I am an author, but I cover many genres, the common theme being my desire to share a story, and that is how my writing began. Ultimately I always wondered if I was capable of writing more than merely a short story... well there was only one way to find out, so I sat down with an idea for a comedy novel.
It started with a basic story line, and a list of characters that I always seemed to find in every village I've been to anywhere in the World, but I wanted to give my characters a back story to make them interesting, so my village gossip Eva got a back story which was also a homage to my favourite author Tom Sharpe.
As Religious Pursuits developed some of the peripheral characters like Eva became too much fun to leave on the sidelines, so I weaved in several sub-plots which complicated the story somewhat, but made the book even funnier...
...So many months later the first novel was finished, and I declared myself satisfied, letting a few friends and family members read the book... but they all pestered me to publish it!
Unfortunately literary agents were less enthusiastic, and without an agent you can't get published, because publishers don't want unsolicited manuscripts from every budding author, and it seemed like I was to be thwarted until I came up with a different story for them.
Then someone told me about Createspace, and I won't bore you with the details, but a month ago Religious Pursuits was finally published as a paperback (Albeit with a temporary cover design... snap these limited first edition covers up because these will be the collectable ones) and here's the link... https://www.createspace.com/3797405
So now some of you are wondering how a writer of comedy novels came to also publish smut books? Well I won't pretend to be a saint... far from it, I have probably experienced more than most, and I have devoted my adult life to learning as many techniques for pleasing girls as I could find, and developed a few of my own.
Being divorced and thus single again means that I no longer feel the need to hide my love of sex, but it has also made some of my bolder female friends request that I write some erotic stories for them... This had been going on for a number of years, with word of mouth spreading...
One of my friends suggested that my stories were so good that I ought to publish them, and given that Erotica is the hottest literary genre at the moment I'd be a fool just to sell my novels. Well as much to please my friends as anything I did indeed publish a selection of erotic stories in my 2nd book Wicked Perspectives, which featured a selection of stories putting you, the reader, right in the story. (UK) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wicked-Perspectives-Steamy-Collection-Stories/dp/1484818709/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1368460314&sr=1-1&keywords=n.j.winnington (US) http://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Perspectives-ebook/dp/B00COOEU4W/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1368027560&sr=1-1
And very very soon I shall be announcing my new erotic collection called Ages of Sin, which explores the taboo for many of older men with younger women and vice versa.
So as an introduction to my work, here's a little treat... the first few chapters of Religious Pursuits, to whet your appetite...
It's set in a sleepy village in Devon in the 1970's...
Copyright © 2012 Neil Winnington
All rights reserved.
“It’s nearly eleven, Dibble, aren’t you finished with that paperwork yet?”
“Only fourteen pages or so yet Serg!”
“Fourteen? ... Fourteen poxy pages? It’s unnatural y’know. A spotty young PC like yourself LOVING paperwork. It was unheard of in my day. In my d ...”
“...With all due respect sir. Your day is almost over.” Dibble replied.
Goode thought seriously about cuffing the little idiot around the ear for that. His impending retirement, in but three months time was being soured by the thought that this, this pillock was to replace him, only made worse when he reminded Goode of the fact.
Still, Goode could at least take this opportunity to leave early and visit Mrs Hughes at the Ferret and Duck somewhat earlier than usual. Yes indeed, her ample breasts and obliging nature had a rather magnetic effect on the Sergeant. Quite why her ex-husband ran off with that anorexic waif escaped him, but then he wasn’t complaining.
“...Right then, I’m off to check the pub closing and you can stay with your paperwork. Close up when you’re done.”
And with that Goode left Dibble to his beloved paperwork. Taking his usual route round the back of the village he made off. He was under no illusions that most of the village populace knew about his nocturnal visits to Mrs Hughes via the back door, but as these visits often coincided with the pub staying open into the early hours, no-one was stupid enough to comment.
All the same with the new P.C. around it was best not to take chances. Dibble lost any potential trust when he refused a drink from Mrs Hughes on his first day, “Not whilst I’m on duty, thank you!”
In fact it was a matter of some debate within the Ferret and Duck as to whether Dibble tucked his shirt into his underpants. Young Gwen had been dispatched to find out, only to raise a new debate over whether he was gay when he turned her down - Gwen, for God’s Sake! Every man in the village had enjoyed Gwen’s talents, and she was quite a looker! The poor kid was so confused with the rejection that Dibble suddenly became the object of an obsession for her. Trying to seduce him at every opportunity and ignoring advances from any other men. Yes, Dibble had completely screwed up the natural order within a few weeks of arriving in the village.
Goodes train of thought was disturbed upon seeing the Reverend walking towards the church at this time of night.
