Two video tapes had arrived by special courier at Johnson and Fielding offices, marked for Johnson's eyes only.
One was from Deuvar, an interesting compilation that showed Emily Lawrence's fate at the hands of a guard at Deuvar and of course her piercing and the auction.
Johnson rewound it time and again so that he could savour the humiliation on the virgin who had been Peter Howard's darling. Her face delighted him with its subtle mixture of fear and expectation.
The second tape came from St. Leonard's hospital and was from the security cameras in the main foyer on the day the man he sought was discharged. The film was grainy, much used and unclear. Johnson sighed as he watched the milling anonymous people moving back and forth across the screen. It had been a long shot… he stopped and stared at the monochrome image, pressing the pause button on the remote control.
Almost straight in front of the camera was a man, hunched in a wheel chair, sitting by the reception desk, peering at the faces of the people who passed him by. Johnson leant closer and rewound the footage, re-playing it a frame at a time. He hissed. Despite the ill-fitting clothes, the face looked familiar. Very familiar. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Can you send someone up from the computer room. I need to have a video image enhanced."
"Yes, Mr Johnson."
Johnson let the images flicker past him again. Peter Howard! He was almost certain it was him. Frames passed until a nurse in a long cloak pushed the man away. A nurse who was fake. Johnson grinned and chose a cigar from the box on his desk.
"You clever bastard, Peter, I knew you were alive," he hissed triumphantly. "I'm going to smoke you out of wherever you're hiding – and I know just how to do it."
The computer picture seemed to bloom from a small centre, doubling the video image of the man in the wheel chair. Johnson moved to the computer operator's shoulder and peered at the screen. The technician slid the mouse across to a menu, selected a button, and the image sharpened.
"Can you make it clearer?" He wanted to be one hundred percent certain, the hunch was not enough. The image blossomed again and he stepped back triumphantly.
"Print it."
He would have liked to see the face of the bogus nursing sister but it seemed that all he could get was a profile, in shadow, that didn't give him a clear indication of her features.
When the image of Peter Howard unpeeled from the printer he handed the technician the second cassette. "I want you to transfer this on to the computer as well," he said flatly. "Load it up but don't look at it."
The man at the desk nodded and slipped the cassette into the machine by his screen. When the images had been scanned into the computer, Johnson took the man's place at the keyboard and waved him away. He undid his filo-fax and took out a slip of paper. On it was written a single line of text and numbers. He had had Roderick Banyon's message to Peter Howard intercepted. He was certain now that Peter Howard had received it. Peter was a computer freak, there was no way he wouldn't try to find a way to pick up his messages. The single line of text was the computer equivalent of Peter's address: he could use it from anywhere, but he could not be traced by the person who received it.
Johnson tapped in his message and then fed the video images in alongside the words. One image was of the enhanced picture of Peter Howard from St. Leonard's hospital, the second was the rather electrifying video sequence of Emily Lawrence at Deuvar.
The pictures and his message would run along side each other as soon as Peter Howard picked up his computer mail.
Angela had been gone a long time, thought Peter as he scrolled back and forth between the public home-pages of Johnson and Fielding's operation on the computer. He could have ordered stocks and bonds, life insurance – almost any financial service at the press of a button, if the fancy had taken him. He needed to delve deeper, get behind the public facade, but he was reluctant to begin.
What he needed was patience. He had to be sure. Once he opened up the Pandora's box he would have committed himself to going on and on until he found the place in the system where he could replicate Magenta's complex patterning. Once he was in, it was possible that some sharp eyed programmer might detect his presence, sniff him out.
At his contact's office in Switzerland it would have almost been child's play. All the technology he needed, the encrypting and encoding devices that would render his location an insoluble puzzle would have been in place. Breaking into the computer system in Angela Ruskin's cottage annex, with little more than the computer equivalent of a pen knife and a box of matches, was like tight rope walking without a net.
He gnawed his thumb thoughtfully. Angela had left him some clothes for when he had had his shower. He felt nearly human again, dressed casually in sweat pants and a sweater. She had even provided socks. He grinned, bending slowly to pull them on.
What if he waited until he was fit enough to travel?
Switzerland was still an option. Angela would have some idea how long it would take him to regain his fitness. He glanced at the little dumb-bells and pulley she'd brought into help him with his physio. It might take weeks to get back to normal, but if he were just fit enough to travel it might be enough. He would be too conspicuous travelling in a wheel chair, and although he could walk he wouldn't trust his rogue legs to carrying him very far or be strong enough to get him out of trouble.
