Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(72)
He gasped at her touch and, as he arched his back, she dipped her head and took one nipple, then the other, in her mouth, licking, teasing them tight, taking them between her teeth and biting gently, then enough to hurt.
Slowly, she ran her tongue along his chest and up into the hollows of his neck, the corners of his mouth, his eyes, his mouth again, and then, suddenly, hutching up her legs, she slid down, taking him inside her, deep inside, deep – ‘Oh, Christ!’ – Cordon shouting out, head back, mouth wide, eyes screwed tight as she pressed down on him again until her hips ground against his and he thrust back, shouting, shouting her name, her voice rising against his – ‘Come on, Cordon, for f*ck’s sake! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck!’ – Cordon grasping her hair, wet and slippery now with sweat, and then, with a wrench, rolling her over until he was above her, bearing down, wanting to bury himself inside her, hard, hard as he could, wanting to hurt her, yes, hurt her, hear her scream. ‘You f*cker! You f*cker! You f*ck!’
Later he would think that beneath everything he heard the door, the sudden forward step, sensed the sweep of an arm and began to turn, but it was all lost inside Letitia’s scream, whether of orgasm or what she’d just seen over his shoulder he’d never know, and then something metallic slammed hard against his head, then again full in the face, not once, but twice, and all he knew was a lance of searing pain, then nothing at all.
45
They arrested Dennis Broderick at Heathrow: Broderick intent on catching a few rays at Sharm El Sheikh, ten days booked at the five-star Savoy Hotel on White Knight Beach, garden-view room at a special bargain price, all meals included. He was helping himself to an extra portion of hors d’oeuvres in the business-class lounge when Karen approached him, Ramsden at her shoulder, other officers at the doors – Warren Cormack back at headquarters, happy to leave the fieldwork to others and concentrate on the search for the missing Volvo.
When Karen put a hand on his forearm Broderick jerked back, spilling sour cherry sauce down the front of his lightweight linen suit, worn in anticipation of the Egyptian sun.
‘Dennis, whatever is it?’
Emphatically not Mrs Broderick, his companion was somewhere in her early thirties, peddling twenty-five. All those hours on the sunbed and a painful full Brazilian bikini wax about to go to waste.
The downward turn to her mouth was severe.
Ramsden cupped a hand beneath her elbow and ushered her to where a female officer was waiting.
Broderick did his best to stare Karen down, then, when that failed, began blustering: mistaken identity, false arrest. Only at the mention of his being marched out of there in handcuffs did he fall quiet.
‘I’m not saying another word,’ he said, ‘till I’ve contacted my lawyer.’
‘Good idea,’ Karen replied pleasantly and stood aside while two of the officers led him away.
Forensics had found quite copious traces of blood belonging to bothValentyn Horak and one of his henchmen in the building on Wing aerodrome. Checking out the Ford Transit, which was found, stripped of its number plates, at the rear of the D & J Foods storage area off the Al, proved more difficult. The assumption was that heavy plastic had been used as an inner liner, covering walls and floor, and set carefully in place before the bodies were transported; after which the interior was carefully washed out after the load was delivered. Not just washed, scrubbed within an inch of its life.
No prints, nary a one.
Painstaking work with Luminol did, however, finally reveal several minute traces of blood between the flange and panelling on the rear door. Sufficient to obtain a match: proof positive Horak’s body had been in the van.
It was agreed that Karen would begin questioning Broderick, Ramsden in attendance; Cormack would be watching via a video link in an adjoining room and able to speak to Karen through a small attachment, newsreader style, behind her ear.
Broderick’s lawyer was sandy haired, spectacled, off-the-peg suit, leather briefcase stuffed to the gills; the mints on his breath not quite strong enough to disguise the garlic in whatever he’d recently been eating.
The air in the room stale, yesterday’s air, the temperature a notch or two too high.
Broderick fidgeted with the lapels at the front of his suit jacket; stopped; started again. A quick look towards Karen, then down at the table. Scratches, pencil marks, daubs of Biro, veins of sweat that had sunk into the grain.
‘Tell us,’ Karen said, ‘about the van.’
‘Van?’
‘Ford Transit 350, diamond white, manual transmission. Registered, June 2007. Mileage, 51,302. Leased from Webster Garage and Autohire in Milton Keynes on behalf of D & J Foods. That van. Paperwork in your name. See?’
She swivelled a photocopy of the agreement round on the desk, counted a slow three, swivelled it back.
‘Your signature, agreed?’
‘Seems to be, yes.’
‘Seems?’
‘All right, yes. So what?’
‘You personally leased this van?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what purpose?’
For a moment, he blanked.
‘Simple question, why, when you did, did you lease the van?’
‘My client,’ the solicitor said, intervening, ‘runs a successful and expanding business which trades across the South-East of the country and up into East Anglia. As such, additions to the delivery fleet are a quite normal part of its operations.’