Kittycat

Catherine Somers stared at the wall, feeling physically sick, and wondered how the hell she got to this place in her life. When she'd been promoted to her current post she was the youngest female Assistant Commissioner in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Now, at the age of 44, she just felt washed out, incapable of coping with her life anymore. Of course, a lot of that had to do with her husband. A senior solicitor with the Crown Prosecution Service, she had known for a couple of months that he was having an affair with a girl in his office, a kid young enough to be their daughter; well, his, anyway. They had never discussed it, but he knew Catherine knew, and he hardly bothered to make up lies anymore about why he'd had to stay late at the office, or why he had to stay somewhere overnight on business.

Then there was the new bloody Commissioner. Promoted over her head -- and those of the Deputy Commissioners, and the other Assistant Commissioners -- he had come in from a rural county with lots of new ideas. Of course, they always changed things, they had to make their mark and impress their political masters. This one's brilliant idea, one of them anyway, was that his Assistants were out of touch with modern policing, so they needed to go out onto the streets, and re-learn what it was like on the front line. In Catherine's case, she had to admit that maybe he had a point. Educated at an exclusive girls' school, then Oxford, where she'd achieved her honours degree in criminology, she'd been recruited by the Met on a fast track programme that saw her sitting in an office conducting policy reviews from day one. She'd never done any real life policing in her entire career. So that's why she was now here, on a wet Tuesday night in South London, in a dingy little flat which smelt of sweat, boiled cabbage and stale cigarettes, while a drugs task force corralled the residents downstairs, racially abused them and searched the place for illegal substances.

The wail of a terrified infant drifted up the stairs. Catherine sighed and drifted into what she thought was a bedroom. Strictly speaking, she was supposed to stay with the other officers; but the upstairs had already been swept for booty, and she wanted a bit of peace, to get away from all the macho posturing of her erstwhile colleagues as they tore the downstairs apart. She was surprised, though, to see that it wasn't a bedroom. At least, that wasn't what it was used for. It was almost bare, save for a potter's wheel in one corner, what she assumed was some sort of kiln, and a table. And on the table was the most extraordinary sight. It was a clay model of, well, a man's genitalia. The testicles formed its base, and it stood upright, like a space rocket, pointing at the ceiling. It was undecorated and retained the original reddish brown colour of the clay. It was huge -- a good ten inches high, clearly larger than life, and incredibly detailed. She stared open-mouthed at what appeared to be a vein running up one idea of the model. Strangely fascinated by it, she moved closer her eyes fixed on the thing. As if in a trance, she reached out a hand, and ran a finger slowly, delicately up the vein...

"Lifelike, innit?" At the sound of the voice she gasped, and withdrew her hand as if the clay penis had bitten it. She whirled round to see a figure leaning lazily against the frame of the open door. He was an IC3 male (West Indian), mid-thirties maybe, about six feet tall, with a slim but apparently well muscled body, sporting a Bob Marley T-shirt and rather grubby jeans. Shoulder-length dreadlocks framed a thin face with eyes as black and hard as lumps of coal, high prominent cheekbones and a chin that tapered to a sharp point, covered by a thin line of beard, rather Marleyish itself. The guy repeated, "I said, the cock -- lifelike, isn't it?" His accent was South London, with a slight Jamaican twang, his voice a deep rumble.

Catherine felt her face unaccountably flush, and she felt confused -- she thought the coppers downstairs had everyone in the house under control. Glancing at the phallus again, trying not to let her eyes rest on it for too long, she replied to his question. "I wouldn't know, is it?" Christ, she was a senior police officer, with a dozen baton-wielding heavies one flight of stairs away -- why did she feel so nervous? Almost unconsciously, she rested her hand lightly on the handle of her own baton, a gesture which didn't go unnoticed by the rasta.

He nodded slowly, and pushed himself away from the doorframe, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "Yeah, it is. Talented lady, my Belinda. I can show you if you like." He grinned at the lady cop's bewildered expression, displaying large teeth with a gap between the upper incisors. Speaking more slowly, as if to a congenital idiot, he said "Would you like to see just how lifelike dat dere dong is?" Grinning even more widely, he spread his hand suggestively over his groin.