He was lacing up an oversized pair of trainers when the door to the annex opened. Angela, framed by a shaft of bright autumn sunlight, stepped into the room. The sun picked out her shapely frame in an enticing silhouette.
"Where have you been?"
Angela glided across the room. "Just making a few phone calls. I've sorted it all out. The hospital have given me leave of absence. So, Peter Howard, I'm all yours now."
Peter patted the bed beside him. "Why don't you come over here, then?" he purred. She stepped over the threshold. He smiled and shook his head. "Take off your clothes first."
Angela blushed. "What if someone comes to the door?"
Peter shrugged and turned his attention back to the computer screens.
"You said you wanted me to teach you."
"I do," Angela whispered.
Peter lifted an eyebrow. "So you say. You know the girls at Deuvar are broken for their masters. They are always available, always obedient." He glanced at Angela, her eyes betrayed a tiny glimmer of excitement. "Nothing is denied them. Nothing! Ever!"
Angela's eyes flashed again and slowly she began to undo her blouse. When she undid her skirt and let it fall Peter shook his head.
Angela blushed and glanced down at the lacy black panties she had on. She had added matching stocking and suspenders. Peter smiled; she was obviously keen to please.
"I told you not to wear those!"
"I thought – I'm sorry -"
Peter looked out of the window. "It's a nice day out there," he said conversationally. "We shall go for a walk."
Angela looked confused. "But I thought you were going to teach me?"
Peter smiled. "Oh, I am. The fresh air will do us both good."
Angela bent down to pick up her blouse and skirt. Peter shook his head. "You won't be needing those any more. Take your knickers off too."
Angela stared up at him in astonishment. "But I can't go outside like this," she stammered.
"Take them off!" He slid the short cane off the bedside cabinet.
Angela's cheeks flushed scarlet as she looked at it. Then she hurried back into the main house and returned a few seconds later wearing a long black woollen trench coat that covered her down to the ankles. Around the shoulders she had wrapped a pale cream stole and buttoned the coat right up to the neck. She looked a vision of middle class respectability.
Peter nodded his approval. "Undo it again and let me look at you."
Without a word Angela unbuttoned the coat. It fell open to reveal her voluptuous body, her sex framed by the black suspender belt and dark stockings.
Outside the afternoon was sharp and clear. Angela pushed him out into the little lane that ran past the end of the cottage drive. He smiled, imagining the way her body was warming from her exertions; the heat – the smell of her perspiration and sexual perfume mingling. The friction of her breasts against the silk lining of her coat. The day was glorious, the scenery breathtaking and at the same time heart-warming.
As they rounded a bend in what Angela assured him was a circular walk, Peter spotted a large man sitting beside the bridge that traversed a flowing stream. He grinned as they approached. The man was corpulent, a cigarette dangling between flaccid lips as he cast his line into the water. His belly hung over the top of grubby jeans.
Peter beckoned to Angela. "Undo your coat," he commanded in an undertone. "Show him!" He heard Angela gasp as he indicated the fisherman, who was now rooting in a knapsack for a can of beer. The man popped the ring pull and took a long draw on the can before belching.
Angela reddened. "He's obscene -"
"Go over and offer to warm him up. He looks frozen."
Angela's eyes betrayed the mixture of apprehension and excitement that Peter understood so well.
She bit her lip and looked at him. "What about you? What will you do?"
Peter pointed towards the far bank of the stream. "Push me over there so that I can watch you. You can take him under the bridge. He won't mind his benefactor watching."
Angela swallowed hard and then hunched behind his wheel chair. Her breathing had quickened. Peter sat back and let her guide him onto the grass on the far side of the bank. The fishermen looked up to see who was watching him. Angela, trembling slightly, stepped closer to the edge of the bank and slowly, slowly, unbuttoned her trench coat.
Peter could see the fisherman's eyes widening in disbelief as Angela let the coat fall open. With proprietorial pride he ran his hand across her rounded belly, dipping his fingers into her wet open quim.
He could feel her trembling.
"Don't keep him waiting," he said.
With careful deliberation she turned and retraced her steps over the bridge. Below her the fisherman watched every step with increasing excitement. His bulky jowls had reddened and the can of beer in his fist was forgotten as Angela got closer and closer to him. At the crown of the bridge she looked back at Peter – her eyes were glittering.
She was far better than he could have ever possibly imagined. Now she was sliding down the bank toward her anonymous stud.
