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Watching The Detectives Nikkie Silk I live for feedback. [email protected] 1 Philippa For the umpteenth time I needed to move to get my circulation going again. I tried to stretch my legs but it's not easy in the front seat of my small car. Fuck, I thought as I snagged my tights against something beneath the steering wheel. If that was another pair ruined I would scream. I was parked facing a nondescript semi-detached house in a drab suburb of South London. It felt like I had been here for days when it had been just four hours as I checked my watch yet again. I hate night time surveillance jobs; they are often cold, uncomfortable, downright creepy, and sometimes dangerous. I keep pepper spray in my handbag and an extendable baton, bought in the US, in the car for protection, but I've never had to use them as I have always talked my way out of trouble. These bread and butter jobs are the kind of work that pays to keep the wolf from the door. Thank God for husbands who can't keep their trousers zipped up and wives who won't keep their knickers on. There was a steady stream of spouses who would make their way to my scruffy office with tearful appeals for me to find out whether Charlie or John or Samantha or Linda were straying from the straight and narrow. I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Philippa, 28 years old and a private detective in the aforesaid South London. I also happen to be a pre-op transsexual, but I assume none of you are interested in that. Tonight I was following and hoping to catch a few photos of a little scumbag who was a serial cheater on his pretty wife. I couldn't understand any man who could come home to a gorgeous wife and then turn round and cheat with some of the slags I had photographed him with. However, mine was not to reason why, mine was to do and get paid. The front door opened in the house I was watching and he stuck his head out to look around. They never check properly, so there was not much chance of being spotted. I raised the Nikon to my eye, focussed and shot a few frames. He ducked back in and then emerged with a woman wearing a dressing gown. They embraced and I got a lovely close up sequence of them kissing with his hand inside her dressing gown. I ducked down as he left the house and strolled down the street to where he had parked his car. I had an appointment with his wife tomorrow at the office which would lead to the usual tears and then anger. Still, I had done my job and would get paid. My work is done, I thought, pulled the car away from the kerb and drove off hoping to get some sleep. Shit, I had laddered my tights. This is the glamorous life of a 21st century private detective trying to earn a living in the mean streets of Tooting, South London. Raymond Chandler, eat your heart out. How did I get to become a private detective? It's a long story. I was named Philip after my grandfather who had died on D-Day on Sword Beach. He had married my grandmother two months earlier and my father was born five months later. Do the maths; things like that happened in wartime. My dad became a police officer in the Met police here in London until his retirement as a Chief Superintendent. He met my mum, who was ten years younger than him, and they tried and tried to have children and had pretty much given up when, hey presto, yours truly popped into the world. I loved my mum and respected my father. That's not to say I didn't love him, but he was a copper and had rules by which he lived and wanted me to live. I wasn't wild or rebellious but I guess I never lived up to his expectations for a son. I was small and slender, taking after my mum, wasn't good at sport much to the disappointment of my rugby mad father. I didn't fit in with what the boys wanted to do and I preferred to spend most of my time with the girls. It was hop scotch for me and not climbing trees. When I grew up gender dysphoria didn't exist. Well it did, but no one called it that back then. What I got called was fairy and pansy and sissy and bullied mercilessly. I didn't have the ability or the will to fight back and so I withdrew into my own world. I was unhappy but I didn't understand why. That's when I discovered dressing. I was looking for some solace and I thought, as I liked doing girl things, why not try to look like one. I stole a pair of my mum's knickers from the laundry hamper one night and put them on in my bedroom. The feeling as they slid up my legs sent me dizzy and when I pulled them up tight I nearly fainted. That was that, as they say. I would "borrow" my mum's stuff and shoplift knickers and pairs of tights from local shops. I built a small collection of knickers and a bra and a couple of dresses I picked up from outside the charity shop where someone had left them for collection. I would get home from school and run to my room and pull on the knickers and the bra and a dress. God knows what I looked like, but I didn't care, I was happy. Of course, I got caught. Mum was crying and Dad went crazy, calling me all kinds of names and it would ruin him if it ever got out his son was a poof. After he had finished and stormed out, Mum came and hugged me and told me it would be OK and we would sort things out. Mum was so sweet and talked to me for ages about how I felt and why I did it and told me it was natural for boys to explore what they felt. She probably got me through one of the darkest periods of my life. Dad was no help, but he just didn't understand and therefore just rejected the whole idea. I still got to dress occasionally with Mum's passive connivance. She would look the other way rather than support it outright, otherwise Mum felt she would be letting my dad down. I built another small stash of clothes and even got my hands on some makeup I would practice with when I knew Dad was safely out of the way. One night I came down from my bedroom to the kitchen where Mum was sitting and she gently wiped some eye shadow off my face which I had missed before Dad could see it. She was and still is, a hero. Then, at about age 16, I was given my own computer and I discovered the internet. I not only discovered it, I nearly drowned in it. I soon found out I was not alone; indeed, there were many people going through the same struggle as me. It makes such a difference when you know others are feeling the same doubts and fears. It doesn't make them disappear, but you realise they can be faced up to and, just maybe, they can be overcome. They were also willing to show me how I could cope with the bigotry and prejudice I would face if I went down the path I was considering. I must have spent every spare moment for a year in reading and researching this new world. At last I had found an identity; I realised my feelings weren't wrong or perverted. I felt happier than at any time in the past. I knew I wanted to be a girl, not a boy. I got to know people online and we would get together when we could and get loaded on cheap cider, dress together and play around; nothing too bad but I had my first kiss with a boy and I sucked my first cock in those sessions. At 18 I left school, found a job in an insurance office and hated it. However, it meant I could move away from home. I could be in boy mode at work and then get back to the one room place I was renting and could become the girl I wanted to be. Occasionally, I would go out dressed late at night to walk around feeling liberated and scared in equal measure. I developed some problems trying to balance the two sides of my personality, became deeply depressed and more than once contemplated suicide as the answer. Luckily, there were some good people I had met and they helped me to come to terms with what I was facing. I met an older T-Girl who was further down the path with her transition. She took a liking to me and helped me to get my head sorted out. She told me to stop trying to walk down two paths and to pick the one which suited