Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (5 page)

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“There’s nothing better, is there,” she added, with another
smile.

Chase finished the last of his steak and pushed his plate
aside. “That was wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Inspector. I said you should trust me,
didn’t I?”

He nodded again. “So when did you and Bryn Lewis last meet?”

“This afternoon, Inspector. That was why I was a few minutes
late.” She reached across the table and touched his arm for a moment. “I
apologise.”

Chase looked down, and noticed the identical bold silver rings
she wore on the three middle fingers of each hand. “That’s quite all right,” he
replied.

At that moment, a man emerged from the Gents. He pulled a
phone from his pocket and furtively grabbed a photo as he passed their table.

Chase was chained face down to a four-poster bed, naked and
spread-eagled, a bolster thrust underneath his stomach and a studded leather
collar buckled tightly around his neck. My Lady Perdita towered over him,
encased in a glistening black sleeveless cat-suit, and brandishing a vicious
cat o’ nine tails.

She hauled his head up by the collar and bent close to him,
so close that he could smell the rubber of her costume. As she did so, he
glimpsed the tiny blue and yellow butterfly tattoo above the cuff of one
scarlet leather gauntlet.

“I’m going to thrash you to within an inch of your life, you
worm,” she hissed in his ear. “And after each stroke, you will thank me, and
ask for another.”

Chase mumbled something unintelligible.

“What’s that, you piece of shit?” she demanded.

“And if I don’t?” he managed to murmur, his voice hoarse
with anticipation and terror.

She smiled, that broad, imperious smile he remembered from
the restaurant, and licked her gleaming carmine lips. “I’ve got a surprise for
you,” she replied. “A very nice surprise. Want to find out what it is?”

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Do you trust me?”

He nodded.

“Completely and utterly?”

He nodded again.

“Then do as you’re told!” she snapped, pushing his head back
down on to the pillow. She stepped back and raised the whip above her head, her
face exultant. As she brought it crashing down on his naked back, her face
morphed into Amy Birkdale’s.

Chase screamed.

Green Onions
snapped him back to reality with a jolt.
He sat upright in bed and groped in the dark for his mobile.

PC Blackaby didn’t beat about the bush. “Better come quick,
Sir,” he said. “There’s been a murder.”

“Where?”

“Chiltern Park, Sir.
Chenies
Close.”

“On my way,” replied Chase, swinging his feet on to the
carpet. “Oh, and Blackaby?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Send a car round to pick me up, will you? I’m probably
still well over the limit.”

“All right, Sir. Neville’s just about to set off now. He’ll
be with you in... what’s that, Nev? About five minutes, he says.”

*

Blackaby was as good as his word. By the time Chase had
composed himself, thrown on some clothes, and collected his belongings, an
Astra patrol car had appeared in the street outside, its lights flashing. Chase
locked the front door of his flat, ran down the stairs, and climbed into the
front passenger seat.

“Hello, Sir,” grinned PC Neville. “Had a good evening, did
you?”

“Very pleasant, thank you.”

“Who was she, then?”

Chase decided not to rise to the bait. “Blackaby mentioned
something about a murder,” he said instead.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Neville, the smirk gone from his face
and his voice. “A neighbour saw her office door was open and called us.”

“Her office?”

“Yes. She used the basement of one of the big houses in
Chenies
Close as an office.”

“Did she live there?”

“No, Sir. We don’t know where she lived. She didn’t have any
ID on her. Not that we could find, anyway.”

The Astra drew up outside a terrace of villas that curved
around the turning area at the end of the cul-de-sac. Chase clambered out of
the patrol car and looked around him. It didn’t take him long to spot the scene
of the crime: only one basement was lit up, and he could only see camera
flashes from one basement.

He ran down the steps and found a burly, balding constable
waiting for him, his face pale.

“What have we got, Blackaby?” Chase asked, trying to ignore
the stench of fresh vomit.

“Through there, Sir,” the constable said. “She’s lying on an
old bed in there.”

“What happened to her?”

“Hit over the head, then strangled, I think. The pathologist
is in with her now.”

“Been dead long?”

“Dunno, Sir.”

“Who found the body?”

“Couple of blokes from the flat upstairs, Sir. They were
coming back from a night out with their girlfriends when they saw the light was
on and the door open. They came inside, and found... it.”

“Where are they now?”

“In their flat. Ground floor. I told them all to wait for
you, Sir.”

