Nandita To Nandini
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An Open And Shut Case free porn video
1/9
A Russian cultural attaché is different from a Russian ‘cultural attaché’ — the latter meaning that they are a spy. Not that the fine distinction was going to bother Dmitri Kovchenko — whatever it meant, he was now a dead one.
Cause of death: Murder most foul (most probably), although the coroner was already arguing that his inquest would be hampered by MI6’s refusal to divulge security-sensitive evidence, and Moscow would be typically reluctant to extradite obvious suspects. Nevertheless, press reports were rife with tales of international intrigue, organised crime, espionage and polonium-flavoured teabags. And wacky bondage sessions.
Trina’s talent for unravelling complex cases on her own patch in suburbia had not gone unnoticed by over-stretched administrators at Scotland Yard, and the intrepid woman detective now found herself about to be seconded to the Met, that admirable police service responsible for law and order in the Capital. Her remit, apparently, was to head up a specialist investigation into the ‘domestic’ aspects of the case, those deemed neither political nor security-related. The hope was for an outcome which would minimise exposure in the popular news media, and avoid embarrassment to government departments and the souring of international relations. Some hopes, Trina mused.
‘Why me, sir?’ she wearily complained to her Deputy Chief Constable. She knew already she would just be a pawn in the game between the Foreign Office, British Intelligence, and the Home Office, the last-mentioned simply wanting it swept quickly under the carpet so as not to overburden police resources.
Too quickly, her superior came up with some obviously pre-rehearsed flannel to encourage his star detective: ‘Perhaps they believe that the skills you have honed at our unpretentious provincial level are untainted by the sophisticated modern crime world of the City.’
‘You mean they need a hick suburban plod as a scapegoat for allowing some villain to get away with a killing?’ Trina suggested, with more than a touch of scorn.
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case, DCI Edwards,’ he reassured her, though with little conviction.
‘Anyway, as I understand it, sir, Kovchenko was found tied to a chair, dressed in ladies underwear with a plastic bag on his head. Nothing very sophisticated about that, I wouldn’t say.’
‘Sounds right up your street then, DCI Edwards,’ he said smiling, ironically oblivious to what actually was up Trina’s private street. ‘It’s doubtless an inside job — an open-and-shut case, I would say. But they just need to be seen covering all the angles. Anyway, ours not to reason why, ours but to give it a try.’
‘Do and die is the expression, I believe, sir,’ Trina corrected him.
‘Whatever,’ he conceded.
2/9
‘Hello, sir, how are you going?’ Libby chirped.
Michael was old-school. (A bit stuck-up, some might say.) ‘Hello sir, how are you going?’ typified the unwelcome modern trend in the service industries to mix traditional formal address with new-speak familiarity. ‘Good thanks,’ he replied, more out of politeness than for purposes of imparting personal information about his wellbeing — Michael always played his cards close to his chest. (Overly shy, some might say.) But he was able to smile at his own introversion, silently admitting, ‘I need to get out more.’
Given the choice, Michael always queued for Libby’s till at the local Co-op he frequented in North London. While Libby would be checking out Michael’s shopping, Michael would be checking out Libby’s voluminous cleavage.
Many minutes had been thus enjoyed in lustful fantasy. He would wonder how many of the buttons of her uniform he could undo in his mind’s eye before it was the turn of his basket-load to be priced up. Two buttons? Would that be enough?… three or four?… this would certainly enable him to delve down and under her bra, in order to cup his hands round large, soft warm tits and feel enormous areolae hardening in each palm. It was never going to happen, of course. They were of different backgrounds and generations — she barely twenty, Michael more than twice that.
And he knew absolutely nothing about Libby. Why would he? She was a checkout girl, he an engineer with a heating company, on quite a decent salary too. And he was college educated, and knew who wrote ‘The Brothers Karamazov’, although he’d never actually read it. But then, who has? His mother was enjoying a gentile retirement in affluent St John’s Wood. Libby’s mother, he supposed, lived in a council flat. Michael was not to know that Libby’s mum had acquired a ‘certain reputation’ locally. Nor that his own mother was known among the Primrose Hill cognoscenti as the ‘Merry Widow’.
It was Saturday morning and Libby had almost finished processing Michael’s weekly shop, one exemplified by packet meals and tinned veg. ‘Got any tips?’ she asked, as he hurriedly packed stuff into his ‘bag-for-life’, which he noted was urgently in need of renewal. He peered one last time at the paradise beneath Libby’s uniform, wondering what she was talking about. Asparagus tips? PG tips? Then he cottoned on — horseracing tips.
