Passion Patrol 2 - a Sexy Police Romance Suspense Novel With a Touch of Humor: Hot Cops. Hot Crime. Hot Romance. (27 page)

“Just sign here,” he said, thrusting the keys and a clipboard at her. “It’s all we’ve got spare. It was about to be scrapped. Thankfully it’s a standard driver level car. Please don’t break it.”

She walked out and surveyed the oldest Ford Fiesta in the fleet. She doubted it would be able to ram any tipper trucks. The Sergeant re-tightened his advanced-model driving gloves and marched to a waiting BMW traffic patrol car. He did about six adjustments of his seat, ten mirror checks and four looks over his shoulder before pulling away. She gave a girlie wave and made a show of polishing the Fiesta.

“I’m a little minx,” she mumbled to herself and almost cried.

A car flashed by. It was the Arrowsmith’s white Audi. At the wheel was fifteen-year-old Ashley. At a guess he was doing sixty through the thirty zone. So, their little boy was out for a spin. Doubtless the NCA team would be aware and were letting it run. If he drove the cars and the mystery semen was his, a whole new range of possibilities arose. She was happy to let her mind work on police matters. She plodded through her shift on routine reports. A stolen mower, a damaged car and two more soaked moggies occupied several hours. It was deep dusk when she took a call on her radio.

“Zulu Delta to all units. Fleetworth-Green report of suspicious male with firearm on allotments.’

“Foxtrot Golf One—what sort of weapon?”

“Informant thinks automatic rifle or machine gun.”

She listened to other units responding. India 99, the helicopter was scrambling. A tactical firearm unit was belting down from Westminster. There was no one within fifteen minutes. The allotments were right in front of her.

“Foxtrot Golf One to Zulu Delta. I’m at the scene, will update.”

“Foxtrot Golf One. Await firearms unit. Zulu Delta over.”

“Roger.”

She couldn’t be bothered to argue. The sheriff didn’t need permission from anyone. She walked into the allotments. A voice startled her. She dived behind some raspberry canes.

“He’s behind the shed.”

The unmistakable figure of Vandervell O’Brien was visible through a line of runner beans.

“I was on the way to the pub for a workings man’s pie and a pint, Comrade. It looks like a Chinese Red Army issue submachine gun.”

“Why would the Red Army be on the allotments?”

“Terrorists or reactionary forces.”

“Marrow rustlers or guerrilla French Onion Johnnies,” she suggested.

Her gut feeling was that Vandervell had already swallowed a few pints.

“Armed Police. Come out with your hands up,” she yelled.

Vandervell crouched down and prepared for oblivion.

A figure stepped out, threw his weapon to the ground and raised his hands. Shannon relaxed.

“Foxtrot Golf One. All units stand down. Gunman is late gardener. Repeat. All units stand down.”

She walked to the weapon. It was a state-of-the art high pressure water gun. She handed it back to Corduroy Man.

“Bloody cats! The density is just too high,” he said.

“So it’s you soaking the cats,” said Vandervell.

“They shit on my lettuces, they piss on my beans, they rake up my seeds, they kill all the baby birds.”

“I don’t think we have any criminal offenses,” said Shannon.

Vandervell had thrown his arm around Corduroy Man’s shoulder.

“Your secret is safe with me, Comrade, but I’ll be relying on you for support on any socialist matters before the parish council.”

“I’m sorry about any trouble, Officer.”

“No worries. I’m allergic to cats,” said Shannon. “I won’t be making a big announcement about this. Let’s just be discreet, eh?”

Vandervell walked her back to the car.

“Shannon, don’t forget my offer of casting you as Boudicca, queen of the British. Selena’s mad for the part as the lesbian slave. Just say the word and I’ll fix the screen test.”

“Thanks, Vandervell. You’ve given me a bit of fun here and I needed it. You never know, I just might take you up on that offer.”

