The Dark Side of Ecstasy

The Dark Side of Ecstasy

by Roy Harvey

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords 2019

CONTENTS

About This Book

About the Author

Notices

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Epilogue

About this Book

Martin Wild, failed soldier, failed policeman, finds success as a security consultant. Following the murder of his lover, policewoman Eileen Padget, he steps into the world of nightclubs and illegal drugs to trace the killers. Skills learnt in his former military and police lives are put to use and the evidence provided ensures the arrest of those responsible. Subsequent errors by the police and the CPS in preparing the case result in the gang being freed and Wild now becomes a target himself. Driven by grief and anger he adopts the maxim ‘an eye for an eye’, setting out on a second mission, but this time with deadly intent. His trail of vengeance shatters the quiet of a Scottish isle, the peace of a Dorset bay and the civilised routines of a French Department.

The author’s training in Scene of Crime investigations at New Scotland Yard followed by years combating drug misuse in the nightclub world ensure that events and dialogue enjoy a realism not always encountered in crime novels.

Tribute

All profits from the sale of this book will go to the support of organisations engaged in the rehabilitation of drug users.

About the Author

Following military service, the author spent some years as a police officer with experience in the CID, Scene of Crime, Crime Prevention. This was followed by a move to the commercial security world, where he set up a security consultancy whose services were used by a number of UK/international companies and high profile entrepreneurs. These included Porsche Cars, NM Rothschild, Fisons, Pirelli General, Peter de Savary etc. One of the successful specialisations provided was countering industrial espionage by de-bugging premises and telephone systems.

After some years as an independent, he joined previous clients Mecca Leisure and Rank Leisure, to act as their Security Advisor, dealing with problems posed in nightclubs and multi-leisure centres across the country. By necessity this period concentrated on drug and drink misuse and related violence.

Published work includes a chapter on industrial espionage for the Crime Writers Handbook, commissioned by the Crime Writers Association, an in-house Operational Security Manual for Rank Leisure and sundry minor articles for magazines.

Notices

Copyright © Roy Harvey 2019

First published in 2019 by White Knight Publications

Published electronically by Amolibros 2016 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF | http://www.amolibros.com | amolibros@aol.com

The right of Roy Harvey to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

This novel is a work of fiction. All events are imaginary. With one exception all characters are figments of my imagination. The exception is Barry Kimber, a builder of superbly seaworthy boats that figure in the story; it would have been a nonsense to invent another to take his place. Businesses, authorities, buildings, place names, locales described in the text are used in a fictitious manner only to support the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, other than detailed above, or to actual events, is purely coincidental

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

www.amolibros.co.uk

This book production has been managed by Amolibros

Acknowledgements

It is said that we all have a book in our heads and this was certainly true in my case. I have to thank the Crime Writers Association, who sought my assistance on another matter, for planting the germ that has resulted in The Dark Side of Ecstasy.

I also have to thank Terry Rowe (who sadly died when the novel was being developed) Ken Parsons and Barry Kimber for specialist advice in areas where I lacked the necessary expertise. I have to thank John and Lesley Lindsay for re-igniting the spark when the manuscript had lain dormant for some years. Finally, I have to thank Jane Tatam of Amolibros for expert guidance in the publication process.

All profits from the publication of this book will be for the benefit of charities or organisations working with those afflicted by drug addiction.

Prologue

Friday 1st January 1988, 1.33 a.m., Cavendish Square, Southampton, England The heap of cardboard seemed carelessly positioned. Discarded by the janitor? Awaiting collection by the refuse truck? In fact the placement of it had been carried out with great care. At that point on the inside of the building was the boiler room, providing a small degree of warmth over an area of a few square feet on the outside of the building. Not that the increase in temperature went very far in combating the cold of a winter night. The shivering body beneath the flattened cartons bore testimony to that, but any lessening of the cold was welcome, no matter how small.

