Copyright 2011 Phil Dumas Smashwords Edition
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Anglo-Francáis
Like every seaside resort along the shores of binge-drinking Britain, Torquay’s emergency services wavered as landlords called time on Friday night revellers. Hospital staff, stitches at the ready, prepared themselves for the usual onslaught of violent offenders and abusive victims.
Out on the beat, PCs Ashby and Moore had already attended an unprovoked street attack on two off-duty squaddies, two kerbside domestics, and for the third time in just a fortnight, called to the scene of another backstreet murder. It wasn’t long before Detective Inspector Slave – Head of Serious Crime – arrived with his partner:
‘You’ve met DC Wells,’ he said to the uniformed. ‘Although, the amount of time he has called in sick of late, I doubt whether you have had the pleasure.’ Wells was not amused.
The lifeless victim, sat slumped against a wall, expressed a smile of twisted satisfaction. It could have been a textbook drug overdose but for the pool of blood oozing from the genital region.
‘Ah, it’s lanky McDenn, the wife-beater,’ confirmed Slave without remorse. ‘Again, it looks as though someone has done us a favour.’
McDenn was a familiar face in Torquay – more so, to the local constabulary. To his name, he had a list of violent crime as long as his lanky legs.
‘First time I’ve seen him with a smile on his face.’ Slave looked to the rooftops, scaling the upper heights. ‘Any CCTV covering this area, Ashby?’
‘Unfortunately not, sir, but a witness says that he saw a woman running from this very alley just after he last saw McDenn alive.’
‘Was she a brunette?’
‘How did you know that, sir?’ exclaimed PC Ashby.
‘A fortnight ago, our murderer was blonde; last week a redhead, so tonight she is a brunette. Either that or a purple-rinse!’
Thirty-nine year old Slave was a detective of crime at its most violently horrid: From the blood-splattered walls of the slashed and battered to the doorsteps of the next-of-kin, his twelve years of service had hardened him to the first-hand sights of man’s most unacceptable behaviour. His partner, Wells, on the other hand, was a weak-stomached twenty-something who secretly regretted ever joining the force: Unlike the DVDs he had watched, reality was far from the wide-screen gloss of Messrs: Morse, Barnaby and Frost. True crime, he had come to find, was saddled with reams of paperwork on criminals that got away.
‘Where’s the witness?’ asked Slave.
Ashby called over a name-brand clad teenager. ‘Can you tell these Detectives what you told me, young man?’
The detectives flashed their ID.
‘Sure,’ he uttered – his ten pints of Dutch courage overwhelmed by the shock of his find. ‘I had just finished my kebab when I desperately needed to take a leak. I took a few steps into this alley, but when I noticed a woman giving lip-service to lanky McDenn...’
‘Go on,’ said Slave.
‘Well, I didn’t want to disturb them. McDenn would have killed me, so I did my business further down the road.’
‘Then what?’
‘As I returned, I saw the woman sprinting off into the night.’
‘You didn’t see her face, did you!’ interrupted Wells.
Slave raised his brow. ‘Is that a question, Detective Constable?’
‘I didn’t see her face, no,’ informed the lad. ‘It was too dark.’
‘How tall was she?’ asked Slave.
‘Six-foot ... maybe more.’
‘Would you say she was a quick runner?’
‘Olympic material … probably fail a drugs test though.’
‘Anything else you can tell us about her?’
‘Great pair of legs…’
Drawn towards the beacons of flashing blue light, inebriated rubbernecks devoured fat-drenched burgers behind the cordon-off tape. Forensics arrived to pick up the pieces.
‘So, Wells,’ said Slave as they walked back to the car. ‘Serial Killer or Vigilante?’
‘Is there a difference, sir?’
‘Unquestionably … A serial killer will murder for any number of twisted reasons, whereas, a vigilante is nothing short of an unlawful version of us. All three victims had criminal records, mainly for gang violence … What does that tell us.’
‘Can we stop outside a bank, sir? I need to use the hole-in-the-wall.’
The following day, Slave began his shift as a blood-red steak to the news-hounds spreading second-hand murder-murmurs outside the police station
‘Inspector!’ A reporter directed his microphone at Slave whilst rival journalists blocked his entrance to the station. ‘Would you say that Torquay is no longer the place where people come to die but be killed?’
