Downstairs the night was young. At half ten, the doors only opened half an hour earlier, and this dirty pig was already into the house for ten grand. Instead of going straight to the cop’s table, she visited the bar and poured two glasses of whisky, one for him and one for herself. It would loosen him up.
“There she is, my girl, Melodi,” the cop said, his moustache twitching. He put his arm around her waist while sat on a high stool, his hand stopping on her arse. “The night started off well, and just keeps getting better. How about it, beautiful? Are you going to spot me fifty? You know I’ll pay you back.”
She smiled. “If my man says he’s good for it, I guess he is.” She smiled. “But before we get to that, I need to see you upstairs in my office.”
Taking his hand, she guided him up to her office, where she opened the door for him and followed him inside. He slammed the door and pinned her against the wood, kissing her neck, his hands all over her. She gasped.
With prowess, Melodi forced him onto the sofa in the middle of the room, where she pulled his jeans down around his ankles and sat on his lap, kissing him, deeper each time. His hands were under her dress, pleasing her. “This is the last time.”
“Where have I heard that before?”
Melodi rode him to the finish line, perspiration beading on her brow. She cuddled him, as she tried to regain her composure. Not being married had its perks. It meant she could take whoever she wanted up to her office. She had to be careful of her overbearing, psychotic cousins, who hated her sleeping with British guys; they wanted her to find a wealthy Turkish man. “What’s the matter with you tonight anyway? You shouldn’t be this drunk so early. How do you expect to beat the house like this?”
“I had a bad day on the stocks, nothing major.”
“Oh!” She didn’t care about him. Melodi used him for sex every now and then. He was a good-looking guy, fit, muscular. “What happened?”
“Ah, nothing for you to worry about. I’m still good for the fifty.”
If this pig clocked up a huge debt tonight, she would treat Zuccari the way she treated all customers indebted to her, harshly. If he couldn’t pay up, she would set her cousins on him, telling them he’d taken advantage of her. “Is fifty going to be enough? Or would you like to double it?”
22
Henry Curtis lay on his couch in his fabulous dressing gown, with the lights off and the huge television on in the background. He’d had it tuned to Sky News all day, in the hope of finding out more about his Colin’s murder. Formally identifying his husband’s body earlier was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.
And now he was conflicted. He’d done nothing but argue with Colin since his husband had confessed to his gambling debts with that Turkish bitch, Melodi. There he was, about to extricate her from their lives by buying her out of Accord FM, and Colin went and got himself in the shit. Of course Henry bailed him out, yet again, but he told Colin it was the last time. Henry knew it wouldn’t be.
A news presenter came on talking about the murders. Henry looked over at the screen. Two female detectives were pictured walking to their white Peugeot. He would have still been there at that time. The shorter, tanned detective he met, and the taller white detective, but they had face masks on. He recognised the tanned detective as Amanda Hayes; she’d been on television a lot. If anyone could find Colin’s murderer, she would.
Henry cursed when he heard the buzzer go. Ignoring it, he lay back and covered his eyes with his arm, wanting to sleep yet unable. Even a tumbler of whisky had not helped. All he wanted was to fall into the abyss, never to be seen again. Life wasn’t worth living without his Colin.
The news turned to a drugs seizure in the capital, during which a dealer was shot dead. According to the news presenter, a member of SCO19 had been suspended, pending a review of the siege. The Metropolitan Police retrieved five million in cash, and blocks of cocaine with a street value of two and a half million, not to mention recovering illegal weapons and arresting those involved.
The front gate buzzed again. Henry sat up, took a mouthful of whisky, and set the tumbler back on the table, hoping whoever was at the gates would disappear. At the third buzz, he stood and listened. “Bugger off!”
After the fourth buzz, his temper frayed. Henry strode out of the lounge, into the hallway, where the control panel for the doorbell camera was located. He jabbed the microphone button. “What!”
“Metropolitan Police, sir.”
Henry stared at the screen: two guys sat in a car outside his gate. The driver held up what looked like a police warrant card, not that he could read it. He introduced himself and his colleague. Henry didn’t listen to their names. “Where are the female cops? Hayes, where’s Amanda Hayes? She’s investigating Colin’s case.”
“Detective Inspector Hayes sent us to keep an eye on you, sir. It seems your husband might not be the intended target, you are. We’re here to see that no harm comes to you, Mr Curtis. Would you let us in, please?”
He had to think about it first. Something felt off. “Can you hold your ID closer to the camera, please? I can’t read it.” His visitor got out of his car and held the identification