He wasn’t anywhere near sleep yet, too cold and too much noise for that, so when the high pitched cry came, followed by a low rustling ‘whoosh’ – as of branches swept aside – and a dull thud, he raised on an elbow and peered through his cardboard window towards a brightly lit first floor flat, whose laughter and music had haunted him since his arrival. Beneath the flat and below the still quivering branches of a tree, was what had been an empty flower bed; it was now occupied!

The first instinct was to stay where he was. He’d learnt the penalties of unnecessary movement. To move from his layers of newspaper and cardboard now would lose what little warmth he had gained. Then with a reminder from his empty belly there came the thought that the body might have pockets, a purse, a bag – and that might have money! The day had gone badly. His old fur hat and unspoken pavement plea had generated only a few pounds in coins – hardly enough for the necessary fix, let alone food. He hadn’t had a half decent meal in a week. Wriggling out of the cardboard and newspaper sandwich, glancing left and right, he approached cautiously.

No one else had seen the fall; no alarmed voices from the party in the flat above. Crouching over her he saw that there was no blood. Just a head at a grotesque angle; earth in the curly coppery hair. Eyes wide open staring sightlessly. No breath visible.

Neither were there pockets in the pretty party dress, nor a purse. He shuffled back to his makeshift bed, then thought of a warm police station, perhaps a cup of canteen tea, and changed direction.

*

1.34 a.m., Archers Road, Southampton He awoke with a start, jerking upright in bed. In the preceding minutes his sleep had been disturbed by what might have passed for a nightmare. Echoing still in his ears was a cry, the despairing cry of his own name and now he sat amongst crumpled bedclothes, breathing quickly and forcing his mind to accept that the cry had been in his dream. Swinging his legs out of bed he sat for a few more moments then felt his way to a small basin in a corner of the room. Running the cold tap he held cupped hands beneath it, splashed his face and ran wet fingers through curly copper coloured hair before using the towel and returning to bed. Lying there he wondered about the dream that had so violently disturbed his usually sound sleep. Forcing his mind to empty itself he waited with closed eyes, expecting to drop off. It did not happen; his mind refused to release the confused dream, the despairing cry and he wondered whether, despite the hour, he should try Susie’s phone. Deciding against it he spent the rest of the night in a restless dozing, waking turmoil.

*

9.20 a.m. West Quay Road, Southampton The small single storied building off Western Esplanade bore no external signs to signify its macabre contents and activities. The City’s Public Mortuary, enclosed by walls on all sides and with only one point of access, did not invite curiosity. Anonymous to passing pedestrians, whose attention would likely be on the imposing ancient town walls opposite, it crouched like a red brick nonentity, small and insignificant.

To the tall dark suited man, hurrying along with overcoat collar turned up against the chill easterly wind, the scene was a familiar one, as was the inevitable smell of human decay and strong disinfectant, as he punched in a code to open the inner doors. Slipping the coat from his shoulders, he opened a brief case, producing a brown manila file. Across the centre in bold print was the legend ‘Hampshire Constabulary’. In the top right hand corner were the words ‘Coroners Officer’ whilst, in the bottom right hand corner, was a hand written number.

At that moment an inner door opened and a heavily built man wearing a full length green apron and short white rubber boots appeared. They greeted each other and, in that matter of fact way of men who spend much of their working lives in the company of the dead, ignored the body on the stainless steel slab in the middle of the room. It was not until the cold weather, the performance of ‘The Saints’ in losing three nil and the probable late arrival of an investigating officer not noted for early rising had all been discussed, that the first man turned to open his file and look at the subject of the morning’s enquiry.

His first thought was that the body on the slab was Caucasian, a woman and then that she was one of that somewhat rare breed, a natural blonde. He wondered whether ‘blonde’ was accurate; the hair spread on the slab had a tinge of soft reddish. Despite the glaze of death on her eyes he was struck by their unusual green colour. The waxen features were beautiful. She was of more than average height and slim with small breasts; perhaps in her twenties? Opening the file to check and for the first time seeing the name he glanced quickly at the face again and then said quietly, Oh shit, no!

What is it?

This is Martin Wild’s sister, Susie.

Who’s Martin Wild?