‘Utter nonsense! replied Slave, pushing his way through. ‘Until Chief Superintendent Fleetmac makes a statement, I have no further comment.’
It proved to be a long journey to his upstairs office: the station buzzed like a January Sale. Telephones rang like a 9/11 missing persons switchboard:
‘Inspector, Slave!’ yelled a Special. ‘I've got Sky News on the line.’
‘—Crime Fortnightly, sir. Can they have a few pictures of the—’
‘—Men’s Sport, sir. They’re asking if you will give WPC Babb a day-release. They want to photograph her posing in a pair of—’
‘—BBC News, sir.’
From his Perspex cubicle, Slave observed his detectives, and the captivating, plain-clothed WPC Babb heading towards him. His desk was littered with mug-shots, unsolved case-files and half-drunk cups of coffee – stark contrast to the absent DC Wells’ shiny tabletop of just a brimming ashtray.
‘DC Wells has called-in sick, sir,’ informed WPC Babb.
‘Surprise, surprise. Thank you, Kate.’
She stood there for a while, aroused by his cluttered desk of Investigation.
‘Fancy a trip to the Coroners’, Kate?’
Her face lit up.
‘The way DC Wells is heading, I’ll soon be in need of his replacement.’
Babb’s days in uniform were short lived thanks to her male colleagues who wanted to see her out of it as much as she, be it for different reasons. They thought her “too soft for the job”, taking it upon themselves to watch over her like a family of incestuous brothers: Belittled and depressed, her resignation was refused by in-house, Chief Superintendent Fleetmac, who transferred her to Serious Crime as an assistant. Whether his intentions were incestuous was open to debate, and still is, between the drags on cigarettes in the station locker room.
‘Are you okay with this, Kate?’ asked Slave, knowing that a mortuary, the morning after a busy Friday-night, sometimes resembled the aftermath of a Road Traffic Accident. ‘It’s not that you’re a woman. I ask everyone, male or female.’
‘I’ll be fine, sir.’
Slave opened the door, unleashing the cold stench of death upon her confident face. McDenn’s yellowing corpse lay blood-drained on a metal splash-tray, sliced for further analysis.
‘Found anything?’ asked Slave as the coroner finished up.
‘Much the same as the others, I’m afraid,’ replied the employee for death (His words). ‘He was stabbed by the same twelve-inch, sharpened instrument whilst having the end of his penis bitten off.’ He passed Slave a small, transparent bag. ‘You’re in luck, though: We found a few strands of hair.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Slave. ‘Artificial?’
‘No. Real head hair this time, found in the victim’s pubics, coated in sea salt.’
‘An avid swimmer, perhaps?’ offered Babb.
‘What about saliva?’ asked Slave, taking the tiny bag of hair. ‘Any trace of saliva on the remains of McDenn’s penis?’
‘No. Yet again, our suspect's lips were sealed, literally, with a cocktail of user-friendly chemicals formulated to throw us.’
Slave and Babb returned to the station.
‘So you think our killer is an avid swimmer, Kate.’ He scratched his head. ‘Why avid?’
‘Who else would swim the sea in freezing February, sir?’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Kate. We’re up to our eyeballs in it. I mean, what about that French woman, gang-raped in a public toilet a week before our murderess started her campaign? What was her name?’
‘Nicole de Winter, sir. We are too preoccupied with this wigged tart to bring her rapists to justice. Let the wigged tart carry on, that’s what I say. She’s only murdering undesirables…’
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, sir. I read the witness statements. “When Madame de Winter appeared from the public toilet,” said one, “she walked towards her husband like a zombie. Her eyes said it all”. Another said it resembled a scene from Carrie, the film – when she was drenched in blood and ridiculed at the school prom. Although, Madame de Winter was subjected to far worse. Naked, and in full view of daytime shoppers. Raped, buggered, beaten, and torn. Her badly bruised legs dripped with seman infused with her own blood.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Slave. ‘Do we know?’
‘In a mental institution for the insane,’ replied the WPC shaking with anger. ‘Why bring up the French case, anyway?’
‘I noticed DC Wells is on the Eiffels.’
‘Eiffels?’
‘French cigarettes.’
‘Oh.’ She had calmed herself down but her concern for the French female had not gone unnoticed by Slave:
‘Right, Kate. We have nothing on this “wigged tart”, as you’ve chosen to call her, so shall we take a look at the French case?’
