A Taste of Honey Page 3

  On an old pine table, there were a variety of sex toys. There was also a stainless steel tray, a length of narrow gauge orange rubber tubing, a used syringe, and some white gauze. She lifted the gauze and sniffed it; surgical spirit. Kimberley crossed the room and pulled open a drawer to find small bags of white powder, a variety of pills, and a few spoons with burn marks. There were also other items of drug paraphernalia. Somebody had been preparing syringes, but probably not for themselves.

  She opened a lightweight wooden wardrobe, which looked out of place in the basement. Hanging in a neat row were garments that she would usually associate with the world’s oldest profession. Incongruous as it looked, there was a girl’s school uniform hanging in the line-up. On two shelves below was footwear ranging from; black patent court shoes and regular sling-backs to Roman thong sandals with heels, stilettos, and knee-high leather boots. Kimberley felt sick.

  A few feet from the table and wardrobe was a workbench adapted by the addition of a heavy leather cushion being attached to the uppermost surface. On all four legs of the bench there were metal cuffs and chains, all attached low down on the legs. She was looking at a modern variant of a torture rack.

  Kimberley swallowed hard and took a breath. She had seen so many horrific scenes in the line of duty, so now expected the worst. She peered into the slightly darker back area of the room where the beams of the dim lights didn’t carry. There were two old tubular steel framed beds with sagging mattresses and piles of bedclothes on them. Chains and cuffs were secured to the wall above the beds, and to the frames at the foot of the beds. They were similar to the shackles she had seen on the main wall.

  Taking care where she placed her feet, she moved slowly between the various larger items in the dimly lit space. Kimberley saw that there was a body stretched out on the bed on the left. As she advanced slowly concentrating on the body, something touched her face. She stepped back to see another light cord with a naked bulb right overhead.

  Kimberley pulled on the relatively new thin white cord, and the light came on immediately; it wasn’t an energy-saving bulb. The detective felt the bile rise in her throat as she advanced one more step and looked down on the tear-stained face of a dead teenage girl; a brunette. Her face had been made-up while she was still alive and at some point, the mascara had run in rivulets over her young face. Her crimson lipstick was smudged.

  She didn’t recognize the girl. Kimberley tested the pliability of the skin and the girl’s limbs. There were no flies or other insects in or near her orifices, so it appeared that the girl had been dead for hours rather than days. Her body was naked, and she had bled heavily after sexual abuse.

  There were multiple bruises and lacerations on her body, arms, and legs. There were also injection marks on her arms and legs. The massive bruising suggested that it was a safe bet that the drugs were not self-administered. With heavy heart, the officer lifted a bed sheet and pulled it over the unfortunate girl.

  As she moved around the beds, Kimberley was conscious of tears building in her eyes. She swallowed and focused on a partly naked body on the dirty floor on the far side of the other bed. She didn’t rush forward but took slow, deliberate steps. Her breathing raced, and her heart was thumping in her chest. In her head, she was already shouting, No! Please God! No!

  Due to the brighter light above and behind her, she could see the needle marks on the arms and legs of the teenage girl on the floor. The blonde hair was dank and lifeless and the body was undernourished and dirty, but as the tears built up and flowed from Kimberley’s eyes, she froze and stared at her sister’s dead body.

  It wasn’t a movie or scene from a book. What she witnessed was real. From four paces, Kimberley recognized death when she saw it. She couldn’t run forward and cradle the abused and mutilated body because she had to hold back the urge to vomit. Her body held back only because it was already trembling with the grief she was trying to contain.

  She had seen gunshot victims, car crash, and train crash fatalities, drowning victims, hanging victims, and a dozen other forms of disfigurement in death, but this wasn’t a stranger. The usually cool and calm detective stood there, looking down at the victim of a drug overdose. It wasn’t self-administered and might even have been accidental, but whoever had performed the act had signed the girl’s death warrant.

