A Date with The Devil Pt. 02

Mary Rose silently cursed. Why oh why had she decided to wear tight blue jeans? Jo's touch felt fine but it would be finer still if she'd been in a skirt.

And it would feel even finer if she'd also abandoned her knickers.

'What made you chose here?' Jo asked.

Mary Rose had to shake herself alert. Jo's hand was hardly moving but, even through the taut denim, it was having an effect.

'Beerintheevening,' she replied.

'What's that when it's at home?'

'It's an on-line pub guide. I entered the post code for your nick and it threw up the nearest hostelries.'

Jo chuckled. 'So there was no intent?'

'No, how could there be?'

'This place has several claims to fame. The Salvation Army's very first meeting was here. It's the start of the Monopoly Pub Crawl. Bobby Moore once owned it. And, of course, there was George Cornell.'

'Sorry, Sexy Legs, you lost me at Old Kent Road.'

'Cornell was an associate of the Richardson Gang, back in the 60s. He made the terrible and totally unforgivable mistake of calling Ronnie Kray a "fat poof".'

'Did he do that in here?'

'Not that I'm aware. But Ronnie sorted him out in here. Shot him in the head with a Luger, he did. And if I'm not very much mistaken, Georgie Boy was sitting on the barstool you were on when I arrived.'

Mary Rose grimaced. 'Leave it out, no way was I.'

'Don't worry. It's probably not the exact same stool. That one's probably in the Black Museum, along with the Luger. Or was it a Mauser? Whatever, you were sitting in the right place.'

'Shit,' said Mary Rose, 'why didn't I suggest McDonalds?'

Jo's hand cupped her, only lightly squeezing but all the more tantalizing for that.

'Sex will have to wait,' she said. 'What's this favour you need?'

Untypically hesitant, Mary Rose mentioned "the missing heiress". 'I think I met her, but I've been told I am mistaken. And the little I've read in the newspapers makes me wonder.'

'Are you saying you know something about her death?'

'I'm saying there's a tiny chance I might. But it's . . . it really is a tiny chance. If the papers are correct I would be wasting everyone's time by coming forward. I hoped you might fill me in. Then I can decide what I ought to do.'

Jo frowned. 'If you know anything at all you need to come forward.'

'I know that. But I'm as good as certain I don't know anything.' Mary Rose crossed her fingers behind her back as she fibbed. 'Can't you just give me some background? Then I'll know and, trust me, I'll do the decent thing.'

She meant it, too. Never mind her career and reputation, if Julia had died because of Friday night she was going to speak out.

And damn the consequences.

'It's not one of mine.' Jo shrugged. 'Not yet, anyway. I don't know much more than those reporters.'

'So it's not a murder?'

'Not officially. And believe it or not, I don't go touting for business. I've got enough on my plate as it is. If and when the powers-that-be decide it is a murder, I'll be the first to know.'

'So you're not really up to speed?'

'I know virtually zilch. But I suppose I could have a nosy in the file. Assuming you're free to discuss my findings tomorrow night.'

'Do you mean at my place?'

'I certainly do. It's been over a month. We're well overdue.'

Mary Rose grinned and asked if Jo was ready for another drink.

*****

Staying on the tube for an extra two stops, Mary Rose went to a café which unashamedly did all-day breakfasts, seven days a week. Tea and toast hadn't filled her and three pints of Doom Bar had only put an edge on her appetite.

Doom Bar, she mused as, replete, she strolled back towards her pad. I bet I'm one of the select few who knows what that means.

She knew thanks to a week she had spent with Hev, two summers ago, in Padstow. Or "Padstein" as some of the locals would have it. Their holiday in north Cornwall had been brilliant. They had dined at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant three times and twice taken the (oddly yellow) Black Tor Ferry, their skipper taking care to avoid the dreaded Doom Bar sandbank as they travelled to picturesque Rock.

Created by a disillusioned mermaid, the sandbank had accounted for six hundred ships since records began, two centuries ago . . . and maybe six thousand since time began.

There again, the Cornish did love their legends, didn't they?

Yes, north Cornwall had been brilliant. Maybe not-so sadly, the Kensington crowd hadn't been there. Mary Rose only thought that was a shame because she quite fancied Prince Harry. Not that he'd have got much of a look-in with Hev on her case.

Not that anyone ever got a look-in with Hev on her case.

Mare's mobile rang as she was debating whether or not another drink was in order.