‘We can?’
‘Would you be an angel and fetch me the case file?’
She retrieved the file.
‘Marielle de Winter,’ she said, ‘came to this land with her husband to celebrate their first wedding anniversary ... What a mistake! “Come down to coast. Have a few laughs,” she mocked, stealing a sarcastic line from the movie Die Hard. ‘No witnesses and no CCTV.’
‘Cheapskates,’ added Slave. ‘How much does CCTV cost these days?’
‘A lot less than the man-hours we spend trying to do it the hard way, I can assure you.’
‘Didn’t DC Wells interview her husband?’
‘Let’s take a look.’ She flipped the pages. ‘Yep. DC Wells.’
‘Yes, I remember now,’ said Slave. ‘He begged me for the chance to go it alone with the interview. I had a few questions to ask her husband myself but I left it to Wells, it was his show ... What was the husband’s name?’
‘Monsieur Athos de Winter, a wealthy Parisian. How could I forget a man with so much Va-Va-Vroom,’ she purred.
‘He was hardly David Ginola, Kate, more like Clouseau.’
‘Jealous, sir?’
Slave blushed. ‘Nonsense. Why should I be jealous of a ...’
‘Frenchman?’
‘Yes. Anglo-Francáis: the distance between us is immeasurable.’
‘About thirty-odd miles, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Dover to Calais.’
‘Oh yes,’ he laughed. In an occupation that relied on the presence of criminals to justify its presence, a colleague with a sense of humour was a valuable friend.
‘So, where do we start, sir?’
‘Start by making a list of local gangs, violent ones, like the Torbay Tyrants and Brixham Bashers. There’s plenty out there. Call a few informers; see who’s who, and who’s in what. I’ll make a list of sex offenders; we’ll cross-reference the two and see what we come up with.’ The WPC beamed like a Driving Test student who had just burnt her L-plates.
Saturday night was on par with a Friday: Scantily dressed women danced in nightclubs steaming with male testosterone. Those who were refused entry, or had spent their taxi fare on a few drinks more, staggered home under the atmospheric glow of amber street lamps:
‘Hey, you!’ came a voice from a darkened alley. A pair of young ladies in their little black dresses giggled at the entrance. ‘Come here, I need a light.’
‘No chance,’ giggled one. ‘You come out here.’
‘Come on, ladies,’ sung the unseen man. ‘I know what you look like. Especially you, Missy Wirren.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
Her friend grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Lucy, we’re leaving.’
‘No!’ She shrugged her off. ‘I am not leaving until he explains himself. Creep!’
‘Well, I’m going home,’ whispered her drinking-buddy with a goodnight kiss. ‘It’s freezing. You always were attracted to weirdoes!’
As the sound of stilettos departed, the bravely stupid Ms Wirren stood her ground, edging cautiously into the alley. ‘What did you mean by saying that you’ve seen me?’ She closed-in slowly as her endeavour to catch a glimpse of the man’s face became frightfully more important than the welfare of her own safety.
‘I've seen you many times, Missy,’ he breathed. ‘You really must get some curtains: the view of your bedroom from the rear garden leaves nothing to the imagination.’
Her eyes had accustomed the dark, catching sight of his lewd activity:
‘You sick, mother—’ He pounced; her scream quickly cut short by a heavy blow to her unblemished face. She fell to the floor. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers as she moaned in pain.
‘Slut!’ he spat. Her nose cracked under a quick succession of massive blows. ‘Slut! Fancy parading around in your bedroom in all your glory for the whole world to see!’ He ripped-off her G-string and forced himself upon her …
‘Basically, Sir,’ said Babb serving him another coffee, ‘you are saying that because Madame de Winter refused to be examined after the rape, the case is a non-starter?’
‘No … I just think it’s going to be a tough one, that’s all. Read the psychologist’s report: The woman was beyond repair. The doctor supported his claim by saying that he couldn’t go within ten yards of Madame de Winter without her turning into an anxious, screaming wreck. She locked herself in their honeymoon suite whilst her husband made a statement on her behalf.’
‘With DC Wells.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What happened to Madame de Winter’s clothes? – the items she wore on the day of the rape.’
Slave pulled-out a report from the file: ‘Her items of clothing were sent to the lab for analysis.’
‘What were the results?’