Catherine couldn't believe it. Did this idiot have any idea who he was talking to? She could take him in and throw the key away just for looking at her in a funny way. Her eyes were drawn magnetically once again to the clay model. Of course it wasn't lifelike, it was obviously far too big. She turned back to face the man, and saw with horror that he had unzipped the fly of his jeans about an inch. Her mouth felt terribly dry. Why was she just standing here like a rag doll, staring at him as the zip dropped another quarter-inch? He must know about the racist uniforms downstairs. God, why wasn't she doing anything herself?

Grinning more widely by the moment, the rasta continued to slide his zip down, infinitely slowly, as if waiting for her to tell him to stop and nick him for gross indecency. Then the fly was all the way down. Giving Catherine a sly look, and stepping a pace closer to her, he half-whispered, apparently with a mixture of amazement and relish, "White cop lady do want to see the big black man's prick, don't she?" Catherine watched in dumb paralysis as, his eyes locked on hers, the leering man reached inside his jeans. A moment later, there is was. Oh God, the model really was a true representation. She stared at it, the biggest cock she had ever seen in the flesh. She honestly recognised it from the model, right down to that vein. Swallowing nervously, she took a step closer to the man, eyes fixed on his crotch.

At that moment there was a pounding of feet on the stairs, and a uniformed sergeant burst through the doorway, grabbing the frame to slow his pace. Pushing the black guy -- who had quickly stuffed his knob away -- into the wall he ranted, "Oi sunshine, I thought you wanted a piss? Are you all right ma'am?" Catherine nodded then, belatedly finding her voice, said she was fine. As two constables entered the room and pinned the rasta to the wall, the sergeant noticed the clay model for the first time, and advanced on it with a malicious glint in his eye. With a sweep of his baton he knocked it to the floor, where he smashed it under his boot.

The black guy roared in fury at that, and tried to shake off the hands which firmly held him against the wall. Catherine jumped at the sound, as if some sort of spell had been broken. Sharply, she said, "Sergeant, was that entirely necessary?"

The man was obviously thinking quickly, an act which Catherine doubted came naturally to him. "Well ma'am, it was possible there was drugs moulded into it, we had to check."

Scowling, Catherine turned her back on him and snapped at the constables, "Unless you're arresting that gentleman for anything you found in this house, kindly release him." The young PCs did so, reluctantly, and stood tensely waiting to grab him again if he made a wrong move. But he simply slumped back against the wall, staring miserably at the shattered remnants of his girlfriend's handiwork.

Back at her desk at New Scotland Yard, in the early hours of the morning, Catherine stood in the ladies, splashing water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw a face drained of blood and haunted eyes. She was mortified. How could she have been so, what, stupid? Pathetic? What the fuck was she thinking of letting some suspect flash her? Maybe her cheating bastard of a husband wasn't the only one going through a midlife crisis. After completing the report she'd drafted of the evening's events -- having left out any reference to her encounter in the art studio -- she gathered herself and left the building. The apartment she and Peter, her husband, shared during the week was in Pimlico, only about 15 minutes walk from her office, and she felt the cool night air, and the steady drizzle, might do her some good.

She let herself into the cold, empty flat. Peter was away in Birmingham for a few days, working with the local force on something. No doubt his slag girlfriend was with him. Sighing, Catherine towelled off her damp, short curly brown hair and switched on the kettle for her 500th coffee of the day. A few minutes later, having carefully hung up her uniform, she stripped and prepared to climb into bed. As she did she caught sight of herself in the full length mirror, and paused. She really wasn't a bad looking woman, for her age. She'd never been considered beautiful, but she'd kind of matured into her looks, and her face was certainly attractive now. Her cheeks were showing the first signs of plumpness, but she didn't have a double chin. Her quite large breasts were still firm, with no hint of drooping. There was only the smallest swell of extra flesh at her tummy, and her trimmed, dark brown pubic hair stretched down to firm thighs. She'd always been proud of her good legs. She sank onto the bed and started at the ceiling in the darkness. She was still desirable; Christ, a couple of the blokes at work openly flirted with her. Okay, it was all just a bit of fun, but...why hadn't Peter screwed her more than three times in the past year, and not much more for the two or three years before that? More to the point, why would a 51-year old man want a skinny, plain-faced little girl when he had Catherine at his beck and call? She rolled over, furious at the teardrops which had formed in the corners of her eyes.

