Nightkiss

David Wiltshire

Description

A masked serial rapist terrorizes a cathedral city. Detective Inspector Reg Tombs is assigned to hunt him down.But as he draws closer to the madman, his own life is in danger, - as well as his girlfriend - acting as bait in her flat, waiting for the beat of the 'Vampire's' wings.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: eBookPartnership.com
• Date de parution: 25 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783014002
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

NIGHT KISS
by
DAVID WILTSHIRE
2014 DAVID WILTSHIRE
David Wiltshire has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by David Wiltshire
First published in eBook format in 2014
ISBN: 978-1-78301-400-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eBook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Sex is a dirty business, but hell, somebody s got to do it.
Thus ran my unoriginal thoughts as I heaved my delicate white buttocks up into the air and thrust them down again - not so much in agonized frenzy, more a familiar, pleasant ritual of a man who has been there many times before and knows that, God willing, this was decidedly not his last passage to transient heaven.
From somewhere beneath me, Rosy - my favourite tart - gave a practised groan of ecstasy and clawed at my back - somewhat feebly I thought considering her revised price list - and dutifully pushed her pelvis up to ensure maximum fit.
You know Rosy and I made love like an old married couple, something had to be wrong didn t it?
Inspired by this thought I shifted gear and began humping excitedly - like that Labrador puppy in the old TV advert who s just found his toilet roll, startling Rosy who I swear to God was reaching unseeingly for a toffee in the tin on the bedside table.
Her old bed began to rock dangerously - emitting more noise than Rosy who had now shut up, and eyes wide as a barn owl s was hanging on for dear life.
Why the hell is it called screwing? I was doing my best to rivet the wench to the mattress in a series of hammer blows - no bloody twisting round like a screwdriver. A man could get hurt like that.
Then the good Lord cut my strings and I collapsed to one side of her like a ravaged puppet, and began a racking persistent cough that won t go away. I ve tried everything - except stopping smoking. It can t be that . Look, I lit my first Players Weights twenty odd years ago - and I ve only just started coughing.
Rosy sucked in much needed air.
Jeesus, what the hell got into you?
When I got my breath back I lied.
God, Rosy, you re so lovely.
She hit me, good and hard on my flank, but I could see she was happy as she slipped from the bed and made off to do her professional ablutions. Women are like that - even the most sophisticated are touchingly na ve. I ve got a lot of time for them. They are clean, gentle, trusting and loyal. They also smell good and feel even better. One thing, my job would almost disappear overnight if everybody was a woman.
Come to think of it, I read somewhere that the Y chromosome is going to die out. So its official - I am a dinosaur - my ex-wife was right all along.
I reached for my fags, lit up, and contemplated my flesh in the stick-on mirrors on the ceiling above me.
For thirty-five odd years of age it wasn t bad, tight muscles over the flat stomach, rich mass of hair still dark on my chest - and head. And of course down there, the Stoat lay in his thicket like the exhausted animal he was.
The chuckle at my deliberate self-deception sent me into a bronchial spasm.
Rosy called from above running water.
You should stop smoking.
And you should stop whoring.
I examined myself. Who was I kidding? The hair on my chest was tinged with grey - the hair on my head was thinning and my stomach had the first signs of a beer gut.
Only the Stoat was for real.
Rosy returned, sweeping into the room in a pink creation that might have afforded protection from mosquito bites but little else: it did not however stop ordinary light rays. I gazed with uninterrupted pleasure at the source of all womanhood that was a continuing wonder to me. It winked back at me from a minor cloud of scented talc.
Most woman might have averted their eyes - covered their modesty. Rosy however pouted and struck a stance. Her breasts were really quite breathtaking - making me wonder, not for the first time, if man-made engineering was afoot - or rather atit.
I felt a movement and looked down. The bloody Stoat was cocking an eye at her.
Rosy deftly flicked him with the flannel she was carrying.