Each Saturday he would purchase a Racing Post to catch up on the sport of kings, enabling him to make considered selections of fancies to back at each of the televised horserace meetings. The paper was the last item to be registered through the till. ‘I haven’t had the chance to study the form yet, have I?’ he replied. ‘I need a couple of hours before I make my expert choices. Then they all come last.’ Often he did get winners, but he thought a self-deprecating joke would be appreciated.
And indeed it was. Both Libby and the woman next in the queue chortled. ‘My mum does the tele ones,’ claimed Libby, ‘she loves it. But she don’t know nothing about form — just goes by the names. She gets loads-a winners though.’
‘Well, good luck to her,’ Michael said, putting away his wallet.
‘She can’t do none today, though,’ Libby said sadly. ‘The man who collects the bets for her never come round. Don’t know what’s happened to him.’
‘I can do that for her. Where does she live?’ Michael didn’t have the faintest idea what had suddenly turned him into an outgoing, kind Samaritan.
Neither could he have foreseen the consequences of his rash offer, which on the face of it, should simply have enabled him to ‘get out more’.
3/9
‘Time of death?’
‘Early hours Thursday. It’s in the report… ma’am.’ Trina’s newly inherited team was exhibiting exactly the reaction she had expected — an uncooperative, surly, ‘what’s this woman doing on our manor?’ attitude. Plus it was Saturday, and leave had been cancelled.
‘And who found the body?’
‘Cleaning lady, 8am. It’s in the report… ma’am.’
‘She comes early, doesn’t she. I want to see her. Where do I find her? And, Pete isn’t it, lose the ma’am, it doesn’t suit you.’
The chastened detective constable relaxed a little. ‘She made a statement, er… it’s in the report. Anna Kajowski, Polish. You’ll need to get the interpreter back in — she didn’t speak a word of English.’
‘Strange. EU workers usually speak good English, especially the Poles. Arrange it, would you? Last known person to see him alive?’
‘Several witnesses stated seeing him leave the bookies on the Finchley Road after the Wednesday evening racing, about 9.30pm. He’s on CCTV getting out of the lift at the floor of his apartment block about 10pm. Others on the film are floor residents, plus one unidentified woman, about 11pm.’
‘Statements from the residents. In the report too, I suppose? Does the footage cover when our mystery woman departs and when the cleaning lady arrives?’
‘CCTV camera had a dollop of blu tack stuck on its lens at 3.10am.’
‘Interesting. Why bother putting the camera out of action when you know you’re already on film? Who formally identified the body? He h
ad a wife somewhere, was it her?’
‘Wifey lives in some posh district west of Moscow. No one’s been able to reach her as yet. Russian Embassy geeks signed the body off.’
‘Hmm. Keep trying to track her down. And get me a little memory card thing with the CCTV footage of our unidentified woman, OK?’
‘You thinking that might be his missus? The film’s a bit grainy, and you only get a side-to-rear angle view, her little wiggly bum in a short skirt and the profile of her nose.’
‘Very fetching, I’m sure. Let’s find out where wifey is, Pete, or at least get a picture of her.’
‘Ruskies if you ask me, guv. He was probably leaking secrets to us or the yanks. KGB bump him off, blame the Brits. Open-and-shut case.’
‘You know what, Pete?’ Trina said cheerily.
‘What, guv? You reckon that too?’
‘Nope. I reckon you called me guv. Means I must getting somewhere. Now… There were no signs of excessive violence. Mob killings usually involve a lot of nastiness, to make an example of the victim — deters other would-be informers, double agents and so on. Also, I understand nothing in his flat was disturbed or stolen. Sounds like a wasted opportunity if it’s counter-espionage we’re talking about.’
‘OK, guv… so maybe we’re thinking one of those auto-erotica asphyxia things gone wrong? Gets off on women’s frillies, accidentally tops himself?’ Pete was getting more cooperative, but was still, in Trina’s opinion, wide of the mark.
‘Forensic didn’t report any staining on the undies. Anyway, try tying both your wrists to chair arms, Pete, then put a bag on your head. Let me know how you get on. Don’t bother with the sexy knickers… unless you really want.’
‘Right, guv.’ Pete coloured, and smiled.
4/9
‘Hello. I’m Michael. Libby sent me round to…’
‘Ooh, come in, luv, you ARE good.’ Libby’s mum seemed ready to devour her new gentleman arrival, and closed the door in the blink of an eye.
Michael had imagined finding her seated in a comfy armchair near the TV, in cardigan and slippers, knitting. He needed a good few seconds to reset his mind-frame. Her long hair was dyed black, and her big green watery eyes, with false lashes, were heavily made up, as were her full cherry lips. He excusably judged her to be quite tarty, and it was also obvious whence Libby had inherited the ample bosom with which he was already more than familiar.