Scanning the other papers in the thin file, he said, Detective Sergeant in the Civic. Then, reading aloud, Admitted to Casualty just after three this morning. DOA with a broken neck. Only other external injuries are abrasions to the back of the head and left shoulder.

He turned to statements taken by the night duty officers who had attended. Found beneath a balcony at the flats off Cavendish Square. Had been to a party in the flat above; quite a large one, up to thirty people at one time. Uniform are still making enquiries.

Has the family been informed?

Martin is the family. Both parents are dead. This’ll hit him hard. They were twins and very close!

*

The autopsy would later confirm the findings of the Duty Doctor in Casualty. Death due to a fracture of the spine in the cervical area. It then added a potent comment; the blood toxicology produced traces of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide – the mind bending drug LSD.

The attached witness statements were of little use to the detective who later arrived to take over the Sudden Death enquiry.

Susie Wild had been taken to the party by a female friend. She was seen to drink only orange juice and later coffee. The girl friend who had brought her disappeared quite quickly with a man that she knew into another part of the house. No one noticed the attentions of another man who supplied a bowl with sugar cubes to sweeten the coffee and who, on turning away, surreptitiously pocketed the remaining cubes. He continued to be attentive until she made it clear that his presence was not welcome, but she was conscious of his eyes, always on her, watching.

At just before 1.30 a.m. she was said to be anxious and seeking the girlfriend who had brought her. Another of those present said that a few minutes later Susie left the main room, supporting herself on the wall and door and was thought by that person to be drunk. What the witnesses could not know was the contamination of the sugar cube, or the effect that the powerful hallucinogen had on the unprepared mind of a woman with no experience of drugs. Alone amongst strangers, Susie was suddenly restless, searching her bag, plucking at her dress, getting to her feet, looking for the missing companion. Then, with no warning, dizzy and grasping a chair back for support, having to sit down. Her anxiety turned to fear as suddenly she saw distortion of the people around her. Their shapes changed before her eyes, their voices changed, some coming from afar, others as though whispering in her ears.

Frightened, she got to her feet, looking frantically now for the friend who had brought her. Not seeing her in the room she made for the door which, as she approached, seemed to move as though with a life of its own. She staggered and almost fell. In the corridor outside she did fall and, on her hands and knees, felt time altering, her years slipping away. She was a young girl again, in her school dress. The half light of the hallway was the darkness of a shuttered room remembered from an earlier life. The muffled party voices were from a lounge, they became the voices of an army officer and a policeman, whom she had seen enter the house to speak with the aunt that she was with. They were subdued, talking quietly of an aircraft crash. She wished her brother, Martin, could be there and cried out in a young girls voice for her mummy, daddy, knowing – without knowing how – that they could not come.

As the drugs effect grew she staggered along the dimly lit corridor to glazed doors at the end, pushed against them and, on the balcony, crying, calling out, clambered onto the balustrade and, raising her arms like wings, reached upwards to the dark sky from where her parents had fallen all those years before.

*

10.25 a.m. Vitrolles, near Marseilles, France In the principal bedroom of a large white house on the wooded hills above Vitrolles a maid, carrying in one hand a silver tray bearing freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee, shook the shoulder of her mistress, a young woman lying, despite the drapes just pulled back allowing winter sunshine to stream in, motionless in her bed.

The deep late sleep on the feather filled pillows followed a New Year party fuelled not only by champagne but also – for the first time – by an introduction to cocaine. The drug, presented prettily gift wrapped by a female friend, was accepted as something fresh and sophisticated, to be tried in the company of friends; an aid to the party spirit, an exciting new dimension in an already privileged life.