“Evening Reverend!” Bellowed the Sergeant, “Strange time o’night t’be out isn’t it?”
“Oh, er, evening Sergeant. Er, y’yes, erm, I’m just checking if I’d remembered to lock up the church.” replied the priest nervously.
“Can’t be too careful I s’pose, but you should be alright around here.”
“All the same...”
“I could come with you if you like,” offered Goode.
“NO! ...er, no. No thank you officer, I’ll be fine on my own.”
…and with that they parted.
“What was that?” asked Roger Smith; “Your husband hasn’t come back has he? It was bloody cold waiting in the garden for him to leave.”
“Sh, I’m just looking! No he’s just talking to the policeman.” replied the Vicar’s wife as she closed the curtains to again. “He’s going now. Maybe this is a bad idea, I feel terribly guilty, Roger. He’s always been good to me...”
“Calm down, darling, you only married him because he was nice to you...“
“Yes, but nothing. He only married you because he felt sorry for you. A young girl like you has natural needs. We’re not doing anything wrong.” Having had his illicit meeting with the reverends wife interrupted the randy shop keeper was trying to calm down his latest conquest. At this rate he’d never get her knickers off!
“How can you say that?” blurted the young wife, bursting into tears.
“Carrie, Carrie. You know I love you... we’re in love aren’t we?” Purred Roger, using whatever came into his head to achieve his goal, eventually calming her enough to stop pushing him away.
“Are you sure?” She asked, seeking reassurance.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure” responded Roger, losing composure slightly within sight of his goal.
The chance meeting between religious and policing leaders in the village disturbed others too. Not waiting to find out if it was her cheating husband returning from another attempt at the Vicar’s young wife, Sarah Smith, had hurriedly ushered her lover out. Although his method of escape was well rehearsed via the back window, the rose bush that provided a soft landing hadn’t been under the window he’d previously used in less hurried circumstances. His yell was loud enough to set curtains twitching along the lane at the front of the house.
“What was that, Roger?” yelled Carrie.
“I, er, don’t know. Probably nothing, come here.”
“Get off me! You’ll have to go. It’s no good!” she panicked. “Get out!!!”
With that Roger gathered his clothes and made his exit via the rear of the cottage, cursing his rotten luck. This was the closest he’d got to breaking down his most challenging conquest yet. It would certainly be a most satisfying notch on his headboard if he could break her in. Damn, so close as well! Certainly Roger had left a fair few broken hearts and occasional marriages in his ruthless wake.
The Reverend had by now made his way up to and past the church, wracked with guilt before even reaching his destination. Rather than the church, he was heading for Ned Driscoe’s cottage. Ned was the local poacher, although it was not in pursuit of illicit game that the Reverend was visiting. It was more Ned’s dubious distilling that Rev Green found irresistible.
This avenue of supply had arisen after the Reverend’s first Christmas in the village, when he’d mentioned in passing his delight in a good malt whisky one evening in the Ferret and Duck and had immediately endeared himself to the old poacher. So the gift of a strangely unlabelled bottle of the smoothest whisky the Reverend had experienced seemed to strike up a bond between them which seemed quite unnatural to those comparing their separate professions, or even age! Ned even made occasional effort to attend the Sunday morning service, a feat no other Vicar had achieved in the previous fifty years. This in itself generated a mystique and genuine fondness for the priest, which became almost universal.
All the same, Reverend Green couldn’t easily reconcile his guilt getting illegal alcohol from the old man. Even drunk in moderation, the almost Irish smoothness of Ned’s Brew was irresistible. Bumping into Goode merely brought extra weight to his guilty shoulders, as he sloped into Ned’s cottage like a naughty schoolboy.
“Evening’ Vicar!” offered Ned, “ Tis a fine, fine brew this time. Old Nelly’s really excelled ‘ersel’ this time!”
Nelly was Ned’s affectionate name for his modified central heating boiler, decorated by curls of copper piping that seemed to run aimlessly around before reaching a tap. And Nelly had indeed excelled herself this time, and one sip quickly dispelled the Reverend’s guilt.
“Pure nectar, Ned” replied the Reverend, “pure nectar!”
At the back of the Ferret and Duck, Mrs Hughes reluctantly allowed the Sergeant in.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you!” She said coldly.
“Why, what’ve I done?” asked the bemused Sergeant.
“That Dibble made me close on time three times last week. He wouldn’t even have a drink!”
“Well, that’s not my fault.”
“You sent him out.”
“Yes, but it would have made him suspicious if I’d insisted every time. Besides you’ll have to get used to him when I retire!”