Her shift was over. She’d even solved the moggie mystery. She wasn’t ready to go back to the lonely house. She drove up through the village to the gates of the Manor. It was dark but she could see the outline of the building against the London sky to the north. She was sure there was a vehicle at the front entrance. She couldn’t resist taking a look. She parked the police car and walked up the drive. Soon enough she picked out Jasmine’s Range Rover. She carried on until she reached it. She put her hand on the bonnet. It was more or less cold. It had been there for a few hours.

She returned to her car and drove home. Now she had an early morning mission. She made a sandwich and watched a late night disaster movie. So, the bitch was there. Tomorrow was a rostered rest day. Jasmine had her rendezvous with Gary Woods. The heat of her rage had begun to chill to a cold stone. There was a police tactic that usually worked. Attack when your enemy is in bed. She had a plan.

It was 6:30 a.m. when the Range Rover moved off. Shannon watched from the trees near the gate. Jasmine was alone and obviously heading for London. The greedy cow had probably spent the night with Spencer and was entertaining her lover after her horse ride. A knot of hatred tightened inside her. Why had she come to the Manor? It can only have been at Spencer’s request. She wondered if Jasmine also entertained Prince Xavier with her intimate assets. Perhaps his Royal Highness should know a little more of her. On balance she thought they deserved each other. But just why the hell had she come to the House?

At 9 a.m. she phoned Gary Woods.

“Can you talk?”

“Yeah, what’s going on? Jasmine called me to say she was away comforting that family she cares for. Some low-life woman on the make has let them down.”

“She’s a born carer. I need your help, Gary. I need you to say yes to everything I ask.”

“Yes.”

“OK. It’s today you get together right?”

“Yeah, about 3:30. It’s a penthouse at Canary Wharf. It’s called Pan Peninsula Square. She has the top two floors. It cost her seven million.”

“What’s the access?”

“Door codes—07 JAZZ 24601.”

“What about the front door?”

“Deadlock and intercom.”

“I need you to act normally. I need you to give her a right session.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Give her a bit of her own blackmail medicine. It’ll be a threesome but I’ll just be watching.”

“I’ll do as you ask, but please don’t trick me.”

“Gary, this’ll fix her up believe me. Keep her on top of the bed if you can. I want to get clear shots of her.”

“You ain’t gonna kill her?”

“Nah, she’s just going on video that’s all. How does it work with you two? Does she arrive with you?”

“Today she’s gonna be there already. I’ve got a key. She’ll be in bed. She likes to play with her toys to get her in the mood. There’s a palm tree thing in a pot outside. I’ll leave a key in there.”

“Call me as you go in. How long before there’s hot action?”

“More or less straight away, just the horse ride gets the pot boiling.”

“I’ll be close by. Get her occupied and I’ll do the rest.”

“Maybe a threesome wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Your dick’s gonna give you a life of strife.”

“You could just be right,” he said laughing.

She rang off. Basically he was a cheeky rogue who’d been hijacked by his sperm. It was hard not to like him on one level but just as hard not to despise his unfeeling infidelity. A certain type of woman always fell for these guys. A certain type of woman like Shannon would hang him up in public by his nuts, call the press and post the biggest ever viral video on YouTube.

She ate some breakfast. Regardless of all her sorrow she had to function at full power. So, the bitch told Gary she had to come down to give comfort. That must mean she knew of the break up. Only Spencer could have told her. Was her lover a secret Gary Woods? In her heart she knew he was hers. In her heart, soul, and every place in between she knew she was his. Her sole target was Jasmine. With the shark dead on the pier, everyone could come back to the beach.

The phone rang.

“Shannon, I wanted you to know the semen on the girl does have a genetic link to Ron Arrowsmith. I’ll bet my pension it belongs to their son, Ashley,” said Superintendent Tom Mitchell.

“Ashley—that fits. I saw the little sod out doing a boy racer act in that Audi yesterday. He’s got no license at his age.”

“Yeah, I’ve been watching the surveillance pictures.”

“I guessed you would. Guv, maybe I could ask a favor of you? Are you in your office today?”