me best and go with it. I guessed it would be a hard road if I chose to follow my heart. But I knew this what I had to do so, with my friend's support, I started on hormones and began the process of transition. It was such a huge relief to finally start the journey to the girl I wanted to be. It was inevitable that I would have to come out at work, as the changes the hormones brought were becoming too obvious. I dreaded the reaction I would get from my colleagues, but I was surprised. After the first shocked reactions and sniggering it calmed down and people moved on to other issues to get worked up about. At least most weren't outrightly hostile, although there were two older blokes who were extremely nasty about it. A couple of the women took my side and sorted the two men out, but they never accepted me. It was bearable, but there were always snide remarks which hurt so much. However, I clung to the thought that it had to be worth it, as I felt so much better now I was making my first steps towards who I wanted to be. I was still lonely, however, until I joined a LGBT group which had started up locally, made some good friends there and life started to look up a bit. The support I got from the group helped me become more confident and I even dated a few guys for a while. There were still some bad times too and I came close to being beaten up on more than one occasion, but I carried a rape alarm with me and when it went off the arseholes disappeared pretty quickly. Things had got better with my mum and dad too. Mum had gently and persistently worked on Dad and he gradually came round to accepting my choices. I'm not saying he wouldn't have preferred it otherwise but I think he had always loved me; he couldn't understand how I felt. We began to talk with my mum's help and it's a lot better now. He did some research on his own about transgender issues and began to realise it wasn't the end of the world to have a daughter instead of a son. It took a lot for him to come round and I loved him for it. I was over at their house for Sunday lunch and I was moaning about my job. I had just been passed over for a promotion I knew I deserved, because, I was convinced, of who I was. Dad said if you're that fed up, go and do something you want to, nothing's stopped you in the past. We talked about it and out of nowhere he said he had an old mate from the force who had become a Private Investigator when he left the job. Dad was having a drink with him a couple of days ago and he had told my dad he needed someone to help out in the office and maybe some field work. Dad had promised to keep his eye out for anyone who might be interested. Mum was horrified and gave Dad a right telling off, but my interest was piqued and Dad slyly set me up to meet Alan, his old mate. Alan was initially not keen, probably only seeing me because of Dad, but I had prepared well for the interview and, I think, impressed him with my determination to get the job. I'm also not too sure there were any other interested candidates, so Alan offered me a trial period, after which we could both decide if it was right for me. A lot of the work was office bound, not only filing and making excuses to the clients when Alan was too drunk to turn up to meetings, but also a lot of research work on the phone and on the computer. Alan was old school and couldn't get on with technology. Even his mobile was just a phone and he couldn't even cope with that at times. I had managed to develop a lot of computer skills and I soon was able to produce results for him which he couldn't have got anywhere else. It is frightening how easy it is to find it information online. People are so careless about what they post on social media that it's laughably easy to find out so much unintended information. With a little fast talking and some greasing of palms it's also possible to get confidential information about people. I am constantly surprised at how little care people take about their passwords, for instance, and with some software and expertise you can get a lot of information which people should keep more secure. I also found I had a knack for being a fluent and persuasive liar if necessary. It wasn't long before I was going out with Alan into the field and I think he enjoyed teaching me the tricks of the trade. I was a quick and eager pupil and I pestered and pestered him into letting me go out on my own to do some field work. I learnt everything from Alan and I will always be grateful to him. We made a good team, the business was growing and building a good reputation until, one gray autumn day, Alan keeled over in Streatham High Road and died from a heart attack. I was devastated, not only because I had lost a friend and teacher, but it had it seemed things were going so well and now I would have to start somewhere else. So, it was a great surprise when our solicitor told me that only a few weeks before his death, Alan had at last made a will and had left me the business. Let's be clear though, the business meant a scruffy office, some filing cabinets, a geriatric computer and surveillance gear but also, most important of all, his black book full of contact details with solicitors and divorce lawyers. These are the people who matter in giving out work as much as clients who come direct. I hit the phones hard and knocked on a lot of doors to persuade them I could do the same work Alan had done. Some didn't believe me and moved their work elsewhere, but there were enough I managed to persuade to give me a chance. It was hard work but it paid off, and I managed to keep my head above water. About this time a small lottery win paid for a trip to Thailand for me to get a boob job, my Adam's Apple shaved, vocal cords stretched, as well as my nose fixed and it was money well spent as far as I was concerned. I'm passable and, I have been told, pretty when I make the effort. I don't get made by many people and that's mostly only by other T-Girls. I live in a renovated apartment in what had been a police station before Government budget cuts forced its closure. I had bought it with some money left to me by an aunt together with a fairly hefty mortgage. I make enough from detective work to cover my outgoings and have a reasonable amount left over. So that's how Philippa Taplow ended up being the owner of TV Detectives - my joke. Most people think it refers to television detectives and I don't enlighten them, but it makes me smile. Following my late night photography session with the sleazeball husband, I managed to get a few hours sleep before I had to be at the office to present my report to the anxious wife. There were the expected tears and I keep a box of tissues on my desk ready for these occasions. As I said a lot of my work is referred by solicitors or divorce lawyers, so I don't get many walk ins and none that looked like the woman who rang the bell in the office later in the morning. She was the kind of blonde you see in Hello magazine showing you her beautiful home. She was tall and elegant, blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders in waves in a style I could only dream about and wearing a pink tailored short skirt and jacket, which I swear was Dior, over a white blouse. She had a pair of Chanel sunglasses perched on top of her head and I caught a flash of red on the soles of her dusky pink heels, which meant Louboutin. For some reason she was dressed for Knightsbridge and slumming it in Tooting. Idiotically, I found myself wishing I had put on something more than my usual trousers and blouse and spent a bit longer on my makeup this morning. "Are you Philippa Taplow?" she asked, looking around as if she might catch something from just being in here. "Yes, that's me, and you are...?" She was searching for somewhere to sit so I lifted some magazines off the only chair I had in the office and dusted it with my hand. Good start, Philippa. She reluctantly sat down and crossed her legs. In the short skirt she was wearing, it made even me wake up and pay attention. I couldn't place her perfume but I could tell it wasn't from the Pound Shop remainder bin. She looked as if she couldn't work out if this was an office or a store cupboard and she carefully placed her Burberry handbag on the floor beside her, opened her jacket and sat back, albeit reluctantly, in the chair. