“Stay and have some fun,” he said, huskily. She could feel his erection pressing against her like a tent pole. As she tried to back away from it, the man laughed, exposing uneven yellow teeth, and squeezed her even more tightly.
“I’ve taken two Viagras and snorted a tonne of coke,” he boasted, “and I’m ready to fuck you girls, one after the other, until I break you all.”
His mates all cheered; one patted him on the back, while another passed him a half-empty bottle of Russian vodka.
He released Angela and took a long swig. “Want some…” he asked, turning to offer the bottle, only to find that she had vanished.
Angela made her way through the kitchen and left the squat by the rear entrance, knowing from experience that it would be far quicker to do that than try and get past the four drunken idiots Lola had brought back for an orgy.
A gig like that might pay well, she reflected, but you always had to work really hard for your money, doing whatever the deviants wanted for as long as they wanted. Sometimes the shagging went on all night as the girls were passed around like toys. The last time she’d participated in one of those debauchery-filled marathons, she hadn’t been able to walk properly for the best part of a week.
She emerged into Evesham Road and headed down to Portway, keeping the hood of the Parka up to ward off the wind. Walking as fast as she could, her heels clackety-clacked off the pavement like a pair of badly played castanets. As soon as she reached the main drag, Angela headed for the local mini-cab office that the girls all used. With any luck, she would be back at the flat in next to no time.
◆◆◆
Steve Bull pulled the car up outside a three-storey Victorian house with an imposing stone façade.
“Is this it?” Dillon asked, squinting into the darkness to try and work out the number.
“I think so,” Bull said. He reached into the back, where he retrieved a small torch from his jacket pocket. Unwinding his window, he switched it on and shone the weak beam of light over the street door and ivy-covered wall adjacent to it.
“Yep. This is definitely the place,” he said a moment later. Winding his window back up as quickly as he could to close out the arctic wind that battered his face, Bull turned to Dillon. “Do you want me to wait here or come in with you?” he asked.
Dillon grimaced. “You’d better come in with me,” he said. “If this old dragon is half as bad as the on-call Clerk said, I’ll need all the support I can get.”
When the Duty Clerk, a bubbly lady called Stephanie, had called Dillon back after checking the out of hours Magistrate availability, she had sounded apologetic – almost remorseful – when she’d informed him that the only person available in East London was Mrs Hilda Baxter. He’d immediately picked up on her regretful tone and asked if that was a problem.
“Not for me,” the Clerk had replied jauntily, “but she has a reputation for being a mean old troll who enjoys giving the boys in blue a really hard time.”
That didn’t sound good. “Surely she can’t be that bad?” Dillon had asked hopefully.
“Imagine a demon from the bowels of hell, but uglier and meaner.”
Dillon didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Oh dear,” he had said, wishing he’d opted to call IR and draft the briefing document instead.
“Just make sure your paperwork is mistake-free, and don’t try to bullshit her,” the helpful Clerk had advised. “That woman can spot a fib a mile off.”
Dillon alighted the car, nervously adjusted his tie and then did up the first two buttons of his Pierre Cardin suit jacket. Satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed the folder containing the warrant and information, and the other little bits he had brought along to support his application, from the back seat. Followed by Bull, he made his way along the path and knocked loudly on the door. “Well,” he said, “here goes nothing.”
He heard footsteps approaching from inside. “Wait one moment,” an authoritative voice barked.
“Doesn’t sound like she’s terribly pleased to see us,” Bull whispered.
Dillon turned and winked at him, full of bravado. “Don’t worry, as soon as I turn on the fabled Dillon charm, she’ll be putty in my hands.”
Bull groaned. “Why did you have to go and tempt fate by saying something stupid like that?”
Before Dillon could respond, a latch turned, a bolt clunked, and then the heavy wooden door slowly swung inwards, spilling light onto the doorstep where Dillon waited with bated breath to catch his first glimpse of the demon that was Hilda Baxter.
“You must be the police officers Stephanie told me about,” the diminutive woman in her sixties who answered the door said.
Dillon stared at her in open-mouthed surprise. Mrs Baxter didn’t look anything like a demon. The tiny woman was wearing a big, fluffy red dressing gown with little Beatrix Potter animal imprints, a pair of bunny rabbit slippers – complete with floppy ears – and she had her grey hair up in curlers. The eyes, which he had expected to be little black holes that sucked the life force from her victims, were warm and friendly. “Come in out of the cold,” she said and ushered them into the hall like a mother hen.
“Go straight through to the kitchen at the back,” she said, following on behind.
They traversed a long, tastefully decorated hall with a beautiful tiled floor until they came to an enormous kitchen with wood flooring. A centre island dominated