  The blue eyes were open but unseeing, and there were tear tracks in the filth and cosmetics on her face, just like her companion. Her mouth lay slightly open with vomit and white foam caked where it had dribbled from her lips and nostrils onto the floor. This wretch had been her beautiful, vivacious sister, Harriet.

  Kimberley finally found the strength to move forward and knelt close to the corpse. She steeled herself for the act, removed her left glove and reached down to touch the porcelain texture of the teenager’s pretty face. It was even more like porcelain now, smooth, but cold. It occurred to Kimberley that Harriet may have been unconscious, but not dead when the two men had been arguing early in the morning. Both girls may still have been alive at that time. The two bodies gave the impression of recent, inept use of drugs by somebody.

  As Kimberley stared, still in disbelief, she found herself trying to bring forward from somewhere in her subconscious, those words she used with the relatives of victims. Tears were streaming down her face. She could hear the consoling words from the most recent time she had to use them to distraught parents.

  “I know she’s passed on,” she would say, “but now she’s beyond suffering. It will be our job to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice. We will find them.”

  “I am so sorry Harry,” Kimberley whispered and started sobbing. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.” She glanced back along the broken body and sobbed uncontrollably. “I’ll find them my baby sister. I’ll find them, and I’ll punish them for you.” She sniffed and continued to look at her sister before making a pledge. "Whoever did this will beg for death."

  Kimberley stood up and pulled the glove back onto her left hand. As she looked at her once beautiful sister she felt a deep sense of duty, to cleanse the ruined body, to make it look pretty once again. What she saw did not reflect what the girl had been in life. Even as the desire tugged at her heartstrings, it was contested by her deep-seated professionalism, which told her that it would be impractical to do anything to her in the circumstances.

  She dragged the cleanest of the bed sheets from the bed to lay it over the once gorgeous girl. It was hard to hold back her tears. She wanted to allow herself to be hysterical, to scream, pull down the building, but she had already done it all in her mind on the journey. In a strange way, she had prepared herself for this moment before ever arriving. Somewhere in her subconscious, she knew the shock would hit her in the future, but for now, she had to hold it together.

  It was as the hate and anger began to manifest itself and displace some of the sorrow that Kimberley noticed she hadn’t quite covered Harriet’s arms. She looked at her sister’s hands and noticed something strange for the first time. Both arms were extended away from the body, and both hands were close together, fingers pointing.

  Kimberley wiped the streaming tears from her eyes with her left forearm and stared at Harriet’s hands. The palms pressed together; fingers only interlocked at the tips, looked as if she was praying when she died. Harriet was not the religious type, so it was a highly unusual pose for her to portray. She had often said she’d prefer cremation to burial, but without a service. Her wish was to leave nothing of her earthly body behind.

  “Oh my God,” Kimberley gasped. She realized that her sister had been using symbolism. She must have known that when she lost control, her hands would drift apart. Harriet had tried to lock her fingertips together to hold the unnatural position.

  Kimberley remained in one spot, but turned and looked around the basement, slowly taking in every wall, every shelf, and every corner. She was convinced that in her final death throes, Harriet had retained the mental strength to send a message, a subtle message in
case a good police officer should be next at the scene. Kimberley owed her dear sister the honor of deciphering that final silent message. She was a good police officer. She would solve the clue the dying girl had offered.

  The woman turned, moving her feet only inches, to turn a full 360 degrees twice slowly; observing. It was then that she noticed it, on completion of the second turn. Kimberley stepped across to the corner near the bed, where a simple, wooden cross was nailed to the rough wooden paneling. Below the cross was a narrow shelf which contained about a dozen books, all covered in a film of dust.

  Before touching them, Kimberley studied the spine of each and then her tear-filled eyes blinked several times before opening wide. The Holy Bible stood among the books, but the dust on it wasn’t as heavy as on the others. It had been regularly disturbed; or perhaps recently lifted out from the line-up. She tucked the pistol into the front of her jeans.