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. Mrs...?" "It doesn't matter for the moment, Miss Taplow. I believe my husband is cheating on me and I want to know if you can find the proof for me." "It's certainly the kind of work we do," I always say we as it sounds more impressive than the truth. "Not that I want to turn work away, but why have you come to us? No offence, but I would have thought one of the bigger agencies would be more your style." "Does it matter why? I'm here and I'm offering you the work. Do you want to do it or not?" You pick up a sense in my line of work when someone wasn't being straight with me. I felt somehow she wasn't levelling with me, but if I turned away everyone who felt a bit hinky, I wouldn't have much of a business. "Ok then, tell me why you think he's having an affair and I'll tell you then if I think I can help." I began to take notes but the voice activated digital recorder would fill in any gaps I might miss. Clients like to see me taking notes, it makes them think they are getting more value for their money. She went through the usual litany of reasons: unexplained late nights, callers hanging up, showering when he got home, unexplained items on the credit card bill, leaving the room to take calls, and so on. Sometimes this is all coincidence and someone with low self esteem can turn innocuous events into something completely different. This woman definitely did not have low self esteem for sure. She seemed confident, arrogant almost, and to have everything planned carefully. "Have you challenged him about this?" I asked. I wanted to know if he was aware of her suspicions. It could make a big difference out in the field. If he was aware that he was suspected he would be a lot more jumpy and unpredictable. "No, not yet. I want to get some evidence before confronting him. I will tell you that I have the money in our marriage and I want this to be safely wrapped up before I go ahead. If he is cheating, then I will cut him out so fast his feet won't touch the floor." She looked around. "Do you have any coffee?" "I'm sorry, yes of course. How do you take it?" I am a coffee freak and the one indulgence I had allowed myself at the office was to buy a good coffee machine. She asked for espresso so I busied myself making a couple of cups which gave me time to look at her again. She was, in fact, a little older than I had at first thought, but beautifully groomed. Hair and makeup were flawless in a way which takes a long time, or help, or both to achieve. She had large diamond studs in her ears and what to my eye looked like a Bulgari watch on her wrist. There was clearly money here and I thought again there was something off about her, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "Ok," I said, giving her the espresso, "before we go any further I should tell you my fees and if you're happy with those, then we can get into details." I gave her a figure for my hourly rate at the top end of my scale. Charge what the market will bear, Alan used to tell me. She nodded and said, "That's fine, I believe in payment by results, so I will pay a bonus on successful completion of the investigation. Would ?10,000 be adequate?" I succeeded in stopping my mouth falling open at this point. A client offering me a bonus, unasked for? Something was off, but what? I told her it was perfectly adequate. "I do need to know your names at this point, I can't go on without those." She looked uncomfortable and I wondered what was the problem. She must realise I needed to know. "My name is Eleanor Northcliffe and my husband is Gareth Evans. I continued to use my own name after we get married. I hope you understand the importance of confidentiality, Miss Taplow." "If I didn't," I said, "I would be out of business very quickly indeed." She nodded and we set about the details about her husband. She talked me through his habits, his work and who his friends were. I asked if she knew his email password, she did and told me, but it's so easy to get alternate accounts these days, it might not help. She also gave me his phone number and I asked if he had a second phone, but she didn't know. She also provided his car registration number. I told her to create a new email address which we could use confidentially. A new phone would be useful as well and imperative that her husband not know about them. She said she would arrange it and let me know the details. "How quickly could you get started, Miss Taplow?" "Well, if you can let me know where he will be this evening I can get started straightaway. That is, if you can pay something upfront as an indicator of good faith?" "Of course, will ?2,000, be adequate?" Wow, this was too easy, I thought. I nodded and she wrote out a cheque and handed it across. Glancing at the cheque I could see it was written from an account with an exclusive City bank. "I am away from home on business a lot and I'm on a trip for the next few days. This is our townhouse address and I believe my husband will be staying there while I'm away." Mmm, I thought, townhouse? Implies there's a country house as well. "OK, Mrs Northcliffe, just some paperwork to be done and we're good. I will send you an update every day to the email address when you let me know what it is. It will be encrypted and I will send you details separately about how to decrypt it. Is that OK?" "Perfectly, thank you, now if there's nothing else, I need to be going." "No, it's all fine. I will be in touch, when you send me details of the email address." With that she stood and with the look of somebody reminding themselves to send their clothes to the cleaners immediately, she walked out of the door. I sat still for a few moments, still trying to work my way through what had happened. I shrugged, sent a text message setting up a meeting later this evening, turned on my computer and opened up Google. 2 Emily In my local pub there's always a guy, probably the same guy, playing the slot machine with the concentration I imagine he would use on the control panel of a nuclear submarine. He never seems to win. Mug's game I think. I was sitting with an end of day gin and tonic, thinking about Mrs Blah Blah, when someone nibbled my ear from behind. "Emily. Please don't do that," I said. "How did you know it was me?" "Emily, think about it, who else but you would do that to me in a straight pub?" She came round and plonked herself down on the chair opposite me. Emily is my best friend; occasional lover and sometime assistant. She is also a beautiful woman who happens to be lesbian. Actually, her sexuality is a little more complicated than that. Em and I got together for the first time at a party when we both got blind drunk and ended up in bed. We sucked and fucked each other's brains out that first night and then found out we actually liked each other afterwards. It doesn't always happen that way. Emily doesn't go anywhere near men but I guess I don't count. She thinks of me as girl with a strapon attached, without any of the male bullshit which normally comes attached to a penis. She calls me her Private Dick, which she thinks is hilarious and I think is a joke well past its sell by date. These days if either of us gets an itch that someone of the other - nominal in my case - sex can scratch, then we get together. Em is a couple of inches shy of 6ft tall, curvaceous, with natural red hair tumbling down unkempt over her shoulders and with the face of a Renaissance Angel. Her looks belie her strength and she is a 3rd Dan black belt in Karate; she could convince you the Amazons were not a myth. "Yuk, straight