He scanned the page, seemingly at a loss. ‘Tests were carried-out, but for some unknown reason, the results are not attached.’
The telephone rang. ‘Inspector Slave’s office,’ answered Babb. ‘Yes ... Yes, he is. Do you want me to get him for you?’ She looked towards Slave as the caller had his say. ‘I see ... No, you’re right, he won’t be pleased ... Yes, I will tell him. Thank you.’
‘Doesn’t sound good, Kate?’
‘White male, mid thirties, found dead in an alley at the rear of the Nine-One-One Club. ‘The female, however—’
‘Female?’
‘White woman, late teens, severe blow to the head ... Do you think she could be our tart?’
Slave picked up his car keys. ‘Would you carry-on here?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a good woman.’
‘And as a Detective, sir?’
‘Even better.’
Slave pulled up at the rear of the Nine-One-One Club. PCs Ashby and Moore, again, unfortunate to be the first on the gruesome scene.
‘Witnesses, Ashby?’
‘No, sir. And before you ask; no CCTV either.’
‘Who’s the dead gorilla?’
‘Terry Ashore, a member of the Torquay Taliban.’
‘Never heard of ‘em … And the woman?’
‘Lucy Wirren.’
Slave crouched over her body. ‘Who called it in?’
‘Anonymous, sir. He called the Paramedics but it was too late. She had lost too much blood .’
‘He called it in?’
Slave arrived at the station early the next morning to find WPC Babb sat at Wells’ desk, busy tapping away on the keyboard.
‘Morning, Kate. A bit keen, aren’t we?’
‘Good morning, sir,’ her concentration unbroken as she picked the brain of the police computer. ‘Chief Superintendent Fleetmac told me to inform you that he has a few TV appearances this evening and that he needed an update on the murders. Apparently, everyone wants a piece of him at the moment.’
A shrill whistle, like a songbird on heat, made its way up the stairs towards them.
‘Someone’s cheerful.’
‘Ah,’ said Slave as the whistler made an entrance. ‘Mr Wells. How are you feeling, today?’
The sick-note DC failed to win an Oscar with his false sniffs and snivels:
‘I made the effort to report in for duty, sir, but I can’t guarantee I’ll last the day.’ He was surprisingly unconcerned about losing his desk to Babb.
‘Nothing contagious, I hope,’ remarked Slave with a wink at Babb. Wells handed him an envelope. ‘What’s this?’
‘My resignation, sir.’ Babb pulled her eyes away from her VDU.
Slave walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? How will you pay the mortgage? You’re constantly claiming poverty as it is?’
‘I’m not feeling too well,’ he replied, wiping his brow.
‘I’ll run you home,’ said Slave. ‘We can have a chat on the way.’
Driving through the streets of B&Bs, Slave tried the tested “Concerned Boss Routine” but Wells was adamant in his decision to leave. He gazed out of the window and laughed.
‘What’s up?’ smiled Slave.
‘Cheap souvenir shops against the breathtaking backdrop of the Bay. It’s so typically British.’ He wound-down his window and filled his lungs with the fresh sea air.
‘You talk as though you are going to miss it, Wells.’
Heading back to the station, Slave remembered his earlier days in Serious Crime, and how it took him almost a year to hold down his favourite meal of liver and bacon after a murderous day at the office.
With the police station car park full, he pulled up outside, taking the opportunity to rid his vehicle of accumulated litter.
‘Crisps packets and two-pence pieces,’ he moaned to himself, filling his second carrier bag. ‘Every car has got them tucked away somewhere.’ He picked-up a small, square piece of paper and scanned its content. ‘My word!’
Suddenly, he leapt out of his skin as a traffic cop gave a short blast on his American-style siren. Uninterested in the vacant space and equipped with the small, square piece of paper, Slave drove off.
From an upper window, Babb had seen him come and go.
47 Hatchfield Terrace, Torquay:
Slave rang the doorbell. He rang again.
‘Oh ... Good morning, sir.’ Wells was dressed in a red silk gown.
‘Got company, Constable? I thought you were ill?’
‘Yes. I mean, no.’ He nervously laughed. ‘No I haven't got company, and yes I am ill. Anyway, I’m sorry, sir, I won’t be coming in.’ He coughed as he began to close the door. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow—’
‘Put the kettle on,’ said Slave, inviting himself in. ‘If you’re not going to work, at least let’s have a cup of tea together.’
