London office. His plan was to go straight to the Chelsea house of Saskia’s parents, Sir Rupert and Lady Spofforth as soon as he finished work. He would be there with Ben for the weekend.

By 4 p.m. she was alone in the police house. She checked her in-box. Thunderbolt the pony had pillaged the asparagus on the allotments. Two more cat soakings had been reported to the parish council. There was an e-mail from Detective Superintendent Mitchell.

“Briefing on operation Kakkada (it means July in the Khmer language) Monday 5th August at HQ of new National Crime Agency in Lambeth. All squads and involved officers to attend. Kick off 10:30. No uniforms regardless of rostered duty. Don’t be late!”

So, things had certainly moved on. The NCA had come in on the job. Monday couldn’t come soon enough. She called Mel.

“You still OK for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, you still loved up with that guy?”

“You still loved up with that other guy?”

“Yeah, but I need your straight stuff too. You’re my beard, Sugar.”

“You happy, Mel?”

“Yup, but happy today’s always chasing ever-after.”

“You nailed it, dude. Can two insecure people counsel each other?”

“Not sure. You can never rely on anything.”

“Mine’s a hot Madras curry,” she said.

“You’re a Jalfrezi girl.”

“I’m in a hot love. I need a big fire. I’ll fix the beers.”

She smiled. She could tell he was happy and he was also very right. If you’re happy today you’re going to be chasing that ever-after feeling. For all that had happened, she was less than certain of her position. She was still a little poor girl who didn’t dare dream her Christmas dreams. She sent Spencer a text.

“Love you my hero bear xxxx.”

It took him twelve minutes to reply. Yes, she’d become some stupid kid timing it.

“Love you with all my heart xxxx.”

God, he was so formal. How that formality warmed her. He was so solid and old-school polite.

“It’s not your heart. You gave it to me remember xxxx

“Then you already know what’s in it xxxx.”

OK, it had taken him only two minutes to reply. She felt secure for now. She just had to stop this. Ahead of her lay a weekend of routine police work in Fleetworth-Green. Could she be bothered to cook? Last night she’d dined at the fabulous restaurant in the Hotel Metropole in Venice with a handsome aristocrat. Tonight she walked to the village stores, chose a frozen ready meal of fisherman’s pie and found some frozen peas in the top of the fridge. She just had to get a grip! At least she was adding the peas. She made a pot of Yorkshire Gold tea. Venice had everything the human soul could crave. But there was nothing on this earth like a proper brew and an early night.

Without a car, she had no choice but to cycle. She needed to tone up. She knew that if the garage sergeant got his way, she would never have another police vehicle again. By the time she sat down with Mel on Saturday night for her curry, she’d ridden thirty miles. She’d seen the owners of eight soaked cats, taken a report of a lost teacup pig called Orwell and won a bike race through the village with a cheeky teenager who tried to burn her off on his BMX. The Arrowsmith family were in residence. Both the Chrysler and the Audi cars moved in and out. For sure, there would be trackers already fixed to them. By the end of Sunday she’d spotted most of the observation teams. There was a London taxi, an ice cream van and a couple of motorbikes. From what she could see, the National Crime Agency had committed whatever resources it would take to do the job. Monday’s briefing couldn’t come soon enough.

Spencer called three times a day. How could he have turned her life upside down in this way? When she heard his voice she longed for him. She’d never wanted the security of a man. Until him she would have resented anyone trying to offer such a thing. He wasn’t due back until late on Sunday evening. She called him.

“I need to get to Croydon for about 9 o’clock Monday morning. It’s a long bike ride and I’ll be dressed up for big biz,” she said.

“I’ll be there at eight. I can’t really talk from here but everything’s gone wonderfully. Everyone’s on our side.”

“That’s lovely,” she said, wondering if everyone meant ... everyone.”

“I love you. Tomorrow I must talk very seriously with you about the future.”

“I love you with all my honey. And my jar is warm and overflowing, my hugga bear,” she said.