Already the man's cock was jutting forward inside his jeans like a flag pole. As Angela approached he stepped forward and grinned.
"I want you to fuck me," she said slowly, her low voice clearly audible from the far side of the bank. Peter couldn't have phrased it better himself.
The man took a swig of beer and then drew a meaty fist across his damp lips. He didn't speak, instead he dragged her coat back off her shoulders and began to manhandle her heavy breasts. His lips drew one in while his fingers lunged clumsily between the glorious lips of her quim. Her magnificent nipples were engorged and stiff.
The man explored her body like a farmer handling horse flesh, crude rough fingers pawing and pulling at her soft flesh. He leered up at her and planted a wet sour kiss on her lips; she flinched but he wouldn't be denied, instead he grabbed her hair and pulled her closer to kiss him again. As Angela pulled away a trail of saliva linked them.
Peter could imagine the smell of the fisherman's body, acrid and rank, reeking of beer, tobacco and stale sweat; a sharp contrast to the delicate freshness of Angela's delightfully scrubbed skin.
The man rubbed himself against Angela's body. It was an obscene earthy gesture. Without further prelude Angela took him by the hand and led him under the bridge. They were barely under cover when the fisherman yanked down his jeans, revealing a great white quivering arse. The shadows highlighted his pallor. He forced Angela up against the damp wall, spreading her legs by pushing her ankles apart with his feet.
She closed her eyes, face contorted with revulsion and excitement.
He snorted, wet lips and filthy hands working over her pale skin. She whimpered as his fingers opened her quim and then gasped as he plunged his cock into her.
Angela squealed as the fisherman found the mark. He pulled up his sweater. His great belly rubbed against her, his hands jerking her compliant and submissive body closer to him, pawing at her breasts, pressing eager lips to hers.
Peter moaned softly, feeling the eager press of his cock against his sweat pants. He watched Angela's face contort as the man thrust into her body again and again, each thrust garnished with a thick grunt of pleasure.
Her eyes were closed, her fingers clawing at the rough bricks behind her as her anonymous lover thrust on and on towards oblivion. It seemed no more than a few seconds before the grunts became more guttural, the thrusts more frantic. The big man dropped his head forward and sucked in one of Angela's breasts, snorting and clawing as his orgasm overtook him.
The instant he was finished he stepped back, pale skin flushed crimson. He dragged up his jeans, cramming his shirt back into his underpants.
Angela was rooted to the spot. Her nakedness was breathtaking as a trickle of moisture slithered down over her thigh.
"Do you do this sort of thing regular, like?" the man said breathlessly. "I'll be back here next week -"
Angela looked down at the bemused fisherman with an expression of total contempt and snapped her coat closed. It was all Peter could do to stop himself from laughing.
Peter rather liked the look of disgust and self loathing on Angela's face as she made tea for them in the annex. She had taken off the coat at his instructions. Naked now, she moved with a deliciously compelling self-awareness.
So she was ashamed of what she had done on the river bank. Her sense of guilt added an intensity to her expression, a little fear, a little repulsion, sharpening her stolid middle-class face. He flexed the cane. Between her legs the little trickle of moisture glistened invitingly; the fisherman's pleasure. She laid the tea tray down on a side table and turned towards him.
"I want you to punish me," she said.
Peter smiled thinly. She really meant it. She felt she deserved punishment.
He nodded. "Come here."
She turned slowly, face flushed, eyes refilling with tears.
"Crawl!"
Unable to contain the tears any longer she dropped to her knees and crept across the floor towards him. Her heavy breasts swayed as she moved. At his feet she faltered, resting her head against his legs.
He stroked her like a cat. "Good," he whispered. "Now turn around very slowly so that I can give you what you deserve. Here -" he pointed to a spot on the floor with the cane where he could reach her without straining.
She complied wordlessly, presenting her plump rounded backside to him. Between the heavy lips of her sex the moisture clung like dew on a winter cobweb. He stroked at the wet orifice with his fingers, drawing out her juices onto the heavy pink flesh. She shivered and just as he sensed her beginning to relax, he swung the cane back and brought it down with an explosive crack on the alabaster contours of her buttocks.
She screamed, gasping for breath and control as he struck her again. The two blows brought up a criss cross of weals across her skin.
She sobbed as he hit her again. "Please," she snorted between her tears – and he knew that she had no idea whether she was begging for more or for him to stop.