pubs, what a waste of flesh." She looked around, saw a woman sitting by herself in the corner, smiled at her and said, "But sometimes there are opportunities." I said, "It's the landlord's wife." She looked puzzled and said, "So what?" I shrugged. "I don't want to get banned from another pub." "Last time wasn't all my fault, that girl definitely fancied me." "Yes," I said, "Until her boyfriend came back from the toilet and started to push you around." "I only hit him once," Emily said, "and I pulled the punch." The guy had ended up sprawled across a table holding his bloody nose and screaming. Even then Emily got the girl's phone number before we were thrown out and banned. I sent Em off to get us some drinks and I saw her say something to the woman in the corner, who smiled back at her. She eventually returned with two pints and sat down so she could still eyeball the woman. "So, what's the problem with Miss Snooty, then?" I had called Em and given her the outline of what had happened this morning. "There's just something off about it. She's loaded, that's clear, so what's she doing down in Tooting talking to me rather than one of the big boys up west? The name she gave me, I checked. She comes from a wealthy family, made their money in property deals. The word seems to be that she had a drug problem, met a bad boy and eloped, nearly got cut off from the family money but managed to repair things. At least the cheque was genuine, the bank confirmed that." "Anything on the cheating husband?" "We don't know he's cheating yet." "He is," said Em, looking across at the woman. "all men cheat, they're hardwired to. The little shits can't help it, it's just a case of when they get found out." "Yeah, he checks out, seems to be a bit of a chancer. No criminal record but sounds a bit dodgy. Describes himself as an entrepreneur." Em grunted and raised her glass to the woman in the corner. "Maybe she likes getting down and dirty in Tooting. Phil, It's just a surveillance job, right?" I nodded. Emily was one of only two people in the world I would allow to call me Phil. "And no special requests, no beating anyone up or planting evidence?" "Emily, you know I don't do anything like that," I tried to look offended. "More's the pity, you would earn a lot more money that way. So, what's your problem, Phil? Do the job, get paid and everyone's happy." "Yes, I guess you're right." "Damn right, sister." I nodded and said I had to go, see if I could track down this husband where Miss Snooty had told me he would be tonight. I asked if she could help out on this job with some surveillance. She agreed and I said I would sort out a schedule by the morning. "Good luck," Em said, "and be careful." "Good luck to you too," I said as Em got up looking towards the woman in the corner. "Oh, I don't need luck." She didn't either, because the woman gave her a broad smile as Emily sat down next her. Mrs Snooty's "town" address was on a road just at the wealthier end of the King's Road in Chelsea. I managed to sneak into a spot with my car so I could keep an eye on both the house and the black Jaguar with the number plate Eleanor Northcliffe had given me. I knew this could be a long, possibly fruitless wait. Three hours after I started watching, the front door opened and the husband emerged. I snapped a few shots, more than anything to prove I had been there. I guessed he wasn't going to go far tonight because he was dragging a big black labrador dog on a lead. I slipped out of the car and followed him and the dog as they took a slow walk down the King's Road to Sloane Square and back. It's always difficult following someone walking slowly, It's best to do it from the other side of the street so you aren't so noticeable. He made it back to the house in about half an hour and I was pretty sure he hadn't met anyone or even used his phone while he was outside. I was grateful for the walk though and then settled down again to watch. At about 11 o'clock, the lights all went out and I gave it ten minutes before deciding to call it a night. Emily and I split the day shift between us, but I would take the evening shift as that's when I thought anything would probably happen. Luckily, there was a coffee shop on the corner of the road where we could sit with a good view of the house during the day. Over the next three days Gareth Evans only emerged from the house twice a day to walk the dog, with delivery drivers and the postman the only callers to the house. I ached for something to happen. I reported this daily to Eleanor, complete with pictures, just to prove we were actually there. On the fourth evening he took the dog out for it's evening walk at about 7.30, a little earlier than his usual routine. I perked up, changes in routine normally meant something was going to happen. About an hour later, at 9 o'clock, he emerged and headed for his car. I sat up and as he pulled out into the traffic I followed behind in my little VW. It's great for this work because nobody notices such an anonymous car. I followed him down the King's Road, then out of Chelsea, over the river at Putney and along the river towards Barnes. I nearly missed him as he made a sharp left turn into a road of Edwardian villas. Stopping about halfway down the road, he parked, left the car to walk up to one of the villas and rang the doorbell. I managed to park and double back to check the address and by the time I got there he was inside. Opposite the villa was a house in the process of renovation completely surrounded with scaffolding and plastic sheeting. I managed to squeeze through a gap in the fence and clambered up a ladder attached to the scaffolding onto the first floor level. I found a spot where I could see the house opposite and where I would also be concealed by the plastic sheeting. Thanking my stars for putting on jeans, boots and my warm coat, I settled down to watch. A light flicked on in a ground floor room opposite and a woman came to the window, looked out and pulled the curtains. It was too quick for me to get a shot, but I clearly saw Gareth Evans behind her in the room. Nothing happened for the next hour and I began to curse Alan and then my father for getting me into this game. A light flicked on in the room next to the one with the closed curtains and this time I was more prepared, put the telephoto lens up to maximum magnification and steadied it against the scaffold pole. The telephoto lens would make the pictures grainy but would add to their realism when I had to show them. The room was clearly a bedroom and It wasn't long before two women came into view. Please don't close the curtains, I pleaded to myself, please don't close them. One of the women went to pull them closed but as she did so, the other woman put her arms around her from behind and she turned round to kiss her. Shit, I thought, this isn't what I came to see. I ran off some shots, thinking Em would laugh at this. It was when the second woman turned her head towards me, it clicked that she seemed familiar. Fuck, I thought, that's Gareth Evans. I rammed the camera back to my eye and flicked it to rapid. I was now sure the second woman was Gareth Evans in drag and a wig. He looked pretty good I thought and that's from an expert at dressing up in women's clothes. I whistled to myself, so that's the way he rolls. They were both kissing passionately now, their arms wrapped around each other. There was enough of a gap left in the curtains for me to still get a good view of the room and I kept the camera going on rapid. Thankfully, I had loaded a fresh memory card this morning. I stopped to check the camera was working, and when I looked back into the room through the camera, Evans was on his knees in front of the other woman and pushing his hands up her legs and underneath her skirt. The woman put her hands behind her and unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. Evans moved his hands up to her hips and I saw her look down and nod to him. He