She sorted out her blue suit and some mid-heel blue shoes. She dusted her briefcase and put in a pen and some paper. She phoned her mum and dad and went to bed. Without him, some flame had gone out. Indeed, he wanted to talk of the future. She couldn’t imagine a future without him. He had talked of her leaving the police and she knew that she would if that’s what he wanted. But who or what would she be? This police life was her identity. What would she find beyond that in herself? Was there anything outside that persona? They would talk and she would see more clearly. For now she couldn’t sleep. She ached for his presence and his touch. She focused on his cock pulsing his cum into her. She was kissing his lips and he was groaning her name. God, she was wet. There was more than enough honey for tomorrow and she could tease up his arousal at her naughty girl confession. Maybe he was thinking of her and was letting go, oh God yes, letting go with her filling his being as he was filling her right now, coming in her. Yes—right now.

She dreamed of airline staff calling her “Contessa.” She wore the diamond necklace. She lounged in the state limousine Bentley as his handsome face bent to her lips in a thrilling kiss. If she wanted to resist, her time was running out. Spencer sang Elvis. Her belly and nectar pulled in the buzzing words of the song. Her mind swirled through walkways of urban graffiti, piss-stench, and concrete. Blacks and whites jeered at her. Half her old mates were drugged or whores and several were dead. Jasmine led Prince Xavier like a horse with a harness around his head. Her panties were reduced to smoking holes as she ground herself wildly into his thigh on the dance floor. The death mottled face of a dead girl stared horrifically open-eyed from a ditch as a bird sang. The barrels of a shotgun came out from a truck door.

The dawn was a mercy. She showered and researched the history of Montenegro and its royal family. This world was an old place, constantly re-translated by new minds. Venice had given her a taste for a deeper knowledge. Maybe there was a different role for her. After Venice or love, no one is ever quite the same. The combination of the two was as close to orgasm as two words could get. Two lovers could close the distance completely, and the sooner the better.

Spencer arrived at eight o’clock in the faithful Land Rover. She trotted happily to him and kissed him but held back a little.

“If I can’t get my hands all over you, I’d rather save it up,” she said.

“I think that’s a tantric hello,” he said beaming a happy smile. “You look formidable.”

“I’m a real mover and shaker. I guess I ought to tell you what’s going on. Venice was a long way from cops and robbers.”

For now she was glad to stick to police work. She’d been pampered yet powerless in his realm. Now she needed this assertion of herself in her own place and the respect it conferred. Once the big conversation began, nothing would be the same. She filled him in on all the new aspects of the case. He listened attentively.

“P.C. Flowers and I used to discuss the occasional problem with litter and that wretched pony on the allotments. Now we have dead bodies, drug barons, and slave trafficking. That’s without pub fights, unarmed combat with killer dogs, and gangs of thugs in tipper trucks bullying old ladies,” he said wryly.

“I joined the job to make a difference, Sir. That’s what I always say to the promotion panel.”

He chuckled and shook his head.

“I think of you, and I just long for you, Shannon. You’ve certainly made a difference.”

“Just doing my duty, Sir,” she said, kissing his lips quickly and jumping out at East Croydon station.

“Tonight—we talk,” he said.

“Tonight for sure. I love you,” she replied.

She’d allowed herself plenty of time. More than anything she wanted to step back into her own life where she knew not just the ropes but also the buttons and the levers. The train rattled into London. The backs and fronts of red brick houses, graffiti-scarred concrete, High Streets of red buses and billboards almost reached out in welcome. This environment would always be her home. She changed trains at Clapham Junction. On the road outside she watched a police car on blues and twos swerving through the traffic on an emergency call. The driver was a guy younger than her. Wherever he was going he would be jumping out alone and facing whatever it was. She was proud of him. She twitched with her desire to be there too.