Six of the best, laid on with wicked intent and Angela Ruskin fell face forward onto the rug, weeping loudly. Peter poked her with the end of the cane.
"We haven't finished yet! Get up!"
She glanced back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?" she said, stifling back the sobs.
He lifted the cane. "Get up."
Stiffly she clambered to her feet.
"I want you to tell me about your fisherman. Tell me how it felt."
Angela's face reddened. "I can't -"
He nodded. "Oh yes you can. And while you tell me I want you to touch yourself. Stroke yourself -" He traced the outline of her sex with the tip of his cane.
"Touch yourself here, and here." The cane lifted to score a cruel line across her full nipples. "Touch yourself the way he touched you."
"Peter," she stammered. "I don't think -"
He sat back a little and folded his hands into his lap, the cane still wrapped into his closed fist.
"I'm waiting," he snapped, watching her face. "Why don't you tell me how he felt when he was inside you. What did his hands feel like on your breasts? How did he smell?"
Angela shuddered, her fingers sliding down over her belly towards the fragrant pit of her quim, still sopping from her unknown lover's touch.
"He smelt awful, and when he kissed me I felt sick -" she began haltingly. As she spoke her fingers parted the lips and sought out the pleasure bud that nestled between. Peter smiled thinly.
"Good. What else?"
"His tongue sucked at my nipples, as if he were suckling me. He made little noises of pleasure and all the time there was this smell. He made me feel so dirty."
She came quickly, her face and body flushing scarlet as her fingers worked frantically inside her quim. Peter cradled his cock in his fingers. "Come here, I need that dirty mouth of yours -"
Angela dropped to her knees and crawled over to his wheelchair. Without hesitation she took him into her mouth, sucking at him hungrily, worshipping his body with her lips and tongue. Peter groaned and surrendered to her caresses, letting her work off her guilt and shame in pure twenty four carat pleasure.
At the point of release he pulled her head away, spurting thick foaming semen over her chin and throat. A trickle ran down over her breasts. He smiled and leant forward, brushing his lips with hers. This time there was no after-play, no drawing of his mark on her body. There was no need. She had proven she would do as she was told.
"Go and have a shower," he said. "I need to work."
Johnson sat watching the computer screen in his office. His message was very clear. He wondered if he would be able to sense the instant when Peter Howard received his little invitation. It was pleasing to watch it, knowing that somewhere Peter would be seeing it too.
Finally he glanced at his watch and then got to his feet. He wanted to be at Deuvar when Peter made contact. He picked up the phone and rang his home number; he would take his slave girl with him.
Before he left the office he turned off the computer, using a code that Peter Howard had given him to secure the information from other prying eyes. Ironic, he thought, as he pulled on his Cromby coat and switched off the lights.
Angela had regained her composure when she re-appeared from the shower. Warmly wrapped in a long towelling robe she walked over to Peter, eyes downcast.
"I've just got to make a phone call and then I'll get us some supper."
Peter nodded. "Great, are you cancelling a heavy date?" he joked.
Something about Angela's reaction set a tiny alarm bell ringing in his head. A fleeting glance, a fractional change of expression, he couldn't exactly explain what it was. Whatever it was, Angela instantly covered it with a wide smile.
"Actually it's a friend of mine who was coming over tomorrow. I thought I'd better stall them -" as she spoke she hurried towards the door, leaving Peter with an uneasy feeling that wouldn't go away.
He sat for a few minutes in silence. Straining, he could just about hear Angela moving around in the hall. He wheeled the chair slowly towards the door and struggled to pick out the words. It was impossible, her tone was soft and guarded. After a little while the voice ceased.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He couldn't identify his fears but he knew that it was a mistake to ignore the gut feeling.
Carefully he wheeled himself out into the hallway beyond the annex. Angela was not in sight. As he made his way over to the phone on the hall stand he smiled bleakly. The phone was modern with a liquid crystal display panel above the key pad. It showed the caller the number they were ringing. He pressed the last number recall button and then scribbled the number as it appeared on the display.
He turned, went back to the annex and keyed a password into one of the computers. The screen suddenly flashed into life with reams of numbers, scrolling past his eyes like a flowing river. He glanced at the number on Angela's telephone pad and tapped it in.
All he had to do now was wait. Finally, the sorting and re-sorting completed, an information box appeared in the centre of the screen. He let out a little hiss of dismay, glancing over his shoulder toward the open door of the annex. It was a private Kensington number; Johnson's private Kensington number. Peter's stomach did an unpleasant back flip.