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind a chat about a project I’m starting at the Yard. Pop over for a brew.”

So, the net tightened on the Arrowsmiths. If nothing else that boy could be arrested on suspicion of murder. That would focus the minds of the loving parents. She dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a light Primark jacket with pockets. It wasn’t going to be a day for makeup. She drove the creaking Fiesta to Croydon and took the train to the NCA Headquarters on the South Bank. Tom Mitchell fixed her a cup of strong tea.

“Things are looking good. We’re gonna nail these bastards,” he said.

She felt a wave of pride. This was her place where she had some control and self-respect.

“I’ve checked out your file, Shannon. It’s quite a document. We can fast track you through to Detective Sergeant. I want you for a squad looking at illegal immigrants working as slaves in London. The operation you kicked off has left us with a lot of scope beyond the immediate inquiry. It will be a bit more of a desk job based at Scotland Yard. There’ll be enough action I’m sure.”

He looked at her from under his wild ginger brows.

“I’m so proud you’ve asked me, Guv.”

“That’s a yes in my book,” he said with a smile.

She had no will to argue with him. Before Spencer this would have been her dream and the happiest day of her life. Maybe that moment on the launch heading into Venice when he’d told her he loved her had robbed this moment of its rightful place in her life.

“Shannon....”

Tom Mitchell’s voice seemed a long way away. She hurtled back from Venice.

“Guv—I’m sorry. It was a shock. I never thought anyone would want me in that way,” she said, glad she could explain herself without contradiction.

“Well, I’ll be just as proud to have you on the team.”

“Guv, I wonder if you could help me with a small job. I’ve got a case of perverting the course of justice. I need to be wired up for video and have a good camera. It’s nothing to do with operation Kakkada and I won’t be treading on any toes I promise.”

Tom Mitchell laughed. “I’m beginning to understand some of the comments on your file. If they’re up against you I’m sure some toes are gonna get hurt. Just tell me honestly. Is it legal?”

“Totally in pursuit of truth and justice, Sir.”

“Sir? Christ anyone would think I was your boss! OK, I’ll give you a note. Get across to the Yard and see this guy. He’ll kit you up.”

He scribbled a note and wrote a name and department number on the envelope. Half an hour later she’d crossed Lambeth Bridge and made her way to Counter Terrorism Command. By 2 p.m. she was wired up for sound and vision. A microscopic brooch provided a wide angle lens and the pictures were transmitted Wi-Fi to a receiver in her pocket. In her other pocket was a Cannon compact camera set to auto flash and continuous shutter while the button was pushed. Her first stop was to Gray’s Westminster camera shop where she bought her own memory cards. Then she strolled across St James’s Park to Green Park tube station to pick up the Jubilee line. She had time to spare at Canary Wharf and sipped an espresso in Costa Coffee in Cabot Place. The taste took her back at once to Venice. How long ago all that seemed now. She could never go back to how she had felt then. She knew that what she was doing was partly just out of her own spite. It was just as important for Ben. She focused in on the mission ahead of her. Nothing was ever certain. She would be committing an act of burglary with intent to obtain evidence to blackmail another person. If things went wrong, she’d be on her way to prison.

At 3 p.m. she wandered across the South Quay footbridge towards Jasmine’s penthouse. Huge chrome and glass buildings rose around her. She was crushed under the merciless weight of corporate money. The human being was nothing here—less than an ant in a pine forest. An ant had a place and an identity in its underground nest. Humans could only prostrate themselves against the pitiless concrete floor. She was nervous, like an assassin before a hit perhaps. At 3:25 p.m. the building was in sight. At 3:28 p.m. her iPhone announced a message. She steadied her breathing and her nerve.

“Key in pot. I’m trusting you.”

She walked smartly to the entrance, punched in the door code, smiled broadly at the liveried concierge and entered the lift. She selected the 45th floor. Nothing moved. She spotted a key pad and entered the same code. The doors closed and the lift hurtled towards the sky. Phew! She’d been lucky. She really must give Jasmine some security advice.