“And I’m sure he fancies me!” retorted Mrs Hughes, trying jealousy as a new tack.
“So there’s hope for the little shit after all!” came the humoured response.
“Well don’t expect to stay with me tonight!” her curt reply wiping the smile off Goode’s face.
“Aw, come on!”
“No, you’d better leave!” And with that she made for the cellar.
Goode grabbed her arm, but Helen Broke free, tripped and disappeared into the darkness. The rotund policeman stumbled down after her, groping around for a while for a light switch before finding the cord which served the purpose.
What met his eyes gave him a cold chill. Mrs Hughes was still, very still, apart from the trickle of blood leaving her mouth. Closer checks confirmed his fears. Fears led to blind panic! He couldn’t be here, couldn’t explain it, and as though someone had flicked a switch of fate, panic led Goode to turn a simple accident into something that would affect his whole life. His fat legs struggled to get him through the door. A nail protruding from the frame tried, like the hand of sanity, to hold him back. Only a piece of his police jacket decided to accept the advice, the rest, minus a patch from its shoulder, left with the wearer.
The rest of the evening went like a haze. His footsteps along the deserted country road seemed to adopt the volume of thunder, his heart beating even louder. The sheep ripping grass took on the sinister form of witnesses on a night he wanted to disappear. Upon reaching his cottage a bottle of whisky provided the magic required to dim the memory.
Goode awoke with a loud banging in his head and as he groggily regained consciousness the banging seemed to take on an out of body form. The mist slowly cleared from his eyes to reveal the familiar room, comfortably cluttered with old newspapers and a collection of Whisky bottles. And the banging began again, this time from the window. Unfortunately there was a face connected to the noise.
“Dibble! You little shit!” bellowed the Sergeant.
He staggered to the front door, grabbing an empty bottle on the way.
“This had better be good, Dibble!”
“It is sir”, replied the young P.C. tripping over a large plant pot, “I mean it isn’t... I mean, its MURDER sir!”
Goode’s face momentarily went stony white, as memories - previously cloudy - of the night before flooded back. “M...Murder?”
“Yes a murder! At last something happening in this dump!”
Goode’s face was now red, rapidly approaching purple, but Dibble was too carried away to stop. “Yes, Mrs Hughes.”
“Murder? She f...” Goode began before catching himself. “Isn’t it too early to tell?”
Once again, Dibble was too excited to query how come the Sergeant was so well informed. In fact he had only just started to notice the rage on Goode’s face. This puzzled him, surely he should be pleased that something was happening at last.
“I’ll cordon off the area and look for clues.” Dibble offered helpfully.
“Give me strength. And what’s the bloody time?”
“Five-thirty, Sir... S ssir?”
This was the switch that blew the fuse.
“You woke me up at five, bloody thirty in the effing morning for some cock and bull murder story, when the so-called victim fell down, I mean PROBABLY had an accident!!!”
“Y-yes, Sir.” Dibble replied, slowly starting to walk backwards, as even he realised how angry Goode was getting.
“Get... Get out of my sight, DIBBLE!” Goode was now utterly furious.
“You’re angry, Sir, aren’t you? ...Sir!...” Dibble stopped walking, as Goode raised the empty bottle above his head menacingly, and gathered a plant pot in his other hand to add to his arsenal. “Now Sir! ...Put that down, Sir. You could do someone an injury wi’...”
Dibble ducked just in time to avoid the plant pot hurtling towards him. He quickly made for the gate, and then ran down the lane with various earthenware objects crashing behind him.
“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!” Goode screamed after him.
“I’ll, ouch! ...Start the investigation on my own shall I?” Dibble called back, but didn’t wait for an answer, deciding to leave the Sergeant to cool off on his own.
The Sergeant decided to prepare himself for the day with a stiff drink. Oh God, this was turning into a disaster!
Dibble made his way quickly back to the village. At last there was some action in this God forsaken backwater. He never understood why Uncle Cedric had had him transferred down here. He’d be far more use to him at the Met in London, but this was his real chance to catch a killer. There MUST be a killer. It stood to reason with a murder. Maybe this was what Uncle Cedric had in mind, for Dibble to come and shake up this place. And golly, he was going to do it. He’d have to improvise of course. That police station had no forensic equipment and time was of the essence, clues must be found and quick!
Dave, the barman had stayed overnight after the unfortunate Mrs Hughes was taken away in the ambulance. He was desperate to clear up for lunchtime, but Dibble had insisted everything was left exactly the way it was. This seemed a good idea in itself, as a sign of respect and all that, but Helen wouldn’t have wanted this mess.
There’d be a real murder though if Ned and the others couldn’t have a drink, and who’d get the blame for that? Yes, Dave would be happy when Sergeant Goode finally gets down here to take charge.