  Kimberley eased the book from its position and at first glance; it looked perfectly normal, until she opened the front cover. The first 50 pages were intact, just as the final 50 pages were, but the pages between had been roughly hollowed out to produce a recess. A small hard-backed notebook replaced the center area of the pages. It was Harriet’s journal with the multi-colored butterfly cover.

  *

  Tears continued to stream silently down Kimberley’s face as she flicked through the entries that Harriet had managed to scribble in her more lucid moments. There were small smears of blood accompanying some of the entries. A broken pencil stuck out from the spine of the book. The final entries had been written in a scribble with lipstick.

  The badly abused girl had kept her notes brief from fear of being caught recording the horror bestowed upon her. Judging by the dates, it appeared that it had only been in her final hours that she was unable to reach the book. The final entry was dated Friday, June 13th.

  The fact that Harriet was on the floor, but not restrained, was testament to her being too weak to get to the bookshelf again. It also strengthened Kimberley’s belief that Harriet had been on the bed unconscious, not dead, when the men had discussed her. Later, she had managed to get off the bed.

  Kimberley read in disbelief what had happened to her sister and in what order, but importantly, even in her terror, Harriet had the presence of mind to know she might not survive. She named the people who had drugged her and her unknown companion and preyed on them both repeatedly. According to Harriet’s notes, the unfortunate girl in the other bed was an orphan and had been making her own way in life. She’d had nobody.

  There had been other girls, but Harriet was unable to list the names of the others. She did suggest something about ‘disposal’. Kimberley’s heart skipped a beat. The ringleader of the deviant group was her stepfather, Detective Tony Morgan.

  Harriet and the other girl had been imprisoned and abused for at least two weeks. One more look at the short list of names was enough. Kimberley’s mind raced as she decided what to do next. She had to slow down her thoughts, or she’d be worse than useless, and Harriet deserved the best; the very best.

  “You’ve got a cute ass,” a male voice said, “real tight and round in them jeans.”

  Kimberley froze. She should have remembered about the non-creaking wooden stairs. She concentrated as she slowly turned around, realizing as she did that she had just heard one of the two male voices that had been on Harriet’s phone. As she turned, she knew it would be to stand face to face with the one called Alan. The way he pronounced ‘cute’ was lodged in her memory.

  The amended bible was still clutched in both Kimberley’s hands up to her chest when she found herself looking into the eyes of one of her future targets. On facing him, she assessed him rapidly and judged her next actions in those few seconds.

  He was at least six foot tall, weighed about 180lbs and was between 25 to 30 years old. The only reason he was still standing upright, was the Remington pump-action shotgun he had leveled at the police officer’s body.

  Kimberley’s gaze was unwavering as she looked deep into the man’s lecherous eyes.

  She said: “Am I right to believe that you are Alan Brett?” Her voice was steady.

  “Shit, yeah,” he said and grinned. “How did you know my name gorgeous?”

  “You have a mention in here,” she said. “It seems that you’re going to die soon.” She closed and then held out the adapted book, offering it to him.

  As Brett’s brow furrowed and his eyes became narrow slits, he glanced down and reached out for the book with his left hand. His right hand took the full weight of the shotgun on the narrow part of the butt near the trigger guard. It caused the barrel to drop out of the aim. At the same time as he took the bible, Brett couldn’t help but glance at the well-filled T-shirt immediately in focus behind it.

  Kimberley watched him and held her breath to keep her T-shirt stretched for only a few seconds, but it was enough. Only when her left foot shot upwards and the toe of her sneaker buried in the man’s groin, did she let out her breath. With a practiced skip, she changed from one foot to the other and sent her right toecap into Brett’s face as he doubled forward. He dropped the shotgun and the two combined books. He then stumbled backward as he coughed out three loosened teeth.

  In took Brett a few seconds to realize what was happening. He felt his hair being gripped by two strong hands, and then a denim-clad knee came up and broke his nose. He closed his eyes again involuntarily as he staggered backward, in severe pain.