‘Cup of tea, darling? Got something a little stronger if you’d like. Drop of gin’s my tipple. Does make me go a bit silly, mind. But bugger, if you can’t enjoy yourself, what can you do?’
‘Good philosophy,’ agreed Michael, still taking in the eye-popping attributes of the large, mature, she-wolf into whose lair he had stumbled.
‘Sit yourself down, my love, sorry it’s so chilly in here. Can’t get these perishing radiators to warm up at all. Have to go put my woolly coms on if it stays like this.’ And posing as if on the catwalk, she wetted her lips, pouted, and ran a hand down the open neck of her blouse, exposing the top of an extravagantly cut satin and lace bra-slip. ‘Shame, I love this. Just bought it mail order. Matching French knickers too. You like it, darling?’
These things happen to other people, not me, were Michael’s thoughts. He was torn between running for cover, and diving straight in. ‘Er… yer… Perhaps they need bleeding, your radiators, I mean. Do you have a key? I can do it for you.’
‘Got one for the gas meter box, is that any good, luv?’
The competent heating engineer verified that the pipes were hot, but the tops of the rads were indeed cold. Then he searched the usual places central heating installers leave a bleed key, finding one hanging on a support bracket. A short period of hissing, followed by a dribble of hot water, some mopping up, and the job was done.
‘There,’ he said confidently, ‘should improve things in a minute or two. Your woolly vest can stay in the drawer.’
‘Oh my God!’ she gushed. ‘You’re an angel.’ And without further ado, she kissed him hard and full on the lips.
An extravagant thank you, anyone would agree. But there was more.
A tongue intruded into Michael’s dry mouth, and the helpless bookies runner meekly succumbed to the power of her cheap scent, and the irresistible feel of mail order lingerie.
5/9
’50p each way on Willy Wonker in the 3.15,’ Trina requested. ‘I’ve no idea what that means. Do I get my money back if it loses?’
The young clerk behind the counter smiled nervously. ‘You have to fill out a slip, madam. I can do it for you.’
‘Yes please,’ she replied. Then, passing over her ID card: ‘And can I see the boss?’
‘What can I do for you?’ Charlie, the betting shop manager, asked. ‘We had your lot here in the week.’
‘Yes, just I wondered if you could add any more about our Russian friend. Did he gamble big time? What sort of customer was he?’
‘We thought he was Polish, to be honest,’ Charlie said. ‘Spoke good English. Came in evenings and Saturdays. Often met up with some mate of his, and they stood around reading the form pages we pin up. Certainly wasn’t a high roller. Always did an accumulator on the Saturday TV races. Must have already written it out at home — used our old-style betting slips. Only ever staked a couple of quid though. I always knew his Saturday bet when I was settling up.’
‘Because they were on old slips, or was it the writing?’
‘Both. But the pong mainly.’
‘Pong? They had a smell?’ There was more to this betting business than met the eye, Trina concluded.
‘Hang on.’ Charlie disappeared to the back of the shop. He returned with a basket of the previous weekend’s dead slips. After rummaging through it, he found what he was looking for. ‘Here. Have a whiff of that.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Trina agreed. ‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir.’
‘If you say so, lady,’ said Charlie, straightfaced. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Chief Inspector it is. What about the other man he met? Did he spend much?’
‘Do you know, I can’t recall him ever having a bet. But then I’m in the back office a lot of the time.’
‘And did our sweet-smelling Russian come over as effeminate at all, did you think?’
‘Blimey, luv, we just take the bets. We’re not running a lonely hearts club. Normal, I’d say. His mate dressed smart, quite chunky.’
‘Why didn’t all this go on the statements our lads took?’ Trina asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Umm… they didn’t ask,’ replied the shop manager. ‘Anyway, from what I read, it’s a copycat killing of that one in Knightsbridge a couple of months ago. Guy buys into some bizarre bondage… ends up with a bag on his head… gets more than he paid for. You just need to find the mad cow… open-and-shut case.’
‘Here’s my card, Charlie,’ said Trina. ‘Call me if the other gentleman shows up, which I don’t think he will. Or if anything else comes to mind, OK?’
As Trina headed for the exit, the young assistant called her back. Perhaps he was going to shed more light on the mystery, Trina wondered. But no. ‘Here’s your betting receipt, madam,’ he called. ‘I just need your £1 stake.’