With his best tea-cups rinsed and filled, Wells paced the kitchen like a caged panther whilst Slave took his time sipping his brew at the breakfast bar:
‘When was the last time you won anything, Wells?’
‘I won a tenner on the lotto about a month ago ... Why?’
‘Am I the only National Lottery loser?’ harked Slave, totally out of character. ‘Everyone I’ve met has had a win!’
‘You must have won something?’
‘Nope. Never won a thing,’ he claimed. ‘I’ve got friends with premium bonds, inheritance, you name it.’ His delivery was more of a question than a statement. ‘You got any of them, Wells? Sold an endowment policy, perhaps?’
‘Why are you asking these questions?’
‘A bit edgy, aren’t we? We’re only talking about the lotto.’
A ball of nervous perspiration rolled from Wells’ forehead.
Slave did not attempt to conceal his observation. ‘It’s a cold day. Are you hot?’
‘I’ve told you, I’m ill.’
Slave waved the square piece of paper in the air then laid it on the bar. ‘You dropped your mini-statement in the car. It must have been from when you withdrew cash from the hole-in-the-wall, on the night of McDenn’s murder.’
‘Did you read it?’
‘Sorry, I thought it was one of mine. I almost had a heart attack when I saw it! Four noughts on a mini-statement lights up like a traffic cop in a florescent!’
‘It was a present from a long lost Aunt.’
‘Come on, Wells, that’s what idiots say to us. Thirty thousand quid? You must have been one hell of a nephew.’
‘Look, I don’t want to appear rude, sir, but I really must go back to bed.’
‘Fine,’ said Slave, drinking-up. ‘I’ll just use your toilet.’ He trotted off up the stairs before Wells had the chance to say—
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Blind spots,’ yelled Slave from the bathroom.
‘I think one refers to them as Blackheads, sir,’ replied Wells.
‘No ... Places, streets. Areas where CCTV doesn’t cover.’
‘Who needs that sort of info?’
‘Sorry, Wells?’ said Slave appearing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I don’t recall asking if anybody needed the info ... but whilst we are on the subject, Monsieur Athos de Winter had to know the blind spots, didn’t he? I mean, how else could he be so elusive?’
‘Athos de Minter … Never heard of him, sir. What is he, Belgian?’
‘You took his statement! What happened? Did your heart get the better of you? Or was it for the right price? Four noughts, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir?’
‘There’s sand in your washing basket.’
‘So? I live in Torquay.’
‘You told me you hated the beach? Did you know that de Winter swam the channel in 1982?’
‘No.’
Slave walked to the bottom of the stairs and yelled: ‘Would you come downstairs please, Monsieur de Winter?’
After a minute, the Frenchman appeared, also wearing a silk gown.
‘We found strands of hair, much the same as your own, Monsieur, in McDenn’s pubic hair. It’s good to see you’re still keeping-up the swimming after all these years. And I, if anyone, am grateful that you called a Paramedic when that young woman was attacked by one of your wife’s rape suspects.’
‘Did she live?’ cried the Frenchman.
Slave lowered his head. ‘Unfortunately not.’
‘Arrest moi!’ spoke de Winter in true French fashion. ‘I av no regrets about the people I’ve killed, if you can call them people. Anyway, it wasn’t Monsieur Wells’ idea.’
Slave dialled his phone. Wells and de Winter knew the game was up; de Winter facing Life imprisonment and Wells not far behind. ‘47 Hatchfield Terrace,’ informed Slave. ‘Make it quick. Yes, it’s a matter of urgency.’
‘Av I time for a cigarette, Inspector?’ asked the fallen Frenchman.
‘No, a taxi will be here shortly, to take you to Exeter airport. Best start packing.’
‘But, why do you do this?’
‘For the victims of your victims.’ Slave looked towards Wells. ‘I have never done anything like this … ever. But it feels good. A friend of mine owes me a favour: It was a desk job you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘Thank you, sir, but I am told that France is beautiful this time of year.’
‘Then I bid you both, Adieu,’ said Slave.
‘What about the wigs and the murder weapon?’ asked Wells.
‘Bag them. I already have Monsieur’s head hair with trace of seawater.’ He pulled out the small, transparent bag. ‘I’ll take the wigs and weapon with me.’