The maid placed the tray on a bedside table and shook the shoulder again, noting the lightest of shadows under closed eyes. She thought that her mistress, so fortunate with a wealthy husband to supply the grand house and the servants to service it, should not lack sleep. The maid knew nothing of the after dinner antics on the previous night other than the debris downstairs, now being cleared by the cleaner. The champagne bottles, glasses and ashtrays were innocent enough; the faint dusting of white powder on a mantle shelf and side table was not noticed. If it had been it would have elicited no more than a moment’s curiosity followed by a shrug of the shoulders and a dismissive Provençal comment from the older employee about the modern woman and her use of face powder. Had the husband been present there would not have been ‘face powder’, for the female friend who introduced it knew his opinions well enough. The party might have lacked the exhilaration and exuberance that his absence and the consumption of the white powder engendered; the sleep might have been less deep and the waking mood less grey.

At the third shake eyes of the deepest brown quivered open and the very female form beneath silk sheets stretched in waking. The maid, despite her years of service for Marie Thérèse Tabard, marvelled again at her mistress’s appearance; with a flawless olive complexion, the blackest of hair spread across the pillow, high cheek bones and the slightest of ‘Roman’ noses, she was typically Mediterranean and startlingly beautiful.

*

Thus in the space of a few hours, as the world celebrated the turn of the year, in two countries far apart, the lives of two beautiful women altered permanently. For one it ended, dramatically. All that was left was the dreadful disfigurement of the autopsy, the cold and decay of the grave. For the other, no drama, but new experiences, new sensations, new acquaintances; the white powder bringing subtle changes in attitude, growing with the passing months and years.

Life also altered for Martin Wild. The loss of a loved sister; a twin who had occupied much of his world for all of his years, was accompanied by a change in direction. What he did not know, could not know, was the strand of fate which, four years later, would form a trail of death and destruction from Scotland to Provence, completing the unknown connection that had started that night, between a much loved sister and a black haired Mediterranean beauty.

Part One: ‘The Scales of Justice’

Four years later, Thursday 7th May 1992, 6.10 p.m. Southampton The black Citroen SM was being driven just a little too fast. St James Road in Shirley is a convenient ‘rat run’ for drivers avoiding the rush hour traffic. At just after six in the evening these were still plentiful; they made little difference to the big saloon’s progress. The car ate up the short straights and deceptive bends, the driver keeping it in third and fourth with the V6 Maserati engine held between 3,000 and 4,000 revs, drinking four star in sufficient quantities to make an environmentalist choke on his carrot juice.

Martin Wild was enjoying himself. He was pleased with life, entertaining his senses with the surge of immediate power, the lift of supple long travel suspension, the twitch of precise steering. The seat of his pants and the wheel beneath his hands transmitted a dozen different sensations which did not require thinking about, just reacting to. He was relaxed in the contoured seat, in control and more at home in this high speed cocoon than many people are in an armchair.

The Citroen was a modern classic. Only fifteen hundred of the ultra long streamlined coupes had been built in the early seventies at a specialist plant in France. Never common, they were now a rare sight, turning heads in an age of uniform Euro boxes. Martin had found the car in an upmarket showroom at a price which did not reflect its condition and had bought it on the spot. In the twelve months since he had been generous with time and money, as the gleaming paintwork and healthy engine note told.

The smile on his lips was not due only to the sensual pleasure of driving. The London meeting that he was returning from had gone very well and, not for the first time, he blessed the ex-Detective Chief Inspector from Hampshire’s Special Branch who had provided the contact. The call from the ex-DCI had come some six months after his own move from the police to the commercial world.

Afternoon Martin. Norman Gee. How are things?

He had not known Gee very well. Special Branch people did not mix with the CID General Duties men – or any others – a great deal. Regarded themselves as an elite. He recalled Gee as one of the Northern Ireland Liaison Group who had retired perhaps a year or so earlier and was now Head of Security for United Shipbuilders, the Portsmouth, Southampton and Plymouth based specialists in small fast naval vessels.

Very well, Norman. Much better than I had anticipated.

Not strictly true. Only the previous day he had been discussing cash flow with a not so friendly bank manager, resisting the suggestion that money spent on his small sailing cruiser would be of greater benefit if ploughed into the business. He had done well during his short time in the commercial world, though hardly well enough to warrant the `very’. But you did not talk in half measures to potential clients. His intuition had told him, correctly, that people like to be associated with success.