Catherine was back at her desk by nine o'clock the next morning, dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept well, being disturbed by alarming dreams she couldn't quite recall. Sighing -- she did that so much these days -- she sipped a strong black coffee as she checked her schedule for the day. Oh good, she was actually going to be allowed to get on with her real work, a couple of reports to write, a few to study, a briefing in the afternoon on a staff morale review...no more playing cops and robbers for a day or two. The Commissioner's rather creepy assistant had scheduled her to go out with the vice squad on Friday, for a raid on an illegal brothel. Oh great, just what she needed: bursting in with a bunch of Met heavies on a gang of gun-toting Russian mafiosa, and arresting a load of terrified teenage Albanian girls who had escaped a life of grinding poverty back home for a life as sex slaves in a country whose language they didn't even speak. That would do wonders for her morale - not! Taking a deep draught of coffee, she wondered what she had done to piss off the creepy assistant so mightily.

The morning actually went quite well, and quite quickly. She got several of her reports cleared, and managed to hardly think at all about Peter fucking his little blonde cupie doll. The dark events of the night before had more or less been driven from her mind. By one o'clock Catherine had built up a real appetite, and decided to wander to the Italian café across the road to pick up a sandwich. She could have asked Joanne, her secretary, to go, but the sun was out and she could use a breath of fresh air, before an afternoon of teenage psychologists telling her and her fellow senior officers what they already knew, how fed up the rank and file were. Thinking about nothing in particular she left the building and paused to allow a car to pass before crossing to the café. She barely registered a tall figure in a green, yellow and red rasta hat slouching outside the place, and slipping inside as she approached.

There was quite a queue at the sandwich bar, and by the time she got served Catherine was feeling a little sweaty and a bit fed up. As she turned to return to her office, she got the shock of her life -- sitting not two yards from her on a stool, leaning back against a window table, was the rasta from the previous night! He had removed his multi-coloured hat, and sat grinning straight at her, chewing gum. His feet rested on the bar between the feet of the stool and his knees were wide apart. Not even realising she was doing it, Catherine's eyes strayed to the join of his legs. He was wearing tight jeans, and the bulge in the front of them was enormous! Feeling her face flush, she raised her eyes -- and saw that annoying grin of his again, widening as he took in the sight of her. He raised his eyebrows suggestively. At that moment someone pushed rather rudely past Catherine, and moment passed. But as she hurried back to New Scotland Yard she glanced back over her shoulder three times, and each time she saw the man's eyes boring into her, that confident grin like a Cheshire cat's.

Back at her desk, Catherine felt in shock. Putting her cheese salad baguette to one side -- she'd lost her appetite -- she checked her watch. Yes, she just had time before the briefing. Lifting the 'phone, she dialled the number of the Chief Inspector who had led the drugs raid the evening before. "Hi Jimmy, I'm looking for some information. There was a guy at the place we turned over last night, I'm wondering if you know who he is?" She described him.

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. "Oh yes, ma'am, I now him all right. A well known person of interest, as they say. Name's Sonny Anderson. We think he owns the gaff we raided last night, but of course there's nothing on the papers to prove it. Nasty piece of work, we think he's into drug trafficking, dealing, prostitution, you name it. He's also suspected of a couple of knifings. Trouble is, he's careful, we've never been able to pin more on him than a couple of parking tickets. We did have one fella last year ready to grass him up, but the guy suddenly disappeared. His brother said he's returned to Jamaica at short notice, but the funny thing is that the Kingston police have never been able to find him. Why are you interested in him?"

Catherine realised she hadn't thought of an excuse for her enquiry. "Oh, er, nothing, something just came up, that's all. Thanks Jimmy." She stared thoughtfully out of the window of her eighth storey office. It had to be just coincidence that she'd seen Anderson that day. Then she sniggered humourlessly at her risible attempt at self-delusion. Oh yeah, of course it was a coincidence, Brixton gangstas spent most of their time hanging out in coffee bars fifty yards from the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, it was a well know fact, ha ha. So why had he been there? To contact her? What was it he wanted from her?