Suddenly, from behind the half-closed door, came a light thud. Slave swung it open. It was Babb, picking-up her dictation machine. They stood there, eye-to-eye, in silence.
‘How could you?’ she uttered, storming-off and slamming the front door behind her.
‘Perhaps, Mexico would be a safer option,’ sighed Slave...
He returned to the station. Babb wasn’t at her desk but her car was parked outside. ‘Where’s Babb?’ he asked a colleague.
‘She’s in with the Chief Super, sir.’
Slave waited anxiously at his desk.
She appeared, tight-lipped and head low as she sat down at her newly acquired desk.
‘They turned his wife into a vegetable, Kate. You know it.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she huffed.
‘Athos de Winter has rid us of Devon’s most wanted.’
‘Murdered—’
‘Okay! He murdered his wife’s rapists!’
‘Her rapists? How can you be so sure?’
‘Wells is not as stupid as he looks. It was he who took the clothes and the forensic report.’
‘Stole.’
‘Whatever … Four different specimens of seman led him to four ugly mugs.’
‘They should have been brought to justice in the proper manner,’ she sulked.
‘What ... and spend a few years inside with their bum-chums? Food laid on; use of the gymnasium, X-box, and oh ... How about a bit of wood-turning or pottery classes whilst we’re at it! After they have bullied and pleasured themselves with the weak and vulnerable inside, they can come out here and carry on where they left off! Who’ll be next, Kate?’ He threw his ID on her desk. ‘You, perhaps? Or maybe your sister ... or your mother.’
‘How can you say those things?’ she cried.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it, Kate? Times that by ten and you might get a gist of what Monsieur de Winter is going through … every day.’
‘Is there a problem here?’ It was Chief Superintendent Fleetmac. It took a lot to prise him away from his air-conditioned office.
‘No sir,’ replied Babb. ‘I was just saying to Detective Slave that we have uncovered a new breed of criminal.’
‘Oh?’
‘P.G.R.s, sir: Professional Gang Rapists. The men who raped Madame de Winter were more organised than we thought. One to look out for in the future, sir.’
‘Impressive, Kate,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll be sure to look-out for it. Must dash, I’m having my hair done. The BBC have asked me if I’d like to have a nice little chat with a guy called Paxman – for Newsnight.’
‘Jeremy will crucify him,’ said Slave as Fleetmac made his exit.
Babb fought hard to hold back her smile.
‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘I did … He’s not very happy with the murders but he’s over the moon by the huge drop in violent, sex attacks.’ There was something else on her mind.
‘What is it?’
‘I cross-referenced my list of gangs with your list of violent, sex offenders. The four murdered by de Winter belonged to a gang called—’
‘The Torquay Taliban?’
‘That’s right. The only problem is … They had five members.’
‘Who’s the fifth?’
‘The leader.’ She had entered his name in her personal notebook, just in case. ‘Here we are … Mr Wayne Vane. There was no trace of his seman because he didn’t take part.’
‘What is he, a voyeur … what?’
‘He’s a homosexual, but he loves to orchestrate violence of any kind.’
Everyone expected the murderer to strike again … everyone except Slave, Babb, and the Chief Superintendent.
Slave asked Babb what had made her go to Wells’ house, on the day he visited: Apparently, she had found that Wells’ Eiffel cigarettes could only be bought in France.
PARIS, FRANCE:
‘Got everything, Athos?’ asked Wells, standing at the door of de Winter’s bedroom.
Inconsolable, he ignored him.
Wells broke the silence by switching on the radio and tuning in to the BBC World Service. ‘Ah, a bit of English speaking relief.’
‘Mexico!’ cursed Athos, breaking down on the bed. He wept through his hands. ‘I hate Mexico! Nothing but Tequila and dust!’
Wells sat beside him. The newsreader’s “tongue” reminded him of England’s pastures green, rose scented gardens in unpredictable weather, and the strange need to visit a cheap souvenir shop set against a breathtaking backdrop.
‘...Wayne Vane,’ informed the newsreader, ‘was arrested after Devon and Cornwall Police raided his Bedsit in Torquay. Newly appointed Detective Constable Babb spoke to me earlier’:
‘Amongst an armoury of flick-knives and knuckle-dusters, we found a twelve-inch, sharpened, steel poker hidden under an array of various coloured wigs.’