Murder... Now and Then by Jill McGown Page A

‘You should see him with women. You should. Women. He … he can have any woman he wants. He’s got … er …’
    â€˜Oh, God,’ groaned the barman.
    Several ever more lewd suggestions were made as to what it might be that Max had got, until the barman had had enough, and they were sent out into the cold, rainy night, shouting through the streets of Stansfield, telling one another dirty jokes to which no one could remember the punch line.
    The last thing Charles remembered was throwing up all over the road, and knowing that Gerry would kill him.
    â€˜Oh, Christ.’
    Three o’clock in the sodding morning, and the temperature dropping rapidly, making the wet roads freeze … one more and she would have packed it in. And now what seemed like half the Metropolitan police force was leaping out of the woodwork, running across the street, rounding them up, going through all the rigmarole of arrest, and handing them on to be bundled into the van that stood waiting to receive them. It had been scary the first time it had happened to her; now she knew what to expect, and the routine wasn’t so bad.
    One of them was having trouble with his radio aerial, and couldn’t make himself heard above the general confusion. Then, in one of those rare and precious moments, a temporary lull sent his words ringing through the street. ‘I can’t get this bloody thing to stay up!’ he shouted to no one in particular.
    â€˜That’s always your problem!’ shouted a female voice, and the remark was followed by ribald laughter, mostly from the girls, but some from the cops too. The target of the humour looked embarrassed as the girls crowded round the back of the van; a younger one came to his rescue. She knew him; he’d picked her up before.
    â€˜Calm down, calm down, girls. Just get in, ladies, one at a time. There’s room for you all … you too, Annabel,’ he said, fielding her as she made a less than committed bid for freedom.
    â€˜Get off me!’ she shouted, and was helped up and into the van by a thrust of his hand under her crotch. She felt an expert finger slip under her G-string and into her, and she spun round in the door, breaking the heel of her shoe as she did, to look into the arrogant handsome face that smiled up at her.
    â€˜Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘My hand slipped.’
    She was in just the right position to kick him under the chin and break his jaw. His neck, even. His smile faded, but he didn’t move. And she would have done it, if a WPC hadn’t placed herself firmly between her and him.
    â€˜OK, Annabel – get in the van and sit down.’ Her eyes were fixed on the other cop, not her. ‘ Now ,’ she said, still not looking at her.
    And with the finality of that word, she subsided, hooking one diamond-patterned leg over the other, morosely examining the gold-coloured heel that hung off her shoe.
    The policewoman turned then to look at her. ‘I don’t know who you’re showing off for, Annabel,’ she said briskly. ‘Both feet on the floor, if you don’t mind.’
    She pulled off the ruined shoe, and complied sulkily, pulling the thin material of her dress back over her black stocking tops. Her name wasn’t Annabel. It was Anna. She’d added the rest to make it more suitable. And she actually spelt it with a capital B in the middle, two Ls and an E, but none of these cretins ever spelt it right on the charge sheet. Through the open door, she could hear the low voices.
    â€˜Thanks, Jude. I owe you one.’
    â€˜That’s the second time your hand’s slipped tonight, Dave,’ the girl’s voice said.
    â€˜Cold night, Jude – my hands are numb.’ Then a laugh. ‘You’ll make someone a wonderful sergeant one day, sweetheart, but until then – keep your nose out, all right?’
    Anna reached into her bag for cigarettes, but the packet was empty.