A Conflict Of Interest Pt 02

Paula walked rapidly to the table where the detainee was seated. She was very much aware that Taylor, and possibly Morris too, would be watching her through the two-way mirror in the next room. Charlie looked up at her, his mouth slightly open, unsure what to say. He knew it was her nick, of course. Might have been wondering in terror if she was around to witness his disgrace, though hardly expecting her to show up in person. But she solved that problem for him:

"Mr Redman," she said, "I am Detective Sergeant Hatcher." She switched on the tape. "For the tape, DS Hatcher entered the interview room at ..." -- she checked her watch -- "... 16:39 h. Please state your full name, date of birth, and your address, Mr Redman". Then she sat down in front of him.

Charlie complied, watching her carefully. He had got the message. She didn't know him. He didn't know her. They didn't know each other. They had never seen each other before. They had never talked before. Which would have made it impossible for Charles David Redman, DOB 4 June 1978, address Windsor Gardens, Maida Vale, only a day and a half before, to have licked out his interrogation officer DS Hatcher to a thundering climax, and then shagged her mercilessly for an hour or two on her day off. Nor could Charlie Redman have possibly looked up that morning from where he was using one hand to fondle DC Hatcher's right breast, nibbling at one thoroughly excited pink nipple, and the other to wrench her shoulder down as he powered in and out of her, and asked "Where do you want me to come, gel? Where do you want my cock juice?"

But DC Hatcher didn't care. And that was what she had gasped: "I don't care. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. I just want your come, and I want you to tell me where."

Charlie had given her a few more strokes, which would have lifted her clean off the bed if he hadn't been lying on top of her, and said, as he took it out, "I'm going to come all over that lovely red hair of yours, gel. Do you want to feel my spunk on your pussy? Would you like that?"

Jesus, did she? Would she? Was he fucking kidding? "How deliciously dirty can a girl be made to feel?" Paula had thought to herself, staring down as his cock began to rain spunk all over her, over her pussy, the inside of her legs, her stomach. And she was busy giving him a view she knew he loved when, amid, much loud grunting, he came over her cunt -- legs spread wide, and two fingers of each hand pulling her labia aside to show him her open gash with its ring of red hair, splashed and spattered with the semen shooting out of his knob. She had grabbed the shuddering dick and jerked out the last squirts herself, and then rubbed her hands all over the gunk, finger-fucked herself to yet another howling orgasm, licked it off her fingers one by one, and swallowed it.

"Do you live alone, Mr Redman? ... Married, are you ...? Children?" She was staring at him intently now. It had crossed her mind in the past, in fact. Was he secretly married? After all, if he'd lied to her about what he did for a crust, he could have lied about anything, really. And she had wondered how the hell such a perfect man could be unattached. "Well, perfect apart from the heroin trafficking, Paula gel," she reminded herself quickly. Gel again. She might have to start forgetting that word...

He stared back. "Yes. And no, no wife, no children." A feeling of relief washed over Paula momentarily, although she realised how utterly pathetic the feeling was.

"Or ... seeing anyone at the moment?" she asked, turning away slightly from the mirror and flashing her eyes open wide in warning.

Charlie got the message. "No, no girlfriend. I'm not seeing anyone," he replied, and looked down at the table.

"What difference does it make, anyway?" she mused. "For all it matters now, he could be a serial bigamist. Why did I have to fall in ..."?

She couldn't finish her own thought. Love? After only three months? Well, she managed to shrug that one off right away. I mean, were there any rules to this? Was there a minimum period before you could be officially in love with someone? Was she in love? Was he? Could she be? She'd certainly been thinking about it. In fact, she'd come up with what she called the Hatcher Love Test Questionnaire. She just had to answer Yes or No to a few questions. That was all there was to it:

1 Do you think about him just about all the time? That was an easy Yes.

2 Do you literally find yourself counting the hours until you see him again? If you've arranged to meet him at 8 pm, do you clockwatch all fucking day until at 5 pm you're telling yourself "Only another 3 hours, gel"? Yes, and yes. Well, technically number 2 was really 2 and 3, but what odds ...?

3 Do you find yourself smiling softly to yourself in the queue at the supermarket, remembering some totally daft comment of his that made you laugh? Yes.

4 Do you rush around like a mad thing to get dressed, fretting like a fucking schoolgirl in her pigtails and red lipstick and short white socks about whether he'll like the outfit and makeup you've chosen? Yes.

5 Do you surreptitiously put your hand down your front at odd times and in strange places -- at the station's coffee vending machine, for example, looking furtively around to make sure nobody's looking -- imagining it's his fingers slipping in there, into a slicker than slick lovehole already fairly humming with the conspicuous whiff of girl mess from merely thinking about him, remembering what he whispered in your ear one night as he was bringing you to the absolute mother of all orgasms: "Yes, gel, I want you to come all over my cock, squirt fresh warm girl gunk all over it, because then I'm going to come over your wet cunt, yes I am, gel, I'm going to squirt fresh warm man spunk all over that juicy Hatch thatch ...". Jesus, the power of the man's words was equalled only by the power of his insatiable member. Oh yes, you find yourself thinking about all that like a horny little squirrel with her hands in her pants at work, and it's only just gone 9 am? Yes.

6 Can you imagine spending the rest of your life with him? Yes.

7 Would you do anything -- anything, anything at all -- to make sure you spend the rest of your natural with him? ...

DS Hatcher drummed her fingers on the table. Up to that point the interview had been going as normal, the usual questions and answers, but now she couldn't cope with both things at once. She shook her head slightly. Charlie had been mostly avoiding her gaze, but it was then he looked up at her. Her Charlie. Looking at a ten year-stretch, maybe...

"Fuck," Paula said to herself. And then, out loud, "Seven's a yes as well."

"I beg your pardon?" said Charlie. Beg your pardon. Typical Charlie. That was the kind of thing he said, I beg your pardon?

"Nothing," said Paula. "Interview interrupted at 17:42 h. DS Hatcher is taking a short break." She got up, opened the door, closed it again, and made for the toilet. She had just made a very, very bad decision. Charlie wasn't going to go to prison. Not her Charlie. Because DS Hatcher wasn't going to let that happen. She was going to spring him.