She tired to put all thoughts of Sonny Anderson out of her mind during the morale briefing, but her mind kept slipping back to the conundrum of why he'd turned up on her doorstep. More than once during the afternoon she closed her eyes and saw a momentary vision of that huge semi-erect dong poking out of his fly. At one point she awoke from her reverie with a start as she realised an Assistant Commissioner -- her boss -- had asked her something, and she had no idea what.

Catherine was embarrassed, flustered and more than a little pissed off when she returned to her office. She was sure she had seen, as the briefing broke up, the A.C. who had asked her the question jerking his chin in her direction and joking with one of the other officers. Damn him, the bastard probably knew more about her husband's extra-marital activities than she did. When you came right down to it, the police force was still one of the most sexist organisations imaginable, just a big boys' club really. She'd only just settled at her desk when Joanne buzzed her. "Hi ma'am, I've got a caller for you, a Mister Anderson. Refuses to say what it's about, but he's quite insistent he needs to speak to you. It's not the first time he's 'phoned today. D'you want me to fob him off on someone else?"

Nervously, Catherine said she'd take the call. A moment later she heard the deep rumbling voice from the evening before. "Hi white police lady, how ya doin'?" He waited a moment for her response, but Catherine said nothing. Anderson continued, saying simply, "I got something for ya."

It was Catherine's turn to wait, for further comment, but none was forthcoming. She said, "What do you mean? What do you have for me? Do you mean information?"

When Anderson spoke again his voice was like warm honey, almost playful. "Yeah, somethin' like that. Somethin' you want...somethin' you need. Can't be seen talkin' to you though, we both got our reputations to consider. I wait in me car, in Orchard Street, say an hour's time?"

It was clear Catherine wasn't going to get any more out of him on the 'phone, so she reluctantly agreed. After she hung up she realised she had been so thrown by the call that she hadn't even asked what car he drove. She couldn't think of anything else for the next hour. She knew what she'd agreed to was risky, wondering whether she should take back-up; but she didn't want to scare Anderson off. At worst he was hopefully going to shop some of his gang rivals; at best, she might even be able to trick him into saying something that would incriminate him. Shortly before the agreed time she changed out of her uniform into a cream blouse, a loose brown knee-length suede skirt and tan tights, slipping her comfortable flat-heeled shoes back on her feet.. Then pulling on a light coloured raincoat she left for the rendezvous. God, she hated these dark winter nights -- barely six and it was already pitch black.

Orchard Street was only a couple of minutes walk from The Yard, and Catherine strolled slowly, self-consciously up the street, wondering how she was going to know which of the parked car's belonged to her contact. As she approached one vehicle the headlights flashed, twice, and the passenger door swung open. Damn, in this light she wasn't sure of the model. More by habit than intention, though, she made a mental note of the registration number. The car was a low slung sleek white thing, with blacked-out windows all round: what she'd heard other officers refer to as a 'pimpmobile'. She reflected ironically that, even without the light flash, she'd have picked this out among all the staid middle-aged, middle class vehicles along the street as Anderson's.

Taking a deep breath, her heart pounding, she slid into the tiger skin printed seat and closed the door. She wasn't used to field work, wasn't trained for it. Anderson's body was twisted in the driver's seat towards her, and there was that grin again. In a mocking tone, he said, "Shaaame, I was hopin' you'd be wearin' that sexy uniform of yours."

Trying to look and sound brusque and businesslike, Catherine said, "Okay, I'm here, what do you want to tell me?" Anderson didn't answer. Instead he swung the car out of its parking space and veered out into Victoria Street, ignoring the angry horn blaring from the taxi he'd cut up as Catherine hurriedly buckled her seatbelt. Anderson drove past the Houses of Parliament and across Westminster Bridge. Within minutes they were deep in South London.

Trying not to sound as scared as she felt, Catherine demanded, "Where are we going?" The man ignored her, and she turned towards him, barking, "I asked you a question. Where are you taking me?"