think that would be a waste. Good-looking boy like you.’ One bullet had embedded itself in his right thigh. The other had passed through his left flank. Jessie guessed he must have spun round from the impact of the first bullet and been hit by the second in the leg. Better aim and the boy would have died instantly.
‘Well, Carl, seems it was your lucky day,’ said Jessie.
The boy continued to blink at her, mesmerised. The girls stepped forward to get a better look. Jessie pulled a couple of super-sized tampons from her bag, ripped the plastic off with her teeth, and inserted one gently into the bullet wound in the boy’s leg. It was soon plump with blood. Carl clenched his jaw and shuddered. Jessie inserted the second into the boy’s fleshy side.
‘Carl,’ said Jessie, ‘you still with me?’
‘Man,’ said one of the girls, ‘she just stuck a Lil-let in your leg.’
Carl groaned and passed out.
The sight of two uniformed officers careering down the stairs made the girls jump.
‘Step away from the body,’ shouted one of the officers.
‘Show your hands, slowly,’ shouted the other.
Jessie turned around. ‘Everyone calm down. Where is the ambulance?’
‘Move aside,’ ordered the police officer.
Jessie did.
They stared down at the gunshot wounds. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Don’t worry, they’re sterile. Thought it best, given the length of time ambulances take to get to shootings in this part of town.’
The coppers didn’t appreciate the snide comment. ‘And who are you – Florence Nightingale?’
Jessie reached into the back pocket of her tight blue jeans and held up a leather wallet. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Driver from West End Central CID, and if you want to know who shot this man, he is five foot eight, medium build, mixed race, wearing a red Polo running top. He left in a dark blue Audi 80, number plate T33 X9R.’ Jessie looked over to the girls. ‘Sound familiar?’ she asked.
Neither of them spoke.
‘Thought so,’ said Jessie, standing up.
Two paramedics arrived. Jessie stepped away. The uniformed officers stared at her as she began to mount the stairs.
‘You know where to find me,’ she said to their fixed expressions.
The paramedic looked up at her. ‘Thanks for bridging the gap,’ he said, folding out a stretcher.
‘My pleasure,’ said Jessie, and left.
Out on the street, Maggie stood holding both helmets. She smiled at Jessie.
‘All right, Mad Max. You done with your lifesaving antics?’
‘Yes thank you, Anne Robinson, I am.’
‘Sure? No burning buildings to run into? No pile-ups to attend?’
Jessie swung her leg across the leather seat of the chrome-and-black Virago and started the engine.
‘Finished?’ Jessie asked, backing out of the parking bay.
‘Yes.’
‘Then get on.’
Maggie smiled. ‘I love it when you get all masterful.’
‘Kebab?’ asked Jessie.
‘No,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m off to Istanbul, that means bikini and camera crew in close quarters, that means no kebab.’
‘I’m hungry,’ complained Jessie, revving the bike.
‘You’re weird. Now, take me home, Arnie. And don’t blast that music in your ears, it makes me nervous. You have precious cargo on board.’
Dutifully placing her minidisk player back in her pocket, Jessie pressed the bike into gear. It heaved forward. Jessie turned out of the cul-de-sac and raced down Goldhawk Road just as police reinforcements arrived.
West End Central was an old-fashioned, York stone building in the heart of Mayfair. Jessie had recently been assigned to the Detective Chief Inspector there, a man called Jones, a legendary police officer who had her hanging off his every softly spoken word. His Area Major Investigating Team were responsible for a large portion of Central London, and with around two hundred murders in London a year, they were kept reasonably busy.
She loved this new posting. She loved being back in London after four years in the regionals doing exam after exam to gain the necessary qualifications to make her the youngest DI on the team. Though her brothers, parents and friends were proud, there were others who did not appreciate her achievement. Jessie draped her leather jacket over the back of her chair and sat at her desk. A large box of Tampax had been placed in the middle of her blotting pad. The subtlety was not lost on her. She rested her chin in her cupped hand and stared at it. She could see the humour, really – if it had been left by anyone other than Mark Ward. Her professional equal. Her personal opposite.
A small, curvaceous girl was pacing the corridor outside her open doorway. Jessie watched the vaguely familiar creature wiggle, swivel and sigh dramatically. Puppy fat on heels.
‘Can I help you?’ Jessie enquired politely.
The girl stopped in the doorway, weighed up Jessie’s role and decided on secretary. ‘I’m waiting for Mr Ward. He’s a friend of my father’s. Can you check his diary, he should be here.’
‘What are you seeing him about?’
‘Someone is out to kill me.’
‘Oh.’ Jessie nodded in a manner she hoped looked sympathetic. ‘Your name is … ?’
‘Jami,’ she shrieked. ‘With an “i”. I’m a singer. Some man has been sending me these letters.’
‘How do you know it’s a man?’
‘It always is.’
Jessie took the ‘death threats’ from her just as Mark Ward appeared. The forty-eight-year-old glanced downwards, unable to resist the gravitational pull of the well-mounted chest on display. Jessie could hear the saliva in his throat when he spoke.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You must be feeling terrible.’ He snatched the letters back from Jessie and gave her a warning look before leading the girl away. Jessie gave it a few minutes before following them across the corridor. The great divide.
‘Thought you might want to take a DNA swab,’ said Jessie, leaning into the room. ‘The person sending these threatening letters may already have acquired personal items belonging to Jami.’
‘We don’t need your help, thank you,’ said Mark bitterly.
‘No, that sounds good. People will want to know what you’re doing to protect me,’ said Jami.
‘We can also compare it to the saliva on the envelope,’ said Jessie. The young performer held the smile until she fully comprehended Jessie’s words. ‘Then we’ll know when we’ve found the person responsible,’ she continued.
‘Excuse me, Driver,’ said Mark furiously. ‘I’m in charge of this.’
‘I’m sorry. I was only trying to help. I’ve brought a couple of swabs –’ She showed Jami the white spatula in its grey plastic case. ‘We’ll just scrape the inside of your cheek, and that’s it.’
‘I …’ Jami looked around the room for an exit. ‘I can’t have any foreign objects in my mouth. It could damage my vocal cords. I’m