That s enough of that.
She cradled him in both hands like a Cuban woman rolling a good cigar, and proceeded to give him his after-action wash and brush-up.
A warm feeling, towards her, towards humanity - even to some of the clients that were currently on my mind began to suffuse my body. Obviously it must have shown on my face, because next minute the flannel was wrapping itself around my cheeks.
You can take that silly smirk off your mug right away.
I spat out instinctively.
For Christ sake, Rosy.
Isn t it time you went to work? she yelled.
She only saw me in the morning as a special favour, after all if I was a real shit I could make life really tedious for her. Besides, deep down she really likes me.
Further marital-type bliss was interrupted by the telephone.
She picked it up, and snapped
Hello and then looked at me gob smacked as she listened, then said - Yes - he s here.
Finally she lowered the phone, and found her tongue.
Christ Reg - that was the Nick. Said you had to get in - urgent.
I could see another emergency arising as Rosy shook her head.
They ve got my number - you gave them my number ?
There wasn t much time. I made haste for my boxer shorts, dignity and safety.
Only to be used in cases of life and death Rosy - you know I can t get a signal for my mobile - Rosy!
* * *
The bitch threw my trousers out of the open window.
I locked the door on my 2004 Ford Focus and scanned the car park. There wasn t a single vehicle in sight that I cared for; only the Chief Constable had a car that was new - a Range Rover. I was already counting the years to my retirement from the Job. Everything was planned. Chris Porter of the local Car Auction had put out feelers. When it came I would have a lump sum and a pension, and my flat would be paid for. So for two or three days a week I intended ferrying new cars - expensive cars - to the dealers.
Can you imagine it? Driving the best wheels and getting paid for it?
Then every once in a while it would be back to the States for me. I d spent two years as an exchange officer with the Chicago force and had made some great friends. The fact I blow a mean Sax had helped.
I d also picked up an attitude to the job, or at least to our clients that didn t go down too well with my superiors. Hell, they d taken my gun off me as soon as I d stepped back on these sunny shores. I jest of course, you can t get one of those on a plane since 9/11, but it took them months to find out about my imported heavy-duty nightstick! I also have trouble with political correctness and Elf and Safety . The country s going to the dogs.
I reached the security door and tapped in the code. My God, how things had changed since as a callow youth I had embarked on my chosen career in the police force - sorry - service. Long gone was Dixon and the Blue lamp. Now people attacked police stations for Christ s sake.
The familiar smell of stale sweat, disinfectant and polish assailed my nostrils as I turned down the corridor past the locker rooms.
Nodding to familiar faces I arrived at the well padded figure of Elsie Stokes on the switchboard.
Hi Elsie - you rang?
She had a lovely face, with fine long eyelashes, which beat the air, like butterflies wings.
Oh, Mr Tombs, Detective Chief superintendent Groves wants you urgently.
Wincing I turned up the stairs. If Grovesy was calling it must be bad. I knocked on his door and without asking, stuck my head around.
You wanted me, Sir?
Ah Reg, got something for you.
I effected a concerned face, eager to please, but apologetic - a load of shit of course.
I ve got a very full desk at the moment Sir. May I suggest -
I got no further. He knew it was shit, said as much.
Cut the crap Reg, the Rape Unit is just finishing with a victim. Looks like the bloody Vampire is out of his box again. Nasty case - entry into a private dwelling. Clear your desk of everything, pass them down the line. I ve advised Mr Bell what s going on. We re expanding the Incident Room - you are to take overall charge.
He looked up at me knowingly.
If I tell you that even now the Chief Constable is on local TV giving assurances to the public . .
I groaned. The implication was plain.
The old Tombs luck was running true. Who ever had the job of tracking this psycho had his arse in a sling from day one.
Ding-dong Bell - the chief was already taking a close, personal interest - a sort of food chain with the big fish eating the little fish. Guess where I stood? And as the pressure came on him it would bloody fall on the poor bugger leading