The door behind Blackaby opened and the pathologist
appeared, snapping off her rubber gloves and removing the hood of her sky blue
body suit.

“All done,” she declared, running her hands through her short
blonde hair. Then she noticed Chase, fixed him with her pale blue eyes, and
smiled coolly. “How’s it going, Al?”

“Hello, Andrea,” replied Chase, flustered. “What’s
happened?”

“Victim is a woman, white, mid-thirties. One blow to the
head, then strangled.”

“That’s what I said,” whispered Blackaby.

Chase ignored him. “Time of death?”

“No more than two hours ago, probably. The body’s still warm
and rigor hasn’t set in yet.”

“Sexual?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“That’s a mercy, at least,” Chase said. “OK to go in there
now?”

Andrea Greenaway smiled broadly. “Knock yourself out, Al.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Chase, trying and failing not to inhale
her musky perfume as he squeezed past her.

“Oh, Al,” Andrea called after him.

He turned. “Yes?”

“When are you going to take me out for dinner? You owe me,
you know.”

Chase gaped at her, then noticed the ironic smile on her
face, and heard Blackaby and Neville chortling. Blushing, he looked away.

He found himself in a large room, dominated by an oversized
double bed. Stout metal rings were bolted to the bedstead at regular intervals.
Piled on top of the bed were cardboard filling boxes.

On top of the boxes was something covered with a flaccid
plastic sheet. It took Chase a few moments to realise that it was the dead
woman’s body. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and began to pull back the
sheet for a closer look. The first thing he saw were her outstretched arms,
handcuffed to the bedstead, and he was not surprised to see a tiny blue and
yellow butterfly tattooed to the inside of her right wrist, just below the
point where the handcuffs cut into her flesh.

He lowered the sheet further. The left hand side of her face
was pale and unblemished. The right cheek was smashed almost beyond
recognition. Red shards of brick stuck to the edges of the wound, he noticed,
his stomach churning. Her neck was a mass of bruises, and her white, short
sleeved cashmere sweater was smeared with congealed blood. He looked away and
took several deep breaths.

After a respectful pause, he covered her face again and
began to inspect the room. The walls and ceiling were covered with thick,
perforated tiles, only partially hidden by crimson velvet drapery. A cast iron
candelabrum stood in each corner, and a block and tackle dangled limply from a
substantial beam overhead. Behind an ornamental screen at one end of the room
was a red velvet chaise longue, covered with a semi-transparent polythene
sheet. Opposite was an upright bentwood chair, covered in a thick layer of
dust.

Next to the screen was a large rosewood wardrobe. Chase
opened it and found a selection of leather and PVC clothes hanging inside,
together with a long ermine coat. A collection of viciously high-heeled boots
and shoes shared the base of the wardrobe with a metal toolbox and two large
black cardboard boxes. A leather bullwhip, a riding crop, and a fraying cane
hung from the hook on the inside of one door.

Chase lifted the first cardboard box out and lifted the lid.
It contained a tangle of stockings, bras, suspender belts, and knickers, of
varying degrees of laciness, but all deepest black. The second box seemed to
contain only black tissue paper, but when he separated it he found two corsets,
one in black satin, the other in red patent leather, but both steel-ribbed and
unyielding. How did she manage to lace them up by herself? he wondered,
replacing the lid and setting the two boxes aside. He lifted the toolbox out of
the wardrobe, laid it on top of a pile of file boxes, and flipped the catches
open. Inside were the tools of My Lady’s trade, the unguents and the
implements, the purpose of some of which Chase could only guess.

He replaced the toolbox and the boxes in the wardrobe,
closed the doors, and returned to the entrance hall. Blackaby and Greenaway
broke off chatting as he emerged, but not before he caught the conspiratorial
smile on her face.

“So what happened here, do you think, Andrea,” he asked.
“Any sign of a struggle?”

She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Looks as though she
answered the door, the caller smashed her in the face with a brick, then
dragged her in there and strangled her.”

“And you know all this because...?”

“There’s blood on the doormat, and a trail of blood leading
from the front door into the, er, bedroom.”

“And the brick?”

“Constable Blackaby found it.”

“When he went outside to puke!” added Neville, grinning.

“You OK, Blackaby?” asked Chase.

“Yes, thanks,” he sighed. “You never really get used to it,
do you, Sir?”