'It's me,' said Jo, 'I've got the file in front of me. Well, I'm in the system and it's up on my screen.'

'Whooo, don't say you've gone back to work for little old me.'

'I have and I expect you to adequately reward me tomorrow night. Now shut up and listen. I'm late for the barbie as it is, so I'll summarize as I read through.'

Mobile clamped to ear, Mary Rose went into a small park and sat on a green-painted bench.

'Julia Parker-Ward,' said Jo, 'reported missing Monday 31st May, which was Spring Bank Holiday. We found her on the evening of 3rd June. Rudimentary autopsy on Friday 4th didn't determine cause.'

'Why was it rudimentary?' Mary Rose wondered.

'Her dad's a Christian Scientist. He wouldn't give permission.'

'I didn't think he had the right to say no.'

'He hasn't. But he has friends in high places, so we're playing along for the time being. And don't you worry; we'll be going for the fully Monty next week, if we need to.'

'So what was found out?'

'She was dead when she went into the water. There were plenty of abrasions on her, all consistent with bumping along the river bottom, crashing into rusty old bike frames and what have you. The only possible ante-mortem injury was a bang on the head. The pathologist reckons she was drunk or high and fell, braining herself on the way into the water.'

'Hard enough to. . . .'

'Cause instant death without any bruising. Yeah; that's the working theory.'

'It doesn't sound likely.'

'Believe it or not, that sort of thing happens all the time. Don't you read the newspapers? Trust me; it's happening more and more often. And we're seeing it with gals as well as guys.'

Mary Rose supposed she had seen similar stories of late. Indeed hadn't she assumed something like that herself just yesterday? 'If there's no cause of death, is there a time of death?' she ventured.

'That's tricky. Floaters defy all the usual rules. It's the water, you see. As well as washing away DNA it quickly corrupts the body. And the Thames might look very nice under a Waterloo sunset, but it is full of effluence, treated and otherwise. Human, animal, industrial . . . you name it.'

'So you haven't a clue when she died.'

'Wait a sec; don't dismiss our heroic efforts out of hand. Let's see what we did while she was missing. Right, here goes. Julia was last seen on Thursday afternoon, when she took her last lesson at school. She had some sort of big weekend coming up, apparently, and booked Friday off. There are records of phone conversations since then, but we found nobody prepared to say they physically saw her.'

'When were the phone conversations?'

'There's a flurry on the Friday, then just one on Saturday afternoon.'

Mary Rose's heart leapt. If Julia had made a call on Saturday afternoon then she hadn't been killed by one of Apollyon's guests. And she hadn't died by misadventure on her way home, either. At least not directly on her way home from being the Holy Virgin.

'Saturday's call was from her landline,' Jo expanded. 'It was to a taxi firm in Balham, of all places. No recording, unfortunately, but it was a female, booking a cab to collect her from the station and to take her from there to a local cabaret bar. She didn't turn up at the station, so the driver accepted another fare and forgot all about her.'

'A cabaret bar in Balham,' said Mary Rose. 'Sounds like a fun Saturday night out.'

'We were mostly working on Julia's Facebook contacts,' Jo continued. 'There's a lot of traffic on there. For the last month or two she's been going on about a guy she calls "K". At first he's just a hunk she's seen in the gym. Then he's introducing himself and buying her coffee. By Friday 28th she's got a big date in the offing, clearly with him. And next day, Saturday 29th, she's all wows and dozens of smiley emoticons.'

That swung it as far as Mary Rose was concerned. Bruno was right. The Holy Virgin just happened to look like poor Julia. While they'd been having their orgy Julia had been miles away with K.

No, with K who just might be a killer who stalked prey on the Internet.

'I guess he's your man,' said Mary Rose.

'I guess he's someone we need to speak to,' Jo agreed. 'But finding him isn't very easy. Julia was a member of four different gyms and we don't know what K stands for. It could be an initial, a nickname or something she just made up herself. We were plodding through all her male fellow members when her body surfaced. Right now we're waiting for test results. Unless they tell us something new, we will probably end up plodding through every K on Facebook as well.'

'What are you hoping the tests will show?'

'Now there's a question. I won't tell you what a body is like after a week in the river; all I'll say is that it's not a pretty sight. But the pathologist is reasonably sure Julia had sex not very long before dying. Any external DNA will have gone but there's a small chance something was left inside her. If there is and we win this week's lottery, it'll be someone we have on record.

'Someone with a K in his name, you mean, living near Balham.'

