He slid his jacket off and eased his arms and shoulders through the webbing straps. Siobhan moved close to him and assisted him to adjust it so it fitted snugly. She was only inches away from him, fussing around like a loving wife might do for a husband who was getting ready for a special occasion. He could smell her warm breath.
‘ There you go,’ she declared. ‘How does that feel? Not too tight?’
‘ Fine.’
He could see the flawless complexion, the finer than fine silky hairs.
‘ I like webbing,’ she said throatily, a smile playing on her lips. She eased her fingers around the straps of the holster, pulled herself onto tiptoe and kissed his mouth quickly, then drew away.
Henry was dazed into statuesque immobility.
She hoisted herself back up, kissed him again, and whilst doing so, sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, drawing a small squeak of pain/pleasure from him. His arms looped around her, crushing her body into his. Their groins ground together and her slinky wet tongue slid into his mouth.
It took a few seconds before reason triumphed over lust.
‘ Whoa… hold on.’ He pushed her firmly away.
‘ What’s the matter?’
‘ I’m sorry, that shouldn’t have happened.’
‘ Why? Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘ On the contrary.’ In fact the surge of pleasure he’d experienced was almost overwhelming.
‘ Because you’re a married man?’
‘ That’s one reason.’
‘ Any other?’
‘ We’re work colleagues. I’m a supervisor. Recipe for disaster. I don’t want to do anything foolish.’ Like I’ve done in the past, he did not hasten to add.
She looked disappointed, but gave him a rueful smile and nodded. ‘All right, I accept that.’ Unoffended. But before she turned away she gave him an eye-to-eye which said, in no uncertain terms, there was unfinished business here.
Henry picked up the gun and slid it into the holster — only it didn’t go in as he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised it was an upside-down holster — a type he had seen, but never used before.
He gave himself a mental warning to remember that, if he had to draw the weapon.
Otherwise he might shoot himself in the heart.
They made love twice in the following hour. The first time was fast, with little style, completely driven by desire. It lasted only minutes as they tore desperately at each other, biting, sucking, pushing, shoving, basically devouring each other in a frenzy. They came together in a tangled, panting, damp mess, then picked themselves up from the bathroom floor. Clinging tightly, not wanting to let go, they stumbled through to the main bedroom where they simply lay together, holding each other and realising their love in small murmurings.
When they were ready, the second time was much slower and considered. They explored each other, caressed, probed, rubbed and brought each other to the height of ecstasy.
They reached their second orgasm with Isa on top, riding slowly, her full breasts swinging gracefully above his face, until she felt him become harder and harder and his thrusts became more urgent. Then she ground herself onto his pelvic bone, taking him deep inside, and they both came with a long, deep climax which shook them to the core.
Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him, head buried in his chest; he stayed inside her, running his fingers up and down her spine, making her quiver delightfully.
‘ That was gorgeous,’ she said languidly, breathing in long and pleasurably through her nose.
‘ Mmm,’ he managed to reply.
They both drifted into a contented sleep until they were interrupted rudely by the shrill phone next to the bed. She rolled off him and he answered it.
It was the cops.
Bad news. Could he turn out? Now. The block of bedsits he owned near to the Pleasure Beach was burning down. People were trapped. Some could be dead. It looked like arson.
There were four fire-tenders, three police cars, a couple of ambulances and the road had been cordoned off. The noise of the engines of the tenders was deafening, a sort of roar and whine combined. The sound of radios transmitting and receiving, people shouting to each other and running all over the place simply added to the cacophony.
By the time Rider arrived the building was a shell. Massive amounts of fire and smoke damage had been caused to the ones on either side. The windows were all missing, blown out by heat and flames, and dense black smoke billowed out into the night, accompanied by the occasional flash of flame, though generally the fire was under control.
The fire brigade relentlessly pumped gallons of water into the building. Two people had been unable to get out.
They had died.
One had burned to a crisp. The other had died through smoke inhalation.
Rider pushed his way through the crowd of enraptured onlookers and ducked under the cordon tape. A uniformed cop approached him to block the way. Above the din of the incident, Rider introduced himself and asked to be directed to the Chief Fire Officer at the scene.
The cop pointed. Rider thanked him.
He trod carefully over several layers of hose pipes which lay across each other like a convention of boa constrictors.
The CFO was removing his breathing apparatus. Rider waited until he removed his face mask which left a clean area of skin around his nose, eyes and mouth. The rest of his face and neck was smoke-charred black.
‘ Deliberate,’ the CFO told Rider confidently.
‘ Can you be sure at this stage?’
‘ Yes,’ he said with authority. ‘There are several seats of fire throughout the building. It looks like whoever started it worked his, or her, way down from the upper floors, lighting fires as they descended. That’s not official yet, by the way, but I can tell. I’ve been to enough fires to know.’ He wasn’t bragging. ‘Any clue who might have done this?’
Of course I fucking have, Rider wanted to scream. He tried not to let his face mirror his thoughts. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘ Well, this is a matter for the police now. Two people dead and deliberate seats of fire. It’s a murder enquiry — as if they haven’t got enough on this week.’
Chapter Sixteen
Friday. 6 a.m. They were all in position.
Henry, Siobhan and two members of the firearms team — Dave Bevan and Jack Philpot — were ensconced very uncomfortably in the back of a surveillance van parked on St George’s Quay, Lancaster. The van was, purposely, a rather careworn Ford Transit, bearing the logo of a fictional electrical company.
All four officers were perched on narrow wooden seats in the rear of the van, squirming in an effort to keep the blood flowing to their extremities in the cramped conditions. It seemed the seats had been designed to make arses numb within minutes. They were certainly not made for comfort and relaxation.
Their combined breath condensed on the inside of the van and because it was so cold, froze in tiny globules on the metal surface. Henry guessed it was only a matter of time before stalactites formed. The heater had packed up and the extractor fan wasn’t working. The joy and glamour of surveillance work, Henry thought gloomily. He hoped that the target, Terry Anderson, would do the honour of appearing soon.
Henry looked at the small chemical toilet and speculated as to who would be the first person brave enough to