was smiling as he hooked his thumbs into her knickers and drew them slowly over her hips and down her legs and I nearly dropped the camera when I saw an erect cock jutting from her groin. Shit, I didn't see that coming. This could get very interesting. My first idiotic thought was that it was a strapon, but it was clear from the way it moved it was real and large. Evans looked up at her as he slid his tongue over the tip and then his lips parted to take the head into his mouth. Bingo, that's the money shot. She put her hands around the back of his head this time and pulled Evans deeper onto her cock. He took it into his mouth and started to lick up and down the shaft. I thought, this guy's no novice, he's done this before. He had both hands around the cock now and took the tip of it into his mouth, licking and sucking hard. She began to move her hips back and forth, forcing Evans to take more of it into his mouth and I could see he was gagging and finding it difficult to keep it in. He pulled back in order to draw breath and then, wisely I thought, concentrated on the head, using his tongue without trying to take it all into his mouth. His hands were wrapped around the shaft stroking it up and down whilst he sucked and licked the cock head in and out of his mouth. She threw her head back and I thought she was close to cumming. I have seen and photographed some extremely odd things in my job, but this was without doubt the most erotic scene I had ever photographed. Even watching through the camera lens this was making me hard and I let out a little moan as he deep throated her. I had to adjust myself at this point as my cock was painfully restrained. I switched to movie mode; I had to have this on film. The woman looked down at him and said something which made him stop and smile. She pulled Evans to his feet and pushed him across the room towards the bed where he fell onto his back. I couldn't see everything from this angle but moving to the right a little I could focus right onto the bed. Evans climbed onto the bed and got onto his hands and knees in front of her as she edged up behind him. She lifted the skirt he was wearing and pulled down his knickers so his backside was now naked in front of her. She bent forward and she tongued his hole and he arched his back as he felt her tongue enter him. Somehow, I thought of Evans as him and the mystery T-Girl as she. She did this for a few minutes and then she reached over to pick up what looked like a bottle of lube. He looked back over his shoulder and watched as she lubed herself and smeared some onto his hole. He shivered as he felt it and then she slipped a finger inside him and he squirmed a little before pushing backwards onto her finger. She started to move her hand around and I could see he was begging her for more. She teased him a little more, withdrawing her finger and then pushing back in with two. He bucked as she drove her fingers deep inside him. I was getting so turned on by this I steadied the camera against the scaffolding and reached down to rub my now aching cock. She slapped him on the buttock and he reared as he felt the sting of her hand. I had managed somehow to unzip my jeans and eased my hand inside to rub my cock. I watched as she withdrew her fingers and moved herself up close behind him and take her cock and slap it against his hole. He looked over his shoulder to face her and I had a shot of him smiling as he anticipated what was about to happen. She pushed the tip of her cock just inside him and he wiggled his bum as if desperate to have it inside him. She pushed in a bit further and withdrew a couple of times before plunging her cock right inside him. I saw him shudder as he took the whole length inside and I swear I could hear him grunting as she began to move in and out, slowly at first and then faster and faster. My hand was now rubbing my cock through my knickers and I pushed them down to get a better. I imagined I was the one in the room across the road fucking Evans and I felt my own climax building as I stroked myself to an orgasm. I put the camera down and leant back against the scaffolding and brought myself off until I came into my hand. Oh my God, this wasn't meant to happen, but what I had watched was so hot I just couldn't stop myself. I cleaned myself up with a tissue and then picked up the camera again. The two of them were now sprawled across the bed and It looked as if she had pulled out before coming as there was cum all over his back. I ran off a few more shots for good measure and then decided I had more than enough evidence and just wanted to get home. I scrambled down the scaffolding, slipped back out through the fence and was back into my car in a few minutes. I was so anxious to get home and more than a little ashamed at what I had done, that I didn't notice a small red glow as someone took a drag on a cigarette in the darkness across the road. I drove home to Tooting in a daze. To say I had not been expecting what happened was the understatement of the century. What I had thought was a simple cheating husband case had taken on a completely different complexion. As a T-Girl myself, I was now faced with outing another, in the most horrible manner. Should I let that affect me? Did it make any difference that Gareth Evans was cheating with another T- Girl rather than a woman, or another man for that matter? I was tired and drained and these thoughts were rolling around in my head until I got home. I would have to come to terms with that dilemma, even whether it was one, in the morning. I woke late the next day and, after a hasty breakfast, called Emily to fill her in on what had happened the previous night. She let out a "sheeeet" when I told her about Evans" trans performance and she gleefully reminded me that she had told me he would be cheating, but would never have guessed that it would be in such a spectacular way. When I mentioned my reservations about "outing" Evans, Emily was very clear and direct. "It's none of your fucking business. The wife is your n client, not Gareth Evans. You like horses right? Well if he was doing it with a horse, would that make any difference?" The analogy was wonky, as I like horses, but I am not one myself. But I knew she was right and it helped clear my mind for the report I needed to write that morning. I knew Eleanor Northcliffe was still away, so I couldn't deliver the report personally until she returned, six days away, on the following Monday. I needed to write the report this morning when everything was fresh in my mind, so I headed off to the office with my camera and laptop, kick-starting the day with a couple of double espressos. I started by uploading all the photographs and video to my confidential cloud account as well as backing them to a local hard drive. I couldn't afford to lose this stuff so double bagging the backup was absolutely essential. I worked quickly, using my report template and it only took me a couple of hours to complete and polish the report. It was now lunchtime and I yawned and stretched, immediately feeling a knot in my back from the exertions of last night . I decided to treat myself to a massage at the spa a couple of streets away, followed by a quick pub lunch. I backed up the report to the cloud, grabbed my bag, locked the office and headed out into what had become a beautiful summer's day. Feeling much better after the massage I arrived back at the office about an hour later and immediately realised something was wrong. The door to my office was open and I knew I had locked it when I left. I stopped at the door and listened but could hear nothing from inside. Grabbing the pepper spray from my bag, I slowly pushed open the door and held the spray out in front of me as I slowly walked into the office. It was obvious it had been ransacked as papers and all the detritus of an office was flung all over the room. With a sinking heart I quickly checked and both the Nikon and my beloved