In spite of himself, Tony began to feel the stirrings of interest. She was good, no two ways about it. Most of the women he’d heard on the chatlines had sounded stale and bored, their responses predictable and stereotypical. Nothing in their conversations had aroused anything other than scientific interest in him. But Angelica was different. For one thing, she sounded like she meant it.
She moaned softly. ‘God, I’m wet,’ she breathed. ‘But you can’t touch me yet, you’ve got to wait. Just lie back, that’s a good boy. Oh, I love to undress you. I’ve got my hands under your shirt, my fingers are running over your chest, stroking you, touching you, feeling your nipples under my fingers. God, you’re wonderful,’ she sighed.
‘That’s nice,’ Tony said, enjoying the caress of her voice.
‘That’s just the beginning. Now I’m straddling you, unbuttoning your shirt. I’m leaning over you, my nipples inside the silk brushing against your chest. Oh, Anthony!’ her voice exclaimed in pleasure. ‘You really are pleased to see me, aren’t you? You’re hard as a rock underneath me. Oh, I can’t wait to get you inside me.’
Her words froze Tony. The erection he’d felt hardening inside his trousers died like a snowflake in a puddle. They were there again. ‘I think I’m going to disappoint you,’ he said, his voice cracking.
That sexy chuckle again. ‘No way. You’re already more than I dreamed. Oh, Anthony, touch me. Tell me what you want to do to me.’
Tony could find no words.
‘Don’t be shy, Anthony. There are no secrets between us, nowhere we can’t go. Close your eyes, let the feelings flow. Touch my breasts, go on, suck my nipples, eat me, let me feel your hot wet mouth all over me.’
Tony groaned. This was almost more than he could bear, even in the interests of science.
Angelica’s voice was more breathy now, as if her words were arousing her as much as they should have been arousing him. ‘That’s right, oh God, Anthony, that’s wonderful. Oh-oh-oh,’ she said in a shuddering moan. ‘See, I told you I was wet. That’s right, plunge your fingers deep into my cunt. Oh God, you’re the best … Let me … let me, oh God, let me get at you.’
Tony heard the sound of a zipper down the phone line. ‘Angelica …’ he started to say. It was falling apart again, just as it always did, spiralling out of control like a wounded bird.
‘Oh, Anthony, you’re beautiful. That’s the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. Oh, let me taste you …’ Her voice tailed off with the sound of sucking.
The blood rushed to Tony’s face in a sudden wave of shame and anger. He slammed the phone down and immediately took it off the hook again. Jesus, what kind of a man couldn’t even get it up over the phone? And what kind of scientist couldn’t divorce his own pathetic failings from the exercise of objective data collection?
The worst of it was, he recognized his own behaviour. How many times had he sat across the table from a multiple rapist, arsonist or killer and watched them reach the point in their reliving of events where they could no longer face themselves. Just like him, they closed down. They couldn’t disconnect a phone, but they closed down just the same. Eventually, of course, with the right therapy, they breached the walls and managed to confront what had brought them there. That was the first step towards recovery. Part of Tony prayed that Angelica knew enough about the theory and practice of psychology to stick with him till he too could break down the barriers and stare into the face of whatever it was that had bred this sexual and emotional cripple.
But the other part of him hoped she’d never call again. Never mind ‘no pain, no gain’. He just wanted no pain.
John Brandon scrupulously wiped his plate with the last piece of nan bread and smiled at his wife. ‘That was great, Maggie,’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ his son Andy agreed through a mouthful of lamb and aubergine curry.
Brandon shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll pop back down to Scargill Street for an hour. Just to see how things are going.’
‘I thought ranking officers like you didn’t have to work evenings,’ Maggie said good-humouredly. ‘I thought you said the troops didn’t need you breathing down their necks?’
Brandon looked sheepish. ‘I know. But I just want to see how the lads are going on.’
Maggie shook her head, a resigned smile on her face. ‘I’d rather you went down and got it out of your system than you sat all night fidgeting in front of the telly.’
Karen perked up. ‘Dad, if you’re going back into town, can you drop me at Laura’s? So we can work on our history project?’
Andy snorted. ‘Work on how you’re going to get off with Craig McDonald, more like.’
‘You know nothing,’ Karen huffed. ‘Will you, Dad?’
Brandon got up from the table. ‘Only if you’re ready now. And I’ll pick you up on my way back.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ Karen complained. ‘You said you were only going to be gone an hour. That’s not nearly long enough for us to do all we want to.’
It was Maggie Brandon’s turn to snort with laughter. ‘If your father’s back before half past nine, I’ll make Scotch pancakes for supper.’
Karen looked at each parent in turn, the anguish of choice written on her fourteen-year-old face. ‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Can you pick me up by nine o’clock?’
Brandon grinned. ‘Why do I feel like I’ve been stitched up?’
It was just after half past seven when Brandon arrived in the HOLMES room. Even that late, every terminal was occupied. The sound of fingers hitting keyboards clicked away under the quiet conversations taking place at a few of the desks. Inspector Dave Woolcott sat beside one of the collators, who was pointing out some detail on the screen. No one looked up when Brandon entered.
He walked over behind Woolcott and waited till he had finished talking to the constable on the terminal. Brandon suppressed a sigh. It was definitely time he started thinking about retirement. It wasn’t just the bobbies that looked young to him now; even the inspectors didn’t look old enough to be out of probationer’s cap bands. ‘Keep trying for a match, Harry, cross-ref with the CROs,’ he heard Woolcott say. The lad on the keyboard nodded and stared into his screen.
‘’Evening, Dave,’ Brandon said.
Woolcott swung round in his chair. Registering who the newcomer was, he got to his feet. ‘’Evening, sir.’
‘I was on my way home, and I thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing,’ Brandon lied smoothly.
‘Well, sir, it’s early days. We’ll have teams working round the clock for the next couple of days, feeding in all the statement details from the earlier cases as well as PC Connolly’s. I’m also liaising with the team manning the hot-line phones. Most of it’s the usual spite, vengeance and paranoia, but Sergeant Lascelles is doing a good job of prioritizing the messages.’
‘Anything coming out yet?’
Woolcott rubbed his bald spot in the reflex gesture which his second wife claimed had caused the problem in the first place. ‘Bits and pieces. We’ve got a few names of blokes who were out and about in Temple Fields on at least two of the nights in question, and those are being actioned. We’ve also been hammering the PNC with car index numbers that have shown up regularly around the times of the killings. Luckily, ever since the second killing, Inspector Jordan’s had somebody clocking car numbers round the gay village. It’s a long job,