Wealth

Wealth-2

“You’re just so full of s**t,” she said.

“Sarge, did you hear that? This is police brutality. I’m a victim of crime remember.”

“We don’t know who you are, you don’t know who owns that car, you’ve got a Mickey Mouse credit card, and somehow you’re involved with a firearms incident. You might be with us for a while. You’re entitled to a lawyer and to notify someone that you’re here. We’ll call a police surgeon to look at that cut. Do you have any requests?”

“A nice strong cup of tea with plenty of sugar.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Put him in a cell, Kaitlyn. We’ll see about the tea.”

She banged the door shut and took a final look at him through the grille. The cell block had an odor of vomit, urine, bleach, and man-sweat. She didn’t feel proud to leave him here but what the hell? She didn’t expect to see him again anyway. She’d give her report to the detectives and she might just catch the last few minutes of her karate class. She watched him sit on the concrete ledge seat that would double as his bed if they kept him in. Just who had fired at him and why? He looked up at the bars and smiled.

“Don’t forget the sugar darlin’.”

She found herself smiling almost laughing. He had the cheek of Old Nick.

“I’m off duty now,” she said.

“I’d get you a cup of tea any time if you hadn’t banged me up in jail.”

She went to the small utility kitchen and made a cup of tea in a Styrofoam cup, adding two spoons of sugar. She pulled down the grille flap and handed it in to him.

“Thank you, and I mean that, Kaitlyn.”

His eyes were still and fixed on her face. She liked him to look at her, liked him to say her name. He was a streetwise London boy from her own place in life.

“You seem more like a Randolph Quinn than a Lee Smith,” she said.

“Depends who I’m dealing with. I’d always be your Randolph,” he said, gulping at the tea. “Tell your bosses I’ll only talk to you. I’ll tell them the same. What’s not to like?”

“Detectives do what they do. I’m a traffic cop.”

“You’re one hell of a cop. I’m not saying you’ve got balls because that would be impolite and as yet I’ve no personal insights….”

“And you might get a smack in your smooth-tongued gob.”

“Lovely tea. Only a real woman could make tea like this.”

She looked at his perfect teeth, smiling with full sensual lips that just pushed a slight sense of a kiss into her mind. He was looking back at her lips and she could almost begin to soften her own expression to signal a complicity—or a desire.

“Before I go, I do want to know something. When we were at the car did you know those guys were on that corner with the bike?”

“Yeah, I knew. For a minute I thought you weren’t going to arrest me. Then I would have been in the s**t. I wasn’t exactly expecting the Nascar driving stunt.”

“They could have killed both of us.”

“I did think of that.”

“And….”

“Well, I thought of that because I’m the sort of infallible man who thinks of everything. Mainly I thought they wouldn’t want to get involved with cops. I was like that myself before I met you.”

“You’re a complete b****y con-artist, Lee Smith. Enjoy your tea,” she said as she flipped the grille shut. Now she had to begin the writing.

Chapter 3Although she’d missed the class, Kaitlyn slid her Nissan 350Z Roadster into the car park of the Battersea Sports Centre. Normally she knew how she felt and exactly what she wanted to achieve. This night was just a little bit different. Something had gotten under her skin and she had a name for it, or maybe two. Tonight she needed to share because suddenly a small forgotten light in her had switched on and then gone out. The cruelest thing in a prisoner’s cell is a little ray of teasing light. And she’d just slammed it shut. She needed a friend and maybe a drink. And tonight she had something to show off.

“Don’t tell me, let me think. Crisis traffic jam in Whitehall and you just couldn’t get away.”

Kaitlyn hugged her best mate Camille as she came out of the doors.

“Traffic cops don’t just do that stuff. What did you detect today on the vice squad? People having s*x?”

“Powerless emaciated little cows getting r***d for money as it happens,” replied Camille with an edge in her voice.

“All I had was a car chase with armed killers and a brush with a billionaire hunk banker who gave me the eye.”