MacBook Air had disappeared. I couldn't tell for sure but it looked as if they were the only two things missing. I sat down and began to curse, long and loudly, using every swear word I knew and a few I made up as well. When I had finished, I called the local police station to report the break in. I didn't expect them to do anything, but I needed a crime number from them for the insurance claim I would be making. I could get by with my iPad for a while but the camera was a tool I couldn't do without. It was while I was on the phone to the police that I noticed something about the door that I should have seen straightaway. Ringing off, I walked across to the door, knelt down and had a good look at the lock. It was a solid, heavy, serious lock, but there was no sign of damage, instead, there were a number of small scratches around the keyhole. I had assumed this was druggies or kids looking for something to fence quickly. However, I didn't think many druggies would be able to pick a lock of this quality. I spent the afternoon waiting for a Scenes of crime officer to turn up to look for fingerprints, making her coffees only to hear her say. "You'll never get that stuff back, fenced and sold on by now." I knew that was probably the case but it didn't improve my already foul mood. I sent a text to Emily. "Em. got a problem need 2 talk" "Wot r u pregnant?" "No u fool. Need 2 talk tonite" "OK Rutland at 7" The Rutland is a beautiful riverside pub just by Hammersmith Bridge. I sat outside in the warmth of the evening and watched the action on the river, idly wondering about how much history had passed by on the river right in front of me. Henry VIII may have been rowed up river past this spot on his way to see his newly acquired palace at Hampton Court, and his daughter Elizabeth must surely have traveled the other way down to the Palace of Westminster. I spotted Emily as she walked across from the bridge and watched as the crowds parted almost by instinct to let her walk through. Men and women turned to watch her walk by. In another life I swear she would have been a Celtic warrior queen leading her people into battle. "Get me a margarita will you, Phil. I'm gagging for a drink," she said as she sat down next to me. So much for the warrior queen. If you ever ask for a margarita in a London pub be prepared for eye rolling, shoulder heaving and passive aggression from the bar staff. The girl behind the bar was about to say no, just because she couldn't be bothered, but her colleague, a tasty looking young guy, stepped in and said, "No problem Miss, let me get them for you. It'll be a readymade margarita mix but our Tequila is pretty good. I think we've even got a proper glass somewhere. You sit down and I'll bring them across to you." I stared at him in astonishment; he had to be new. I paid and went back to Emily, who was closely watching a gaggle of girl rowers, all in lycra shorts, tight tops, pony tails, and giggles stream past. I sat as Emily nodded her head at something behind me and said, "The brunette at the back." "What?" I said and turned to look. She was just like the others; tall, long legs, lithe and athletic and with the soft bloom of youth. "Baby dyke," said Emily, "watch and learn." The brunette turned round and looked at Emily who casually took off her sunglasses and looked straight back. The girl turned away and Emily started counting softly. "one, two, three'...on the count of five, the girl turned back again to look. Emily opened her legs a fraction and the girl went pink and her head snapped round. A few minutes later the crew walked back past our table and the girl hung back a little, casually dropping a piece of paper on the table in front of Emily who winked at her as she hurried off to rejoin her crew. I grabbed the paper before Emily could and unfolded it. Scrawled on it was "Cindy, call me" with her telephone number. It's happened before. On the rare occasions we are together in a lesbian club or bar, it's like bees round honey. They are rare occasions as I don't like going to them because right on lesbians don't always want to play nice with us T-Girls. As if we don't get enough hassle from straight society we also get it from some who should know better. Anyway, don't get me started on sexual politics because I will bore the pants off you. I sometimes wondered if lesbians were attracted to each other through some yet to be discovered force akin to magnetism. My new BFF from the bar brought across the margaritas and smiled broadly at me. "Enjoy your drinks, girls, let me know if you want anything else." He gave me another big smile and left, collecting some empty glasses as he went. "I think you've pulled there babe," Emily said loudly enough that he must have heard. "What? You're mad, he's a child." "Yea, but you would, wouldn't you?" In a heartbeat I thought to myself. "So, what's this problem?" Emily said, pulling her hair back and securing it with a scrunchie. "The office was broken into today. My camera and laptop were stolen." "Bloody kids," she said, "just wanted them for drug money I guess. It's all insured though, isn't it?" "Yes, that's not a problem, Everything was backed up as well, so I won't lose anything. The strange thing is it happened when I popped out for an hour at lunchtime. Hell of a coincidence don't you think? Just at the time I was out they choose to break in." She squinted at me. "Well, they would choose a time when you're not there, after all. Or are you saying you think you were targeted?" I paused as I took a sip of the margarita. "The locks were picked, not smashed. Still think it was kids?" Emily was silent for a few seconds. "No, that doesn't sound like kids, not unless they're teaching Breaking and Entering at GCSE these days. Do you think it's anything to with the Evans case?" "I had thought of it, for sure, but how could it be? The only person who knows I'm handling it is Eleanor Northcliffe, and she's out of the country." Emily frowned. "Yeah, you're right, that's just too much of a stretch. Just be careful, will you, please." "Don't worry, I'll be OK, I have my trusty pepper spray, remember, By the way, how did it go with the woman in the pub? Can I go back there?" Emily grinned broadly. "I'm seeing her tonight. Her name's Sophie. In fact, I have to go right now, I'm taking her to her first lesbian bar." With that, she drained the rest of her drink and with a wave, disappeared into the crowd. I stayed for a while, luxuriating in the evening sunshine. The barman brought me over another margarita and I said, "I didn't ask for another one." "This one's on me," he said with a smile. "It will only cost you your phone number." I laughed and thought why not? I scribbled my number on a bar mat and he slipped it into his jeans pocket. "Thanks babe, catch you sometime." I left soon after and realised that my drive home would take me right past the road in Barnes where I had been last night. As I passed the end of the road I shivered, remembering what had I had seen and done the previous night. It was dark when I arrived home and I only had to spend five minutes trying to find a parking space for the car but it left me a few hundred yards walk away from my front door, and as I paused to find my keys in my bag a voice behind me called out. "Fucking bitch." I turned to face the voice, my hand reaching for the spray in my bag. The next thing I remember was trying to force my eyes open. I tried to sit up but my head hurt too much and I could hear someone talking but they seemed to be a long way away and I couldn't hear what they saying. I knew I had to open my eyes but I couldn't get them to obey my brain. The voice got closer and clearer and a man was speaking. "Don't try to get up Miss, the ambulance is on it's way." Ambulance? What for? Is somebody hurt? It was then that I realised I was the one who was hurting. My head ached and my ribs did too. I finally forced one eye open and looked up into the worried eyes of