'You suddenly sound cheerful, Ms Archer. What do you know that I don't?'

'I know that the girl I met couldn't have been Julia.'

'Are you absolutely sure about that?'

'Jo, I'm one hundred percent,' Mary Rose said sincerely.

Then, after saying farewell and ringing off, she grinned.

Julia had been hooked up with some muscle-bound freak and alive and well on Saturday. Okay, so it was sad she was dead, but no fault of hers.

She had nothing to worry about after all.

And she'd get absolute, final proof of that on Friday, wouldn't she? Sally might not be Holy Virgin this time, but surely she'd be there. And surely she'd be recognizable, mask or no mask.

Why, they could even fuck to celebrate her still being alive.

Bring it on!

Chapter Seventeen

Leo didn't particularly like or trust Bruno but had to admit, he could pull in new women. And pulling in new women was essential to Leo's profitability. Leastways it had been until last night's breakthrough.

Paying attention wasn't easy. Not now the world had shifted on its axis.

He'd seen it happen before but now he'd done it for himself. Now mere business propositions seemed shallow and unworthy.

'She's a troublemaker,' Bruno was saying. 'What's more, she's persistent. I get the feeling she's going to keep on asking questions. And she'll raise Hell when Sally's not here on Friday night. We haven't a choice in the matter; she has to be silenced.'

That caught Leo's attention. 'Oh no,' he said. 'Not when she doesn't actually know anything. And not when we've successfully covered our tracks.'

'Do you mean by throwing the stupid cunt into the river?' Bruno snorted. 'Okay, accidents happen, but that one was avoidable. Throwing her into the fucking river, I ask you!'

Leo growled. 'So what should we have done?'

'I have a mate who owns a foundry. I have another who has a big-time incinerator. Then there's a guy who runs a crematorium. If all else failed, I'd have buried her somewhere for you; somewhere deep and very remote.'

'You weren't around to ask. You'd already gone off with your girlfriend.'

'You could have still used some nous.'

'Right, well we didn't have contacts or time for anything elaborate. And the river's worked fine before. She should have been halfway across the Channel by now.'

'Fucking amateurs,' Bruno observed with a growl of his own.

'We've taken other steps,' Leo said stiffly. 'We're in the clear.'

'Not if Mary Rose has her way. She has to be silenced.'

Leo sighed and wished he'd thought of some other way to make money. The sabbats had seemed so simple. Form a club for rich men . . . and a few rich women . . . and charge monthly subs. Of course there was a need for younger women and men, too; ones who just liked sex and didn't know that lots of the other "members" were paying for it, in a roundabout way.

The last five years had gone swimmingly. Leo's only problem was the size of his chapel. It held forty at a push, and he could have filled it seven days a week.

Skilled as the accountant he'd once been, Leo had found a solution. His subscribers could now pay a minimal rate else upgrade. The cheapskates got one night's attendance a month and no say as to just when. Meanwhile the high-rollers got four or five nights a month and red carpets all the way.

It worked pretty much like any other entertainment business, really.

By now he had ten high-rollers, twenty cheapskates and another twenty in-between. Keeping control, aiming for fifteen to twenty subscribers to attend each week, Leo balanced the books.

The bad news was that he depended on pricks like Bruno to keep producing fresh meat.

And how amazing was that? Pricks like Bruno were able to seduce young ladies of all descriptions and, quite incredibly, persuade them it was a good idea to party.

Come with me, fuck for free and have a good time!

There were other "Brunos", too, and a Brunella. Between them they kept up the flow of fresh meat, making sure the subscribers' widely varying tastes were catered for.

In his heart of hearts Leo knew Satanism didn't really enter the equation. Most of his subscribers got off on the theatrics but all of them, male and female, were really there to fuck the girls and the boys. All they needed was an assurance everyone was over eighteen and hey presto, they were in. And, once in, they were there long-term.

The girls and the boys were more transient but, in many ways, that was good. The subscribers didn't want to fuck the same holes forever, did they? And, best of all, those younger girls and boys attended because they liked pushing boundaries. Three or four visits were usually enough for them. And then, another one ticked off on the bucket list, it was on to pastures new.

It was a deal made in . . . Well, not Heaven, but not necessarily the other place.

Why did Bruno have to rock the boat now? Okay, he knew nothing about last night's breakthrough but couldn't he have picked a better time to grouch?

'Let me tell you what we did on Saturday,' Leo began. 'Covering our tracks . . .'