  When Brett finally regained some focus and started to straighten, he could see a small black circle. He stared at the black circle, and then the rest of the weapon became much clearer right behind it. The long dark tube was pointing straight at his face. The hand holding the suppressed automatic pistol was rock steady, just like the hardened expression and cold blue eyes of the woman with the cute ass.

  Brett realized his body was about to go through some more bad times, but he could never imagine just how soon, or how bad. It was probably better for him that way, and that ignorance was the only good thing that would happen to him for the remainder of his life.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  Hello and Goodbye

  .

  “Every stitch off, now,” Kimberley said, staring at the man standing two paces from her. Brett was still staggering, bent forward and holding his bleeding nose and mouth with one hand, while he reached out with his other hand.

  “You want me to strip?” Brett said, lifting his blood-covered hand away only slightly. As he straightened and looked at his assailant, his eyes squinted and his head shook slightly as he tried to understand.

  Kimberley said: “You’ve got three more seconds to start, or you’ll find yourself hampered by a bullet in your leg.”

  Brett fumbled at first, but once he got started, he noticed that the barrel of the pistol never left its aiming mark, just below his waist. He also noticed that his captor’s expression remained impassive. His jacket and shirt were thrown to land on a nearby hard-backed chair. He stumbled as he pulled off his pants and socks and stopped with only his boxers remaining. When he looked at Kimberley, she nodded slowly, and he reluctantly removed his final piece of clothing.

  Kimberley said: “Face the wall and assume the position, arms forward, legs outstretched.” Brett obeyed instantly. Kimberley kicked at his ankles to force him to depend on his arms to take his weight. As she crossed the basement, Kimberley kicked the shotgun away and kept glancing back over her shoulder.

  The item she wanted was the wooden hard-backed chair on which Brett had thrown his clothing. Kimberley upended it, dislodging the garments onto the floor, on top of the shotgun.

  The cushion of the seat was missing, leaving a crisscrossed set of four narrow wooden bars which enabled a person to sit, albeit uncomfortably. It turned her stomach as she realized the simple arrangement was to allow access to the occupant from underneath. She lifted the chair close to the beds to face the area where the two dead girls lay.

  �
�Turn around,” she said, “and sit on that contraption.”

  Brett shuffled his feet to gain balance, and turned to look at the once innocent piece of wooden furniture. He and his cronies had adapted it, like everything else in the basement, for their perverted pleasures. As he stepped forward and sat on the bloodstained chair, he heard the metal cuffs clinking, and he remembered the last time he’d taken pleasure when one of the girls was manacled to the device. He glanced at the woman, her gun, and then sat with his hands on his knees.

  Kimberley said: “Secure your ankles to the chair legs and then sit upright.”

  Brett looked at the woman’s hard expression. The realization that he might not survive this situation was starting to feel like a real possibility. He leaned forward from his awkward sitting position and his face throbbed from the injuries to his nose and lower jaw. His gums still bled, and he found himself occasionally spitting out blood. He secured one ankle and then the other to the handcuffs that were fitted to the front legs of the chair and then he sat up.

  His lips parted as if to speak, and then they closed again. There was no mercy in the woman’s eyes so the only time Brett parted his bruised lips was to allow his tongue to play over them again, and again. Some teeth had gone, and others loosened.

  Kimberley said: “Now reach behind you and clip both of your wrists into the cuffs on the back of the chair.” She watched and then walked around him to ensure he’d complied, keeping out of reach as she did. While standing behind him, she wiped the tears that had started again. Her wild imaginings prompted her tears.

  She stepped forward, squatted and picked up the journal from where Brett had dropped the bible and journal on the floor. Kimberley then went around to the front of the chair, tucked her weapon into the waistband of her jeans and opened the book. She glanced at the journal and then looked down at her captive. His loud breathing was beginning to irritate her, but she knew he had no choice but to breathe with his injured mouth open.