She took a connection beyond her stop to Waterloo. She wanted to walk alone and feel the buzz of London. Tourists crowded Westminster Bridge, human faces being fixed forever on photos against the background of Big Ben as it boomed out the ten strokes of the hour. She paused to study the Houses of Parliament on the other side of the surging Thames. This was her city and it thrilled her almost like love. The late July sun was warm. On Lambeth Bridge open-top buses criss-crossed with multi lingual commentaries clashing. Black cabs U-turned on Albert Embankment. If ever she was eaten by cannibals, this scene would be the flavor of her meat.

The briefing room at the NCA was huge but there was scarcely room to move. She looked around for any face she knew but there was no one. She sat down beside a big tough-looking guy who wore a gold earring and a mass of rings. She guessed he was a crime squad or Sweeney cop. Just maybe he smelled of whiskey. She smiled. He didn’t. Superintendent Mitchell opened the meeting. He outlined the circumstances of the girl’s body. There was more detail from the post-mortem examination.

“Tissue analysis shows exposure to both cocaine and cannabis. There is a trace of semen on her clothing and in her upper digestive tract. You can guess what she did shortly before her death. We have no match on that semen. Death was caused by impact with a roadside telegraph pole. Basically she fell, jumped, or was pushed from a vehicle. We have linked her to a house nearby. Some of you will know good old Ron and Sylvie Arrowsmith. We have deployed observation teams and we are building a picture of our targets’ activities. I’m going to hand over to Chief Inspector Pond for an update.”

There was a pause and some shuffling. Shannon already had a picture of that girl’s last experience of life. Clearly she’d performed a blow job. She had a definite suspect and a way of narrowing the odds of identifying him. The chief inspector dealt with details of different teams and responsibilities. Then he moved to what they knew up until now.

“We’ve nine addresses so far used for the cultivation of skunk weed. The gardeners are trafficked illegals—basically slaves. Some get moved into prostitution, others into kitchen work and domestic service. They’re tricked into paying to get here thinking it will be a better life. Every visitor to these addresses is being identified and more and more areas of activity are being discovered. We have three hundred individuals to look at. We have a transport company run by Arrowsmith using freezer trucks. These trucks operate all over Europe. There are links to other serious criminal networks. If we get this right ladies and gents, this will be one of the biggest ever busts in police history. Some of you will know Ron Arrowsmith killed a colleague of ours and got off at court. This time let’s nail these bastards!”

There was a murmur around the room and even a bit of applause. Christ, she had started something. Various speakers went on to deal with logistics and resources. A massive operation was under way. She was so glad she hadn’t dived in alone. Perhaps she had learned something. She was nothing but a uniformed patrol cop. When the meeting broke for lunch she grabbed Tom Mitchell.

“Shannon, see what you’ve done,” he said.

“Guv, that semen. I’ve got a suspect and we won’t have his DNA.”

“Really....”

“The Arowsmith’s have a son, Ashley. He’s a right little shit. It might be worth checking the DNA to see if the suspect is related to Ron.”

“I’ll get on it. Maybe we’ve done that....”

Shannon made to move away. He took her arm.

“Remember, when this all unfolds you should be on the way up, Shannon. I’d like you as a Detective Sergeant at Scotland Yard today if I could. You’re a top officer.”

“That’s so kind of you to say, Guv.”

“No more than you deserve. For now just play the simple village cop.”

“I’ve had eight soaked cats just this weekend.”

“Great. Tell the local press. Get a few snaps of drowned moggies. If you can’t get one to order, just soak one yourself.”

“And there’s a miniature pig gone missing.”

“Even better. Press love stories about police and pigs.”

She decided to skip lunch. She was bound to eat luxuriously with Spencer later. She wanted to call him. Would he want the news that the Detective Superintendent wanted her promoted and working at Scotland Yard? Why, oh, why did life come in chunks? She still saw no familiar face. She found a window sill and flicked through the briefing file. At the back was a list of personnel. Her eyes flew to a name. PC Gary Woods was listed as seconded from VK. She had to think. Victor Kilo wasn’t her patch. It was Kingston, the place where Ben was arrested. This was her man. She asked a few random cops if they knew him with no luck. A couple of minutes later she heard a voice.