I was talking with Jimmy Durrant this morning, (another ex-CID man known to Martin and now Security Manager for a hotel chain) and he tells me that you do some ‘sweeping’. Says that you did a job for a company that had hired one of his Conference Suites and picked up a bug?

Yes, though I think he first thought that we were having the organisation on. Had to go back the next day and take ceiling tiles down to find the thing. Martin grinned at the memory; the look of disbelief on the faces of both Jimmy Durrant and the Chairman of the company concerned had been worth seeing when the device was found. Pretty sure that it was not aimed at them though; battery life was too low. We lost the signal within an hour of first picking it up. Found the bug by physical search eventually. Probably a problem for the company who had hired the Suite in the previous week.

Haven’t called only to ask your health, Martin. Fact is an old Box 500 contact has a friend in London with a problem. They’re looking for a small ‘out of town’ specialist to sort it for them. Have their reasons for not wanting to use a London company. If you make a phone call to this number you might do yourself some good.

Martin took the number and made the call. On finding whose organisation he was talking to, he knew that if he handled things well, concern about keeping his boat would be a thing of the past. He had handled them well. The first job led to a second, then a regular contract, then to other work for the organisation and now, in turn, for two of their clients. Thank you, Norman!

Right foot moving quickly from accelerator to brake as the bend before St James Church appeared, he pressed gently, almost caressing the pedal, avoiding the nose dive that is a hallmark of those less experienced with older Citroens. With the ball of his right foot still on the brake, he swivelled the heel to the right, giving the accelerator a brief blip to raise the revs, snicking the gear lever from third into second, avoiding a protest from the slightly worn synchromesh.

Left into Church Street, fifty yards with the engine singing in second gear, right into Parksyde Avenue, to brake gently and stop outside the block of maisonettes that overlooked the park. For half a minute he sat still, the motor idling, allowing the oil cooler time to reduce the engine temperature and, with senses slowing, enjoying the contrast of stillness and quiet in this little back water, after the swooping rush of the journey. Metal railings surrounded the park. Tall horse chestnuts, still with spring’s fresh green in their leaves, cast a shadow in the late afternoon sun. The only noise, apart from the tennis courts twang of racket on ball, was the distant hum of traffic from nearby Winchester Road.

How should he break the news to Eileen? He was pleased, but she would not be so happy. The job just secured would take him away for some days. Their life styles meant that this was not unusual, but he knew that she had been looking forward to this weekend. Wondering how he should tell her, picturing blue eyes framed by short wavy brown hair, the slightly retroussé nose and, for him, the warm secret smile. He decided that they would eat out; treat the news as a celebration. They had been living together now for almost six months, but he anticipated his return to her after a day away. The feeling was heightening that he had been single too long!

It was just after six o’clock and he guessed that Eileen would have finished work at Shirley Police Station an hour before. By now she had probably changed from her uniform. Her ‘metamorphosis’ they laughingly called it: work gear off, into a shower and then something more feminine. He pictured the athletic body and slim, firmly muscled dancer’s legs, comparing the cool professional woman known to the Shirley police and public, with the bubbly life loving girl who, increasingly, was the centre of his life. Chrysalis into butterfly he thought.

Switching off the motor he swung long legs out of the car and straightened with relief. The journey had taken longer than usual due to an IRA bomb scare backing up the London traffic. Once clear of that he had not stopped, enjoying the fast smooth drive in the late afternoon sun.

*

From an upstairs window Eileen watched Martin emerge from the car. As usual she felt the quickened heartbeat and slight breathlessness that sight of him caused after even a short separation. Girl, you’re in danger of making a fool of yourself over this man she thought, but not with concern, aware that at last, after several years of caution, with this man she could be trusting and carefree.

At 6’2" with short, almost coppery, curly hair, a very tanned complexion and unusual green eyes, Martin Wild could be described as handsome. The good looks were not total. Years before, the straight nose had been broken and still bore signs of damage. When he smiled his teeth were good in the wide mouth, but the smile was not straight. A three inch scar, visible as a raised white line between the left cheek and the corner of his mouth, gave the smile a slight twist.