a young guy who was kneeling beside me. I was sprawled on the pavement outside my house and felt around for my bag. "If it's your bag you're looking for, Sally over there has got it safe. She's called the ambulance and they're on their way." I looked around and there was an equally worried looking girl holding my bag. She tried to smile and said, "We were round the corner and heard you scream, so we legged it round here and found you laying on the pavement. We heard some footsteps running away and guessed you had been attacked." "Thanks, but I'm sure I will be alright, if you could just help me up, I can get inside. It's my house just here." The girl spoke again. "Jack's a first aider, he says you might have concussion and that's why we called the ambulance." At that moment I heard the ambulance siren as it came round the corner and Sally jumped into the road to stop them. i tried to say that I was OK but my head felt heavy and my vision blurred and I must have passed out again. I can't remember much of the next few hours, although bits and pieces of it came back now and then. It's a mashup of sounds and voices and half remembered faces peering down at me with lights being flashed in my eyes and people asking me my name. The doctor who came to see me when I finally woke up tried to fill me in on what had happened. I had been attacked outside my house, taken a big thump to the back of the head which had knocked me down and had then been kicked a few time as I lay on the pavement. Jack and Sally had rushed round the corner when they heard me scream and Jack had put me into the recovery position as Sally called the ambulance. There didn't appear to be any serious damage but he wanted to run a few tests as I had been hit hard on the back of my head and he was worried about concussion. If all went well, he expected me to be discharged the following morning. He had given me something for the pain and told me to get some rest. He also told me that I had been lucky, because if I hadn't screamed and Jack and Sally hadn't been there so quickly, if might have been much worse. He smiled and said that when I was admitted there was a bit of confusion about whether I should be in a male or female ward, but they had solved it by putting me into one of the private rooms. I managed a painful grin and told him it was the first time being TG had been a benefit. He laughed and said he would be back later to check on me. 3 Tim I had drifted back to sleep again when I sensed somebody standing by the bed. I cracked open an eyelid to see the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes looking down at me. "Hello, Miss Taplow, I'm Detective Constable Tim Kent, is it OK to have a word?" I knew the police would turn up sometime as the hospital would have reported the incident as a matter of routine. Tim Kent looked young and very cute. Policemen had obviously changed a lot since my dad's day. I opened both eyes and said, "Sure, why not." He sat down on the visitors chair and took out his notebook. "You're Philippa Taplow, is that right?" I nodded and he went on. "And you gave Charles Taplow as you next of kin?" Another nod. "Would that be ex Chief Superintendent Taplow, by any chance?" "Yes, he's my father." Constable Kent looked up from his notebook and said, "I understood the ex Chief Super had one child," he looked down at his notebook and then up at me, "called Philip." I rolled my eyes and said, "What's this got to do with what happened to me?" He levelled those gorgeous eyes at me and said, "Just checking who you are, er, Miss." "Look if it's any of your business, I was Philip, I'm now Philippa, can we get on with what happened to me?" "Well, you see, Miss Taplow, it may well be all about what happened to you last night." "God, you think this happened because I'm TG, don't you?" "Don't you?" he replied. He also had the most beautiful eyelashes I have seen on a man to go with those hazel eyes. "Oh." I dragged myself back to his question. "Actually, no, I think it's more likely to be because..." I just stopped myself from blabbing about what I had been doing the past few days. "Because of what. Miss?" "For God's sake, please stop calling me Miss. It sounds like I'm a primary school teacher. Call me Philippa, everybody else does." He smiled and said, "OK, Mi....Philippa. Why do you think you were attacked?" "No, no, you're probably right, some people out there don't like girls like us." He paused and hoped I would say more, but I know when to shut up and let the silence just hang there. He looked back down at his notebook. "Did you know there were over 100 reported attacks on TG people last year in London alone?" I shook my head. "You're wrong, It's a lot more than that," I said, "most of them don't get reported." He nodded. "Yes, I know and it's the reason why we set up the Hate Crimes Unit. I joined the unit a few weeks ago and when the hospital reported your attack last night, I was called." "Great, too late for me though." "Yes, I'm sorry, but if we catch these people then maybe we can stop it happening again." "I'm sorry, but it will take much, much more than arresting a few neanderthal knuckle draggers to stop it happening. Until society understands being different is not evil or perverted and accepts people for who they are, it won't stop." He looked calmly back at me. "Yes, I think you're right, but I can only try to catch them and lock them up." I fell back on the pillows. "OK, how can I help you?" "Did you get a look at whoever attacked you?" "No, he came at me from behind as I was trying to unlock my door and hit me as I turned round. I didn't get a look at him at all" "Did he say anything?" "He called me a fucking bitch and that's why I turned round. And no, I didn't recognise the voice." "Nothing else, you can think of? Anybody who you think would want to do you harm?" "I'm a private detective, I've upset a lot of people in my line of work, but I don't think there's anyone who stands out. I've not had any threats and I'm not aware of anyone following me." "Nothing else, then?" "No, not really. Can I get some sleep now? My head is killing me." "OK, Philippa, can I get back to you if I have any further questions?" "Sure, sure. Anytime, detective." He paused on his way out and turned to say. "By the way, Philippa, I was after your dad's time, but I heard he was a good copper." That was nice of him to say, and it made me feel very proud of Dad. As I drifted off, all I could think of was how jealous I was of those eyelashes. Sometime later I was dozing when Emily's face appeared around the door and she crept into the room. "God, you look terrible," she said. "No shit, Sherlock. I feel fabulous." "I hate hospitals," she said as she put a bag of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade on the bedside table. "Well it's a good thing then it's me in here and not you," I said, trying to sit up and wincing as my bruises decided join in the fun. "And I hate Lucozade," I grumbled. Emily ignored me and began eating the grapes. "Some very hot nurses here, you know," she now had a mouth full of grapes. "I had noticed, Em. It's a hospital, that's where they have nurses." Sarcasm was wasted on Emily who had by now munched her way through half the grapes. "I get so turned on by those uniforms," this was a side of Emily I had never appreciated before. "How was policeman plod?" Emily asked. The grapes were nearly all gone now, a few small thin ones still remained on the otherwise bare stalk. "He was actually cute, has lovely eyelashes. He had heard of my dad who he reckons had been a good copper." "So is cute policeman plod any closer to catching who attacked you?" "I don't think so, he thinks it's a hate crime." Emily looked sideways at me. "And you don't believe a word, right?" "Don't know Em, God knows there are enough attacks on us. It might be, but I have my doubts after the break in. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid." Emily sat on the edge of the bed and then she pulled down the bed cover and slid in beside me. "Em, you can't do that in here, get out," I hissed at her. "Who says? You've got a private room here. I bet you could do with some stress release." With that she disappeared under the covers and I felt her fingers and then her mouth around my cock. "Oh my God, Em, you can't do this in hospital." I could feel her tongue wrapping itself around my cock and I could feel myself getting harder as she used her hands and mouth to bring me to the edge. I closed my eyes as she started to pump her head up and down on my cock and her tongue was driving me wild. "Oh my God, Em, you have to stop, I'm going to cum if you don't." She mumbled something which I couldn't hear with her head under the cover. I opened my eyes and saw a face peering into the room through a chink in the curtains. "For fuck's sake Em, there's someone watching! Stop it!" Emily, of course, did no such thing and just kept sucking. I could feel my climax building and and I leant my head back and groaned as I came into her mouth. Emily finally emerged with a big smile on her face just as the nurse who had been watching came into the room. Emily leant over me and gave me a kiss goodbye and I could taste myself on her lips. As Emily left the room she glanced at the nurse who was staring at her with wide open eyes and gave her a wink. The nurse blushed and hurried across to my bed and began plumping up my pillows and straightening the sheets. "Your friend, you know, are you together?" she said in a low voice. I leant towards her and said, "God, no, we're just good friends. Why?" "Well, is she with anyone at the moment?" "No, not right now." I knew what was coming. "You don't have a number for her, do you...." Here it goes again I thought. The doctor appeared again and told me that the test results were all in and revealed no more damage than the bruises and cuts I had received during the attack. He said I could go home but to rest for a day or two, to let the bruises heal and take painkillers if I needed to. It was with immense relief I walked out of the hospital and took a taxi home. For once in my life, I did as I had been told and just took it easy. Em came round and we shared takeaways and too much wine, but I began to feel better and the bruises had started to change colour as they healed. Em slept over the first night back and she held me tight and we kissed and cuddled until I fell asleep. It felt good to have someone sharing the bed. We also shared a shower together and it was bliss to have her gently wash and soap my bruised body. Thankfully, I couldn't remember the kicking I had received but it was my ribs that had suffered most. They had turned various shades of black, red, blue and green. I probably looked like fruit a week past it's best by date. It was two days later on the Thursday morning when I went back to the office and I spent the morning clearing up and cleaning the mess the Scenes of crime officer had made trying to lift fingerprints. It was a relief, therefore, to be interrupted by the phone. It was DC Kent asking how I was and if I would be willing to answer a few more questions. Grateful for the respite I agreed and he said he could be over in half an hour. He turned up a few minutes early and after accepting a cup of coffee we sat down. "Thanks for seeing me again, Miss Taplow, I mean Philippa. I'm sorry I don't have any definite news about who attacked you, but I wanted you to see something." He placed his iPad on the table and a grainy video started to play. It had been taken at night and showed two men, one larger than the other, running down a street before disappearing from view. Tim said, "That was from three weeks ago following an attack on a transgender woman in Streatham. She ended up in hospital too." He pressed play again. "This is footage taken after two other attacks on Transgender women in the last three months. It appears to be the same two men running away after each attack. These were the three attacks we know about, because they were reported. I think it's fair to assume that there have been other unreported attacks on the community by these two men." Despite the U.K. possessing the highest number of CCTV cameras per head than anywhere else in the world, there's still doubt about how effective it is in fighting crime. "You haven't got any better footage?" "No, this is the best we've got." "So, there's a couple of lunatic dickheads on the loose targeting the TG community?" "My bosses don't really want to say so, but yes, I think there is. I'm afraid that if we don't catch them soon, then another victim may not be so lucky." I snorted. "Lucky? You think ending up in hospital is lucky?" "I'm sorry, poor choice of words, but at least they survived." "And you think these two attacked me?" "We can't be sure, but the other attacks were within a three mile radius of each other and that would take in where you were attacked. However, there was no record on any CCTV this time." "What are you doing to catch these two bastards?" "I was hoping that's where you would be able to help." I must have looked puzzled, because he hurried on. "We're having trouble reaching out to the TG community. There's not much trust around that we are doing much to stop these attacks and there's a reluctance to talk to us." "Are you doing much?" He looked away and said, "I shouldn't tell you this but, no, not a lot. But I want to change all that. I want to build some bridges to the community, get to talk to people, to find out if they have an information that can help catch these two men. They need to be stopped." He spoke the last few words with passion and I could tell he meant what he said. "How can I help?" "Can you help me to meet and talk to some of the community, help me to persuade them I am serious about catching these attackers. I thought that if you introduced me I might get more information. The only thing is that isn't an official investigation yet, I'm kind of moonlighting, so I couldn't do it as a policeman." "Look, Tim, you aren't going to get anyone to talk to you dressed like that. They will make you for a copper in five seconds flat. No offence, Tim." It was true, he would stand out like a pimp at a vicarage tea party. He looked crestfallen. "How can I get them to talk to me?" Perhaps there was a way, but I wasn't sure how keen he would be when I told him. "Tim, there may be a way. T-Girls aren't going to talk to a copper, but they will talk to one of their own." He looked puzzled. "What, you mean you?" "No, Tim, I mean that if they thought you were one of them, they are more likely to open up and tell you something." He looked completely baffled and then the penny dropped. He blushed bright red and started to splutter. "You mean me, dressed up? No, you can't mean it, I could never do that." "Why on earth not? You're not too big. You're slender enough and about the same height as me. You have a nice bone structure, and I know girls who would kill to have those eyelashes of yours." Me included, I thought. I started walking around him, imagining what it would take to make him presentable. "In fact, I think that you would look pretty in the right dress, makeup and wig." He held his hands up. "No. no, it's not going to happen, I'm telling you right now." "What are scared of Tim?" I asked, now back standing in front of him. "I'm not scared, well, yes I am, no I'm not. It's not going to happen." He was still blushing, probably down to the soles of his feet. "What's the worst that could happen? You're not going to run into anyone you know. We'll do everything at my place and we go straight from there. I'll be with you all the time. Look, do you want to talk to them or not?" "Well, yes, but surely there must be some other way? Can't you do it for me?" He was now virtually pleading. "No, I can't, you have to listen to the girls yourself. I can be with you, but this may be the only way to get them to co-operate.