“So what are you doing here with me? Why aren’t you exposing your show-stopping female allure to his golden gaze?”

“Because I’ve locked him up in a cell in Brixton nick.”

“Romantic or what? What’s the charge?”

“Good question. Some thugs loosed off a shotgun at him. He’s got couple of different identities and he’s vague about who owns his brand new Maserati.”

“He’s got to be a villain mixed up in some kind of turf war,” said Camille with a dismissive wave of her hands.

Kaitlyn stood back from her friend. Camille was a couple of years older, a detective at West End Central for the past five years. She was wiser than the hardest of mean streets. She’d known her since the first day at Hendon Training School. Even then she’d been tougher and stronger. She’d already spent two years as third officer on a cruise liner. Kaitlyn had been studying psychology at university and working on her uncle’s fairground diner at Canvey Island.

“I’d like to imagine a world where sometimes you’re wrong,” she sighed.

“Like you’ve got some sort of feeling for this hood?”

“Some sort of feeling that sometimes you meet someone and there’s something special that’s not just a load of shit.”

“Must have happened somewhere sometime I guess,” said Camille.

“But not to me. Not to people like us, women like us.”

“I’m a detective. I work on the evidence,” said Camille with a laugh. “But, I’d rather work on a cocktail right now.”

Kaitlyn took her arm. Tomorrow was a rest day and she could sleep it off.

“Mine’s a Mojito,”

“Mine’s a p**n Star Martini. These days I’ve got the glasses to wear with it,” said Camille.

They settled with their drinks into a corner of Southsider’s Cocktail Club. It was still early evening and the trade was office staff and a few braver tourists taking in South London before dark.

“So, show me what you’ve done now, my impetuous Kaitlyn.”

“It’s just a small tattoo. Everyone’s got ink.”

“Not everyone. Not me. Not the posh lady commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. All those spokesman cops on the TV; they’re not inked up.”

“I’m a traffic cop grinding it out in the engine room,” said Kaitlyn.

“So now you’ll have to wear long sleeves. You’ve f****d your chances for top cop one day.”

Of course Camille was right as always. Met Police rules forbade display of tattoos.

“Top cop. I’m a nobody, but I’ve got some ink that expresses me.”

“b****y show me then.”

Kaitlyn slipped off her Nike hoodie top and held out her arm. Camille put on her p**n star glasses.

“It’s, it’s fantastic. Sexy, like too sexy. Makes me think of woman power somehow. Like it’s huge. I do love it, but what the f**k is it?”

“It’s from a photo I took years ago. It’s the Assyrian goddess Ishtar, grand momma of love, fertility, and war.”

“That seems to cover most of the angles,” commented Camille.

“She also covers desire, political power, and beauty.”

“So the tattoo kind of gives you that power?”

“No, women hold that power if they realize it. The picture reminds me, the spirit of the goddess walks with me.”

“I’m going to get to the bar and walk some more beautiful spirits back for us,” said Camille.

“See? It works,” said Kaitlyn leaving her arm bare with a secret pride. She’d been nervous about showing it off. It had changed her, taken her away from being a cop. One day, maybe, the right man would see it, ask her about it and then she’d explain. Explain how she’d gone to the British Museum as part of her psychology course and seen the image, taken a photo. How the idea of such a goddess had spoken to her, seduced her to some extent. And then, maybe the right guy would talk back and ask more, more than just to use her, like she represented that goddess for only him and that her true power was to love in return. Maybe.

“I got doubles. I sense this is going to be a deep exploration,” said Camille.

“Explore yourself for once Camille. What’s next for you?”

“More of the same. I still see whatshisname on and off.”

“You mean like your husband.”

“Meaning Captain Fantastic, cruiser of the seven seas, every showgirl dancer, and port of the world.”

“Why don’t you divorce?”