Eileen, although struck by his unusual looks when they first met, had been more intrigued by the interviewing technique that she witnessed in a far from luxurious basement flat off of London Road in Southampton. She had arrived in connection with a shoplifting charge involving the girl who occupied the flat. Wild had been present before her, interviewing the boyfriend of her girl thief on an unconnected matter. In the ensuing exchanges between Eileen and the girl, Wild had slipped effortlessly into a role that he knew well, that of a supporting investigator, resulting in a much quicker and fuller confession from the girl.

Some weeks later they met again at the Magistrates Court where the girl, now with a solicitor and subtle changes to the story, was seeking to negate the evidence against her.

The solicitor used a standard form of defence; when facing sound evidence attack the credibility of the witnesses. In this case they were Eileen Padgett, a store detective, and Wild to finally corroborate the confession. Despite innuendos appertaining to Martin’s presence in the flat, his evidence and attitude to the court had been professional, polished and unshakable. Eileen was not at all surprised to learn subsequently that he too had once been a police officer.

Over coffee in the court cafeteria they talked. And what does a Security Consultant do in real life?

Martin smiled at the question, knowing the doubt and suspicion about his chosen profession in the minds of many police officers. Oh, I design security systems, mainly for larger companies, ensuring that physical and electronic elements are integrated with manned security. Supervise security guard operations for clients, preparing assignment instructions, that sort of thing. Use covert operatives for occasional investigation work – not marital stuff – commercial losses, large scale theft. I also look after what is euphemistically known as ‘corporate confidentiality’, that’s de-bugging, security audits. I also occasionally organise close escort or protection for VIPs.

Eileen’s eyes had widened, then narrowed thoughtfully as Martin, surprised to find himself wishing to extend the conversation, had self-consciously sought to impress.

If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look old enough to have that sort of experience – but it must pay well to have a tan like yours!

Martin laughed. I’m older than you may think – and I’ve been lucky! But really I can thank the army and the police for both the training and the contacts that have made it possible. The only real personal effort was opting to work for a security electronics company for eighteen months after I left the police. The tan comes from spending most of my spare time ‘messing about in boats’ in this country, not abroad, though I’ve a long time love affair with La Belle France!

When she came to enquire about his family there was a long pause whilst Martin stared into the distance. She thought that he had not heard her question, but then he said quietly, My parents were killed in an air crash when I was at boarding school. Some years later my sister, Susie, was found dead outside one of the flats off Cavendish Square in the centre of town. She had a broken neck. She’d fallen from the first floor. There’s no one close now.

Oh, I’m so sorry! Eileen was shocked. Do you know what happened to your sister?

She saw the hurt in his eyes. The post mortem found traces of LSD in her blood. The investigation was not conclusive, there was no way of proving whether she had taken it herself or it had been – as I think – slipped into her drink. The Coroner recorded an open verdict at the inquest. I tried to get the investigating officer to dig deeper, but you know how it is, every day brings another case or three and only those that look hopeful get full attention.

But surely the death was looked at properly?

It was looked at, but in my opinion, not properly. The timing was bad, unlucky. It was the post Christmas and New Year period. There’d been a major blagging in the city plus a heavy burglary. The usual winter ills added a shortage of manpower to the equation. When I put it to the DI a second time that not enough had been done, things got rather heated and I ended up putting my ticket in.

For once Martin’s reserve about his twin sister’s death, a subject that he still found painful despite the passage of years, was missing. He found himself able to talk much more easily and openly to Eileen than was usual. She sat quietly listening, hearing the anger and bitterness that had caused his resignation from the police, the hurt that remained and, especially, the blame that he felt. After their parents’ deaths Martin and Susie had been even closer but, to him, when she needed him most he was not there. Eileen pointed out the impossibility of continuous support. It was inevitable that he could not always be on hand. Martin had shrugged and she left the subject, knowing that logic could not deal with the depth of hurt that she saw in his eyes, heard in his voice.

