Tania Carver - Choked

The first kiss. The first proper kiss between them. Her tongue was in his mouth, he met hers with his. Touching, exploring, mouth on mouth. Her lips so warm, so soft. Just like he had imagined. And he had imagined this a lot.

He pulled away. Looked at her. She smiled once more, eyes lit by an inner fire.

‘D’you think … ’ he said.

‘Yes … ’ Her voice breathy.

‘D’you think we should be doing this? What with … y’know. Everything that’s happened today.’

She sat back from him. ‘Don’t you want to?’

‘Yes, but … ’ He sighed. ‘The boss. Everything that’s happened.’

She sat back from him. ‘If you don’t want to … ’

‘I do.’

‘Come on, then.’ She leaned forward. ‘After today, I think this is just what we need.’

And she was back beside him, mouth on his, hands running over his clothed body, finding buttons, zips. Undoing them. Pulling his shirt off, breaking off from their kiss to slide her hands over his chest, smile.

He moved in to her neck, began kissing her there, hands slowly caressing her. Moving gently inside her T-shirt, down her chest …

She pushed herself against him. He kept caressing her. Her hands found the buttons of his jeans, began working them open. He kept his hands above her breasts.

Anni stopped what she was doing, looked at him.

‘You OK?’ she said, voice a near-whisper.

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘Yeah … ’ He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘You just seem … I don’t know. Like you’re holding back.’

‘Holding back? No, I’m … I’m not.’

‘Good.’

And she bit his neck. He loved it. Felt an electrically sexual charge run through him. His hands moved down to her breasts. She groaned, pushed her body towards him again. His strokes became slightly more urgent. She stopped once more.

‘Don’t you fancy me?’

‘What? Yeah, course … ’

‘Then show me. I won’t break, you know.’

He sighed. ‘I know, but … ’

‘What?’

‘I’m just … I’m sorry. I just … you’re someone special. To me. Very special. And you know … I respect you.’

‘Good. So you should. And you can still respect me.’ She smiled. ‘In the morning. But tonight, I want some fun.’

‘Permission granted,’ he said, smiling.

And from then on, Mickey didn’t have to be told twice.

After Mickey had left, Anni couldn’t get back to sleep.

She lay there in bed, replaying the events of the previous night over and over in her head. And they were worth replaying. She and Mickey had just … fitted. Not at first, though. Mickey had seemed reticent. She had found it quite sweet. But since sweet wasn’t the defining feature she looked for in a man — it wasn’t even in the top ten — she had gently but firmly shown him that that wasn’t what she wanted. And he had responded.

Oh yes, he had responded.

The night had been wonderful from then on. Filthy and tender by turns, thrillingly fast at times, achingly slow at others. Anticipation and fulfilment in equal measure.

But with Mickey gone, something else took hold of her mind. The CCTV footage of Marina in the garage from the day before. She kept replaying it over and over in her head. They had missed something, she was sure of it.

She ran through it once more, and … there it was.

Anni was up, showered and out of her flat in record time, calling ahead to tell the farmer’s wife from the garage that she was coming back, asking her to have the CCTV footage ready to view again. And not to empty the bins.

Less than thirty minutes later, she was standing in the back room of the service station, looking at the TV screen. She saw Marina standing impatiently in line, waiting to be served. Watched as she looked up at the CCTV camera then moved forward in the queue, bought her mints. Took one, threw the wrapper on the floor.

‘There it is,’ said Anni. ‘Stop it there.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘See?’

The farmer’s wife paused the footage.

‘She … throws the wrapper on the floor,’ said the woman, a puzzled look on her face.

‘Yes, she does. Have you swept up since then?’

‘Yes, but … ’

Anni pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. ‘Can you show me where the bins are, please?’

The farmer’s wife took her outside to the back of the building, where black bags and flattened cardboard boxes were piled up. She told Anni which bag was the likeliest. Anni spread newspaper on the ground, split the bag, tipped the contents out. She talked as she sifted.

‘I thought it was just rubbish,’ she said. ‘At first. Just her being untidy. But then … ’ her hands worked over the garbage, unfolding every piece of paper she could find, ‘I thought of the way she found the CCTV camera, looked at it. It bugged me. And watching it back now … ’ she held up a piece of paper; discarded it, ‘I knew I was right.’

The farmer’s wife was standing beside her, watching. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘The look,’ said Anni. ‘At first I thought she was just checking where the camera was. Thinking about avoiding it. But no. She looks at the camera, then looks to the floor.’

‘So?’

‘Not just anywhere, but to a specific part of the floor. The identical same spot that she threw that bit of rubbish down at.’

‘Oh,’ said the farmer’s wife, her voice becoming excited. ‘You think she’s left you a clue? From the wrapper on those mints?’

‘Not the wrapper. She just wanted to make us think it was a wrapper. She was being subtle in case … I don’t know. Someone else was watching? But she hoped one of us would see what she was doing.’ She held up a piece of paper. Smiled. ‘Here it is.’

As she unfolded the paper, the farmer’s wife leaned in closer to see. ‘It’s a postcode,’ she said. ‘She sent you a message.’

‘She certainly did.’

Anni thanked the woman, who said she would clear up, and that she was glad to help. Then she made her way to the pool car she had borrowed from the station, a Fiesta, buzzing like she had just speed-downed thirty espressos.

Thank God it’s got sat nav, she thought, and keyed in the coordinates. She was ready to go.

She just had one phone call to make first.

‘So who called it in?’ Mickey Philips asked the uniform next to him, walking down the common approach path towards the crime scene. The morning was white, fogbound. The mist curled round him like a character in a Steve Ditko comic.

The circus had arrived before him. The house and grounds had been cordoned off behind black and yellow crime-scene tape, fluttering in the breeze like disgruntled wasps. Through the fog, the white-suited forensics team were treading carefully and warily, sticking to the square metal stepping stones of the CAP, not wanting to tread on the wrong thing, explode some hidden time bomb. They never failed to remind Mickey of a team of scientists in some Hollywood blockbuster, trying to halt the spread of a deadly virus or chemical spillage. The most visible symbol to observers that something in their ordered world had gone very wrong.

Ahead of them, two white plastic tents had been erected, both to preserve the crime scene and to obscure the view of any TV news crews. Mickey had noticed a couple getting into place as he pulled up. Finding good positions for their cameras and reporters. White mist, white tents, white-suited people. Wouldn’t make for the most dynamic TV pictures.

Since Mickey was with the Major Incident Squad, he tried to avoid the crews. If they recognised him as he approached, they might think there was a story to be had, and that would make his job even more difficult.