“What’s the point? He needs a lodging between cruises and I need a lodger to help pay the rent. Biologists call it symbiosis.”

“You don’t care about his private life?”

“I’ve told him he’s a health risk and not to use any of my towels. If he drowns at sea, I get his pension. I keep a close eye on the hurricane forecast and wait for that sad voiced official call, but so far I’ve not gotten lucky.”

“You still love him.”

“Not like I’d love a simple gin and tonic.”

Kaitlyn got the drinks. Doubles of course. Her mind turned over the wisdom of discussing a certain Randolph Quinn. Her brain said NO. Three double Mojitos slurred YES.

“That guy I put in the cells. I’ve not met someone like that before,” she said, watching Camille’s face for her reaction.

“Everyone’s a unique individual, just like everyone else.”

“No. Listen, he had something special.”

“Like a criminal record.”

“Could be, but I guess he’s a proper banker type.”

“And he came on to you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“For sure you’re gorgeous, hun. The cropped bleached hair, the karate club T-shirt and the tatts. A lot of guys go for that. Your last amour stamped out all the Barbie in you.”

“I was never a Barbie. Glen wanted a frilly girl. I tried to please.”

“What pleased him was putting you down so you wagged your tail like a whipped pup. He was a mummy’s boy monster. So, you’ve transformed into Miss Ironfist. You know it’s not real, not deep down.”

“I learned a lot Camille. Is it a weakness to be lonely and just to want someone?”

“For a woman, yes. Love’s like a barbecue for a woman. Starts slow, but burns hot. And the end is ashes, just b****y ashes.”

“And for the man?”

“He’s cooking the meat, hun. Sometimes it burns him, sometimes he gets sick and sometimes it’s tough. But a man just keeps on cooking and chewing.”

“You’re a poet, Camille.”

“So you’re falling for your cellblock Romeo.”

“No, of course not. He got through to me that’s all.”

Camille called a cab.

“Keep me posted. Don’t elope before I’ve checked him over,” she said as she drove away.

Chapter 4Her cellphone was ringing or maybe it was in her tangled dream. There was light pushing in at the window; she must be awake.

“Kaitlyn Thorn?” asked a female voice.

“Yeah, yeah. Who is this?”

“My name’s Shannon Knightsmith. I’m a cop but you don’t know me.”

“Right now I don’t know who I know. What time is it?”

“Just gone eleven o’clock.”

Kaitlyn stumbled from her bed. She just about remembered walking the short distance home from the cocktail club.

“Yeah, sorry. I had a late night. It’s my day off.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. I’m chief inspector on the serious and organized crime group; they keep changing our name but it’ll always be SO7, Scotland Yard to me.”

Kaitlyn fought to clear her head. The woman on the phone had a London accent mixed with something else.

“Well, hi. What?”

“I need to have a chat and it needs to be very soon. What are your plans today and tomorrow?”

“Might check out my stocks and shares and then finish off reading my complete works of Shakespeare. That’s after I recover my car from the Battersea Leisure Centre and see if my mum wants me to drive her to the Gala Bingo at Mitcham. I’m not being cheeky but are you on the level or what?”

The woman replied with a laugh in her voice.

“OK. I think you’ve met a character called Randolph Quinn.”

Kaitlyn’s heart began to thump in her chest.

“Yeah. Look I locked him up because I didn’t really have a choice. I guess he’s a big shot banker and he’s put in a complaint.”

“He’s a very big shot banker and he’s sure complaining. But, not about you. I’m working from home today and I don’t want you to come to Scotland Yard in any case. I’ll explain why when I see you. Can you get down the A23 to Fleetworth Green?”

“I know it. It’s right on the edge of the Met Police area on Z-district. It’s all posh with a stately home, trees and stuff.”

“Should take you about an hour. Don’t mention this to anyone. Get your car and drive down to the shop in the middle of the village. I’m calling on my own cellphone so you’ve got my number. I’ll meet you there. What’s your car?”