'Shut the fuck up,' Bruno countered, holding up a staying hand. 'I don't need to know and I don't want to know. I just want rid of Mary Rose, permanently. And after all,' he added with a nasty chuckle, 'one more can't hurt, can it?'

Even bloated by unexpected success, Leo flinched away from murder. Or maybe it was scary Bruno he flinched away from. Either way, he did what all successful accountants always do and went for the middle ground.

'Okay,' he said, 'I'll get rid of her by giving her to your countryman, Nino.'

'That Arab bastard,' Bruno spat on the floor of Leo's well-appointed study. 'You're more Sicilian than he is. And you're just useless Inglese scum.'

'I'm Polish.'

'Like fuck.'

Somehow, silently resolving to send Bruno a midnight visitor to finish him once and for all, Leo stayed calm. 'Okay, so maybe he is an Arab. But he'll take the problem off our hands, no problem.'

Bruno's eyes gleamed as, less aggressively, he leant forward. 'So what will he do?'

'He has a plane at a private airfield. I can't say for sure, but I'd imagine he'll fly her to Italy. Then he'll put her onto his yacht and use her as a sex toy for a month or so. Then he'll give her to his bodyguard for a day or two. Then she'll be passed on to the crew.'

'And he'll keep her secure?'

'He always has before.' Leo chuckled. 'After the crew it'll be a brothel for her. By then she'll be like all the others: living from fix to fix. Two months after that she'd be weighed down and sunk in the Med.'

Bruno laughed.

'Maybe you're not so useless after all.'

*****

Two hundred miles away, fresh from telephone sex with Mary Rose, Heather asked the question.

'This latest craze of yours; you're over it, aren't you?'

'Do you mean my sexy devil-worshipping?' Mary Rose guffawed. 'Hev, it's a bit of adult fun; no more, no less. You'd love it yourself. Now shut up and talk me off again.'

'No, really, Mare, I'm worried about you.'

'Well don't be. I've got everything under control . . .'

*****

Lindsey didn't have everything under control. She'd only just woken from her blackout and, although it felt late, didn't know if it was night or day.

And she felt . . . strange; woozy if not actually nauseous.

Her memory was on the blink, too. She could recall the importance of "mystic numbers" all right. Five was the number of the human being . . . and of the birth sign, Leo, ironically enough.

Five was also the number of last night's female lovers.

Six was a perfect number. It was the number of Venus and Virgo.

Six was also the number she'd made with last night's lovers, as she'd lost that final virginity with them.

As for seven . . .

Well, seven was supposed to be Satan's number, wasn't it?

As if on cue the bedroom door opened. Seeing Leonard made her realize where she was.

She was still in his house.

And, by the looks of things, she was in his bed.

Emotionless, unable to move or raise any objection, feeling woozier than ever, she stayed flat out on the bed. Leonard closed the door behind him and smiled.

'Last night was astounding,' he said. 'It was my biggest achievement and you were superb. I can't say how much you deserve your reward.'

Lindsey frowned but said nothing.

Mad dreams aside, what really had happened last night?

'We were visited by an emissary of the Lord of this World,' Leonard said, seemingly reading her mind. 'Last night His emissary visited the seven of us, favoring us beyond my wildest expectations . . . And, naturally, favoring you beyond all.'

He was taking his clothes off as he spoke. Smart/casual to start with, he was soon mostly undressed and neither smart or casual.

He was also fully erect.

Closing her eyes, Lindsey assessed her capabilities. Leonard's words were all blah as far as she was concerned. Last night there hadn't been any emissary "favoring" her, it had all been trickery aided and abetted by darkness and candlelight. In fact it must have been him "favoring" her.

And here he was, back for an encore.

Problem was, she didn't feel capable of jumping up and fleeing. Quite frankly, she didn't give a fuck if he went again.

Well, preferably he'd leave her alone. Preferably everyone would leave her alone.

For two pins she could throw up.

Leonard laughed. Scaring her for some reason, inexplicably making her believe he knew more about her than she did.

'Our Lord's emissary serviced you well,' he said, his voice low, persuasive. 'Surely you remember?'

'I remember someone cumming in me,' she replied, the words emerging without any consideration at all. 'I thought it was you.'

Leonard laughed again, hysterically this time. 'I'm barred from cumming in you,' he said. 'There are a lot of other things we can do, but cumming in you is barred . . . now you're impregnated.'

That summonsed a response.

'I take precautions,' Lindsey said listlessly. 'No body's going to impregnate me.'