Which was why all she had on beneath her silk dressing gown was some very slinky and revealing cream lace underwear that she had bought on Saturday, at an outrageous cost, from a specialist shop in Brighton. All evening she had been planning what she would do when he arrived. She would open the door, kiss him, then stand back and let the front of the dressing gown fall open.
She was longing to see his reaction! She had once read that men got turned on by women who took the lead. And it was a real turn-on for her just lying here, in this outfit, thinking about it. The clock on the front of the video player read eight minutes past midnight. Where are you? she wondered.
As if in response, her home phone rang. She put the cordless handset to her ear and answered. It was Roy, on a crackly mobile.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m OK. Where are you, you poor thing?’
‘Five minutes from the office. I’ve got a couple of things to quickly sort for the morning – I could be with you in half an hour. Is it going to be too late to come over?’
‘No, it won’t be too late at all! Just get here when you can. I’ll have a drink waiting for you. How’s it gone?’
‘Good. It was very good. Tiring, but worth the journey. Are you really sure you’d like me to come over?’
‘I’m totally sure, my darling! Making love is really a lot more fun with two people than one!’
She heard the call-waiting beep just as she hung up. The phone instantly rang again.
‘Hello?’ she answered.
And then, Shit! she thought, her heart sinking as she heard the voice at the other end. Bugger, bugger, bugger! Why now?
102
Skunk’s phone pinged. An incoming text. He disentangled himself from a half-undressed Bethany, desperately trying to get his bearings. He’d been asleep, his body was all cramped up, he couldn’t find the fucking phone. And he had the shakes badly now.
‘Ouch!’ Beth said as he dug his hand under her thigh.
‘Trying to find me phone.’
‘Think I broke my back earlier,’ she said, then giggled.
‘You’re a dirty cow.’
He found it, on the floor in the front passenger footwell. It was a text from DC Paul Packer:
In place. u ready?
Skunk texted back:
yes
The time display showed fourteen minutes past midnight.
Awkwardly wiggling around, with Bethany complaining that he was squashing her, Skunk got his shell-suit bottoms back up. He still had his sneakers on. He gave Bethany a quick peck on the cheek. ‘See ya!’
‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’
‘Got a meeting in me office!’
‘Tell me about it!’
‘I gotta go.’
He climbed out of the car with difficulty, his body still stiff and very shaky, and stood in the dark shadow of the construction site hoarding, one hand on the car, the other on the hoarding wall. He was breathing heavily, palpitating, and thought for a moment he was going to throw up. Rivulets of sweat were guttering down his head and body. He saw Beth’s face peering out anxiously at him, caught like a ghost by the glare of a street lamp opposite.
He took a step forward and realized he was giddy. He swayed and nearly fell over, just catching the side of the car in time to steady himself. Gotta do this! he told himself. Gotta do this, hang it out a little longer, just take those steps forward, can’t screw this up, gotta do it, gotta. Gotta!
He pulled the hood of his thin cagoule up over his head, then launched himself forward. A breeze had started and the hoarding rattled a little. There were silent cars parked along both sides of the street, bathed in orange sodium glow from the street-lighting. The MG was about fifty yards ahead.
He was conscious that he was walking unsteadily. And aware that he was being watched. He didn’t know where they were, but he knew they were somewhere in this street. Probably in one of the cars or vans. He passed a black Prius. A 2CV Citroën. A dusty Mitsubishi people-carrier blurred out of focus as he reached it, then came back into focus again. The nausea was even stronger now. He felt an insect crawling on his left arm and slapped it with his hand. Then there were more insects crawling over him; he could feel their tiny, sharp feet on his skin. He patted his chest, reached around and patted his neck. Then his stomach. ‘Gerroff!’ he blurted.
In a sudden panic, he thought he had forgotten his levers kit. Had they fallen out in the car? Or had he left them in the camper?
He checked his pockets, each one in turn. No! Shite, no!
Then he checked them again. And they were there, nestling in the right-hand pocket of the cagoule, closed up in their hard, plastic casing.
Get a grip!
As he reached the rear of the MG, he was suddenly lit up with bright, white light. He heard the roar of an engine and stepped aside. Bethany hurtled past, flat out in first gear, waved, then gave him a toot.
Stupid cow! He grinned. Watched her tail lights disappear. Then, moving swiftly, feeling a little better suddenly now he was actually here, he removed the lever set from his pocket, opened the one he wanted and eased the tip into the door lock. It popped open within a few seconds. Instantly the alarm went off, a loud beeping, combined with all the lights flashing.
He stayed calm. They were not easy to nick, these cars, they had shock sensors and immobilizers. But some of the key wiring was right behind the dash. You could short it out, neutralizing the shock sensor and the immobilizer, and start the engine with just one bridge.
The interior smelled nice, all new upholstery, leather and a faint tang of a woman’s scent. He climbed in, leaving the door open, to keep the interior light on, ducked his head under the dash and immediately found what he was looking for. Two seconds later and the alarm stopped.
Then he heard a shout. A woman’s voice. Bellowing in fury.
‘HEY! THAT’S MY BLOODY CAR!’
Cleo sprinted down the street, her blood boiling. She was irritated enough that her carefully planned evening, already messed up by Roy’s unexpected trip to London, had now been totally and utterly ruined by a call-out, to recover the body of a dead wino from a bus shelter in Peacehaven. Seeing some lowlife fuckwit in a hoodie trying to steal her car, she was ready to rip his limbs off.
The car’s door slammed shut. She heard the engine turn over. The tail lights came on. Her heart was sinking. The bastard was getting away. Then just as she drew level with the Volvo parked behind it, the whole interior of the MG suddenly lit up in a bright flash, as if a massive light bulb had been switched on.
There was no bang. No sound of any explosion. It was just suddenly filled with silent, leaping flames, contained inside the cockpit. Like a light show.
She stopped, staring in numb shock, wondering for an instant if the fuckwit hoodie was just a vandal, deliberately setting it on fire. Except he was still inside the car.
Throwing herself forward, she reached the driver’s door and saw his desperate, emaciated face at the window. He seemed to be struggling with the interior handle, throwing his weight against the door, as if it were stuck, then frantically hammering on the door window with his fist, looking at her with pleading eyes. She could see his hood was on fire. And his eyebrows. And she could feel the heat now. In panic, she reached out for the door handle and pulled it. Nothing happened.