He went on to tell her of his early life in and around Aldershot where his father, an army officer, was stationed and of subsequent peripatetic years travelling with his parents on his father’s postings. Of becoming a boarder at Sherborne in Dorset and then having to leave following the death of his parents. Of enlisting in the army as a ‘boy soldier’ and gaining entry into Sandhurst, only to be RTU’d (returned to unit) after a year following outspoken criticism of a regime that he found elitist. Of then volunteering for the Royal Military Police and, after specialist weapons and explosives training at Longmoor Camp, of buying himself out to join the civil police. They talked together of the police ‘family’ and she learnt of his selection for CID and training as a Scene of Crime Officer before promotion to Detective Sergeant.

And what about you? he asked sitting down with their refills.

Oh, I’ve led a very ordinary life. My parents are Scots. I was born north of the border, but dad was in the merchant navy, an engineer and, like yourself we moved around a lot cos of his job. He ended up in Southampton, then they moved back to Scotland when he retired.

But you stayed down here?

I had met a man, fallen in love and married. Unfortunately it was a bad choice. There was a messy divorce after a couple of years and I joined the police on the rebound. She laughed a little self consciously. Mum and Dad wanted me to go back with them, but I’d flown the nest, had my own place and didn’t want to start over where they were concerned. They’re darlings but you know how parents are, especially with an only child.

Some days later she took a telephone call at Shirley Police Station; it was Wild. Hi, you seemed a fairly free agent when we were talking the other day. I wondered whether you might like dinner one evening? Surprised and pleased she had accepted his offer.

The following Saturday she met another side of a man whose unconventional life and unusual personality intrigued and attracted her. Over the weeks which followed, Eileen found herself falling for his quiet charm, looking forward to their telephone conversations, increasingly eager to see the flash of white teeth in the brown scarred face. Though normally friendly she did not allow herself to be quickly influenced. A broken marriage and several years as a police woman had taught more than a degree of restraint. But, as she came to know Martin, the professional in her admired his commitment and attention to detail in his business life, whilst the woman in her responded to his masculinity and appreciated his thoughtful attentiveness. Her Scottish blood was concerned by occasional excessive drinking – though only of wine, not the ‘hard stuff’. As their lives became increasingly intertwined, another concern were the occasional mood swings; black days when Martin seemed to withdraw, preferring his own company. These intrigued and challenged her, they seemed so out of character and she guessed that they went back to the family losses that he had experienced. She made allowances, giving ready support on the one hand and space, without comment, when he seemed to need it.

Now, as she watched pale grey trousers tighten as he reached into the rear of the car, the past twelve months of interest growing through affection into what she now recognized was a great deal more, had its usual effect.

*

Martin collected his jacket and briefcase from the rear seat. A sticky back to his shirt brought the pleasurable anticipation of a shower as he walked across the road. The door key was in his briefcase so he rang the bell with an elbow. The door opened immediately and, not for the first time, he felt momentarily unbalanced by the face peering round the door. Smiling blue eyes seemed to twinkle, kissable lips parted to show even white teeth, small pixie like ears were half hidden by fair wavy hair. As he stood for a moment, smiling back, all that he could see was Eileen’s face. Stepping in he saw why. She was certainly out of uniform! Before him was the delicious sight of a slim curvaceous figure wearing only the laciest of brief panties and bra in a soft, very feminine pink. Her complexion glowed, the curls at the nape of her neck were still damp from the shower. Smiling eyes held more than a hint of a naughty twinkle.

Do you usually answer the door like that? feeling a frisson of a different anticipation.

I saw you arrive and it took you so long to come in. She turned and stepped onto the first stair and then, laughing over her shoulder, wiggled her bottom at him and dashed towards the landing. He caught her before she was halfway up the stairs, the sound of the front door shutting on it’s closer echoed by the thump of his briefcase on the hall floor. She cried out in mock dismay as he seized the waistband of her panties, in one move bringing her to a standstill and the flimsy garment down to her thighs. She fell on to the stairs, on her knees, wriggling and full of pretend protest, softly curved cheeks proving irresistible to white teeth. She was hobbled by the froth of lace around her knees, further flight impossible. Kissing his way up her spine he reached beneath extended arms, found the lacy cups and, pushing them upwards, freed small breasts. Her breathing quickened as his tongue and teeth reached her neck and ears. With fingers extended he made small circles, the palms of his hands against pink points. Feeling them harden he gently rolled and pulled. Arching her back, pushing her bottom against him, squirming, then, Oooh Marty! and, giggling, breathlessly, A gentleman would at least take his trousers off!