6/9
The Saturday lunchtime case review was coming to a close. The media scrum had dispersed with precious little new to report. The whereabouts of the newly bereaved widow was still unknown, as was the identity of the mystery woman in the security camera footage, as was the identity of Dmitri’s betting-office contact, as was any sign of the cleaning lady, reported to have hi-tailed it back to Poland in fright.
People with a variety of ID badges hanging from chains round their necks were milling about the station’s press office, swapping unsubstantiated theories. Trina was approached by a ruggedly handsome piece of Transatlantic beefcake.
‘Mmm… a woman in black panty hose,’ the gravelly American voice said.
‘Political correctness not yet arrived on your
side of the pond, then?’ Trina answered, unfazed.
‘Shit, no. Not when there’s a broad in the offing in the kinda shape you’re in.’ Her admirer introduced himself. ‘Al Fresco, FBI.’
‘Hello, Al Fresco.’ Trina resisted smiling at his name. It was hard. ‘DCI Christine Edwards. Call me Trina. What’s the FBI doing here?’
‘Just a watching brief. And I do like watching briefs, though it depends who’s wearing ’em.’
At that moment, Michael, still bristling from his morning’s experience with Libby’s mum, had ambled into the betting shop, ready to present his seductress’s neatly written instructions, as well as place his own bets for the afternoon’s racing. The keen-nosed office manager himself took the bets, and though not particularly recognising Michael, immediately was alerted by a familiar, over-sweet fragrance, the style of docket and the writing upon it. Charlie made a discreet phone call.
Trina’s mobile tinkled. ‘Hello Charlie, yes… yes… is he there now? OK… keep him there… sit on him if necessary… we’re on our way.’
‘New angle?’ asked the FBI man. ‘Surely it’s a familiar story — Russian mafia take out a mole in the organisation, get Brits to take the flak. Open-and-shut case.’
‘My bookie,’ replied Trina. ‘Possible new lead. You want to tag along for the ride?’
Fresco excused himself: ‘Wouldn’t want to cramp your style. Tell me all about it later. Dinner somewhere?’
‘My money’s on Willy Wonker. Must go. Call me. My card’s in your top pocket.’ And with that, Trina collected Pete and sped off to apprehend Libby’s mum’s replacement errand boy.
A pleased, though bemused, American lawman stood fondly flexing Trina’s business card and pondering British quirkiness. Trina pondered why someone with, at least, a watching brief, would pass up the opportunity to witness a potentially important case development. Unless…
7/9
‘So… Michael…’ said Trina, in a world-weary, teasingly disbelieving voice back in the interview room. ‘How often do you visit this woman to… ahem… bleed her radiators?’
These things happen to other people, not me, Michael thought, not for the first time that day. He could only repeat, in a tone more panic-stricken than the previous time, that he lived on his own… his very respectable mother lived nearby and would vouch for him… he was just doing a favour for a girl in his supermarket… he’d never before met the woman with the faulty radiators… he was a heating engineer, his company would give a satisfactory reference, and he didn’t know any Russians. He would very freely sign a statement, and give the address of the woman who, it seemed, had caused him all this trouble, and who he knew only as ‘Libby’s mum’.
Trina and Pete looked at each other. Pete shook his head. They offered to escort Michael home if he wished. He declined. ‘I’ll walk,’ he said. ‘I need the air. I’m a bit wound up.’
‘OK, let’s pay a visit to the radiator lady,’ Trina decided once Michael was off the premises.
‘Um, guv… What about these others?’ Pete asked, slightly guiltily, as he had not mentioned them before.
‘Others?’ Trina asked, raising both eyebrows.
‘We’ve had a few, well… five or six enquiries come in from various women around North London, asking after ‘their’ Dmitri. Pattern seems to be single ladies of a certain age and self-sufficiency. One or two reckon they’re engaged to be married to him.’
Trina smiled. As if they didn’t have enough women on their list of suspects. ‘Hmm… Bit of a ladies man then, our Dmitri? OK, add radiator lady, name unknown, to the list, and let’s get statements, names, addresses, movements Wednesday night, etc. Tread careful, hearts break easier the older they get.’
Trina phoned Charlie, to thank him for the earlier tip off, and check that the other mystery contact had not been in the shop. ‘Oh, and what about my Willy Wonker?’ she enquired. ‘Do I need Securicor to pick up my winnings?… What do you mean, unplaced?… Didn’t stay the distance… I see. Typical male.’
8/9
‘Get in.’ As if Michael’s day couldn’t get any worse, two roughnecks in cheap suits bundled him into the back of their black sedan. Perhaps he should have accepted Trina’s offer of a lift, after all. The car moved off, and cruised the London streets. Michael sat in the back, sandwiched between his two new acquaintances.
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