Chase shook his head wearily. “Where is it now?” he asked.
“The brick, I mean.”

“Still out there,” Blackaby replied. “We didn’t touch it. Do
you want me to bag it for you?”

“No thanks. Let’s leave it for Scene of Crime. Where the
hell are they, anyway?”

“I called them right after I rang you, Sir. They should be
here any moment.”

“Good.” Chase turned back to Andrea Greenaway. “Could it
have been a crime of passion, do you think?”

“Maybe. That blow to her face would have taken some
strength. And it doesn’t look like a professional job, that’s for sure.”

“How do you mean?”

Greenaway shrugged. “Well, the bruising around the neck
looks pretty clumsy, for one thing. If she hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed
she could probably have got up and walked away.”

“Being smashed in the face with a brick probably didn’t
help, either.”

She nodded gravely. “True, Al. Quite true.”

Chase turned back to Blackaby. “Can you get those cuffs off
her, please,” he asked.

“What about Scene of Crime?” Blackaby protested. “Shouldn’t
we wait for them?”

“You’ve taken photos, haven’t you, Andrea?”

“Yes, but…”

“Right. I want those cuffs off her. Now!”

Blackaby took a deep breath as if to argue, but then thought
better of it. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled, as he headed back into the bedroom.

Chase continued his tour of inspection of the flat. It didn’t
take long. At the far end of the hallway was a utility room, with a double
sink, a washer-dryer, a kettle, and a fridge containing several bottles of
Veuve
Cliquot
La Grande Dame
champagne
and a half-full litre container of Waitrose semi-skimmed milk. A cupboard
contained china mugs, tea and coffee, sugar, and an opened bottle of mouthwash.
Next to the utility room was a large wet room, the walls covered in iridescent
dark blue tiles, with a toilet, bidet, twin hand-basins, and an
expensive-looking black and chrome power shower. An array of lotions and
potions stood proudly on a high glass shelf. Attached to the walls were a
number of substantial grab handles.

That left the room on the opposite side of the hall to the
dungeon. It was kitted out as an office, with a large pine desk, a black
leather rotating chair, and an
anglepoise
lamp. Chase
noticed, with a pang, her white cashmere cardigan draped over the back of the
chair. On the desk was a small key, threaded on to a fine silver chain.

“Blackaby!” called Chase.

A few moments later PC Blackaby appeared in the doorway.
“Now what?” he asked.

“Got those cuffs off her yet?”

“No, Sir.”

Chase smiled wryly as he handed Blackaby the key. “This
might help,” he said.

“Thanks,” mumbled Blackaby, and went on his way.

Chase looked around the study. A shelf on the far wall
contained a small selection of reference books and a wireless router, the
lights flickering. Underneath the shelf was a small but solid safe. The safe
door was locked and there was no sign that it had been forced. Next to it stood
a tall, beige metal filing cabinet. Chase tried the drawers. Again, the cabinet
was locked. And again, there was no sign that anyone had tried to force it.

He returned to the hallway. Greenaway was in a corner,
murmuring into her mobile phone, and Neville was leaning idly against the wall.
When he saw Chase appear he attempted, rather half-heartedly, to stand to
attention.

Chase waved a hand at him dismissively. “Where’s her
computer?” he asked.

“What?” replied Neville.

“You heard. There’s an internet thing in there...”

“You mean a modem, Sir? Or a router?” Neville almost managed
to conceal the scorn in his voice.

“You know what I mean! Why would she have that unless she
had a computer? And where’s her printer, come to that?”

Blackaby appeared in the bedroom doorway, and the two
constables looked blankly at one another. “Never saw one,” Neville grunted,
eventually.

“What about a laptop bag?

“No, Sir.”

“A briefcase? A handbag? Anything like that?”

“No, Sir.”

Chase turned on his heel, returned to the office, and tried
each desk drawer handle in turn. One side proved to be a cupboard, occupied by
a compact HP laser printer, the drawer fronts dummies.

The top drawer on the opposite side contained stationery: a
blank notebook, a role of Sellotape, and a selection of pens and pencils. The
middle drawer was filled to overflowing with old mice, network cables, and the
like. Chase upended the drawer on to the desk and found an old PC keyboard, but
no disks or memory sticks. The bottom drawer contained a box of tissues, a
wizened apple, a bottle of contact lens fluid, a pack of tampons, and a small
plastic box.