*

8.30 p.m. Bathed, changed and dressed with care, green eyes toasted blue across raised champagne glasses at a table in the Chewton Glen’s Marriott Restaurant. Elegant chandeliers and discreet table lighting vied with warm red luminous from a sun just set, filling the tall west facing windows. Polished panelling, crisp white table linen and glistening cutlery provided a stylish backdrop as Martin gazed over the rim of his glass. Bubbles spiralling upwards in the clear golden wine seemed to express the exhilaration and delight that he felt. She was so lovely! Smooth bare shoulders above a blue strapless dress, the perfect setting for a heart shaped face, golden hair and those warm blue eyes. Eyes that smiled with love. A love that echoed in his heart so much that he felt a physical ache.

So when do I see this other woman in your life? she teased, La Belle France?

Smiling, Martin tapped the champagne flute against a bottle of Taittinger resting in the ice bucket and then raised it. September and October are always a good time. The vendage, the grape picking, will take place then and in the Champagne area the celebrations, especially if the year is a good one, are fabulous. They’re not as serious as Bordeaux or as much fun as Burgundy or Beaujolais, but the larger houses certainly know how to entertain. I’ve a standing invitation to spend a weekend with a Director of this House. He tapped the Taittinger again.

Is this a further sign of a misspent youth? She teased again, eyes sparkling and the tips of her fingers caressing the back of his free hand where it lay on the table.

Not really, smiling. Did a job for their London agents a couple of years ago and was asked to report direct to one of their French Directors. Spent a very enjoyable day at a Chateau that they use for entertaining. Also I love their wine, so different from some of the other Houses, light, elegant and seductive. Just like a very accomplished woman. It was his turn to tease.

Eileen’s even white teeth caught the curve of her full lower lip. Quite deliberately the long fair lashes swept down over blue eyes. I wonder what a girl must do to keep her man on the straight and narrow whilst he’s away? she murmured.

They laughed quietly and happily together, content and confident in one another. His hand now upturned on the table to face hers. Fingertips gently caressing palms and wrists.

Later, in the darkness of their room, she collapsed upon him, full of shudders and little moans. Holding her close, he wondered whether life could improve. Certainly love could not!

*

Friday 8th May 1992, 5.45 a.m., Southampton Waking early, Martin left Eileen sleeping whilst he shaved and packed a case. Taking tea to the bedside he kissed her neck gently. She smiled without opening her eyes.

See you in a few days, he whispered. Put the Citroen away for me. I’m taking the Porsche. A clear sky and cool early morning air promised another fine day as he walked the short distance to a lockup garage. Sliding into the driving seat he turned the ignition key and, as the flat six of the 911 burst into life, felt his blood quicken. The car was a few years old but it was another major plus in his life, as was the thought of driving it off the ferry and across France to the rendezvous in Switzerland.

The journey to Poole took only forty minutes. At a little after 7 a.m. he joined the short queue of cars and was soon driving up the ramp and into the bowels of the car deck. As he did so, suddenly, unaccountably, he felt an emptiness, a loneliness, a wish to turn and go back. The feeling was totally alien to him and, had he been superstitious, he might have paused. But he was not and did not. With a shake of the head he threw the momentary blackness aside.

*

7.05 a.m. Outside the maisonette Eileen, smart in crisp white uniform shirt, black skirt and black and white chequered tie, was opening the driver’s door of the Citroen. Her hat and shoulder bag were still in the hall of the maisonette, where she could pick them up after garaging the car. She turned the ignition key. The motor fired instantly and settled into a fast tick-over. About to