Goode was indeed on his way down already. His whole world seemed to be falling apart around him. It was bad enough having one outsider, in the form of Dibble, ruin the status quo, but with Dibbles’ insistence that there’d been a murder there’d be other outsiders sticking their beaks in, unless...
Unless he could make it all go away, but the only person who could prove it was an accident was Goode... So he’d need to find a suspect so unbelievable that it would fall down in court! Thirty years ago it would have gone away without even the next village being involved. Chipping Attwell had been such an idyllic place before...
Goode’s train of thought came to an abrupt end when he rounded the corner to be confronted with a vision from hell which confirmed all his darkest fears about Dibbles’ influence. Outside the Ferret and Duck was a small crowd. The regular drinkers headed by Ned, of course, but also the scandal merchants looking for some juicy morsels.
“Sere’s been a murter you know!” Called Miss Compton-Snort in her strangely Anglo-German accent on seeing the Sergeant approach.
The villagers still knew very little about the old lady with the three diarrhoetic Yorkshire Terriers. They put her strange accent down to her coming from the South East Coast. Nothing normal ever came from there! She always seemed to appear when there was some kind of scandal to investigate, but slipped away just as mysteriously when there wasn’t. She was always the outsider within in spite of living here for over forty years longer than most of the scandal makers had been alive, and only Ned had been rumoured to get really close, some years back, passionately close, some say.
“Miss Compton-Snort. We have no proof of anything yet!” Retorted Goode.
“Well, that’s what your young man seems to sink!” The old lady corrected him.
Once through the crowd Goode could see the full horror of Dibble’s handiwork. Dave was outside, apologising and trying to calm the regulars down. The door was open, but the entrance was cordoned off with toilet paper and parcel tape. The old oak posts and beams in the passageway leading to the bar were covered with a white power, which smelled like... “TALCUM POWDER!” Goode bellowed, before turning to clear the crowd in case there was another ‘Murder’ to witness!
“Could everyone please go home, there is nothing to see!” Goode almost choked on his words, as Dibble had patently made sure there was plenty to see!
“But, sere’s been a murter!” Eva insisted.
“We have no proof of that. Now can you all go home please?”
“Parton?” Eva asked pathetically, putting a hand to her ear.
The deaf old lady card was a useful ploy Miss Compton-Snort had perfected to avoid being diverted off the scent of a scandal.
“Oi want moi drink.” Ned piped up.
“Not today, Ned.” Goode said firmly.
“But nothing. Come on everyone, go home!” Goode insisted, as the crowd slowly dispersed.
“Serge!” Dibble called enthusiastically from somewhere inside. “You’re here, at last! I’ve had to improvise in the absence of proper forensics...” it was then that Dibble finally saw the reddening of Goodes face. “Serge?”
“DIBBLE! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“Investigating a murd... Sergeant are you feeling well? Your face is turning purple again.”
“Dibble, you little shit!”
By now the crowd had returned in greater numbers as Goode surveyed Dibbles handiwork with ever growing levels of disbelief.
“Take that toilet paper down. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
The crowd squeezed into the doorway and turned to Dibble for what must be an amusing answer.
“Clues, sir!” Dibble beamed proudly.
“…and the toilet paper?” Goode quipped, “enlighten me.”
“To cordon off the crime scene whilst I dust for finger prints.”
“Finger prints, eh? Find any?”
“Yes, sir, lots!”
“You would, you pratt, it’s a bleeding pub!”
The crowd laughed.
Goode pushed through the toilet paper and walked through to the bar. The scene, which met his eyes nearly, took his breath away. Every chair, every table, the bar, the brasses on the ceiling, all covered in talcum powder just as Dibble was. Dave looked ready to cry.
“Dibble, help clean this place up so that Dave can open up.” Goode snapped. “Then clean yourself up.”
“But Sergeant!” Dibble pleaded.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Now, Dave, where was the accident?”
“Murder, Sir!” corrected Dibble.
“The accident, Dave?”
Goode knew very well, except now there was talcum powder everywhere.
Goode hit him over the head with a conveniently situated newspaper.
“Right, Dave. Try to keep out of here as best you can.” Goode told the barman, before turning to his impetuous colleague. “Dibble! ...What have you found here that could prove more than an accident?”
“Signs of a struggle up here...” Dibble correctly surmised.
Goode knew damn well there was a struggle, but was momentarily set back to see how much had been knocked over. Coats, a lamp and both a mirror and picture set askew.
“Couldn’t Helen have caused this as she slipped?” queried Goode.
Dibble gave a look of contempt at the sergeants’ familiarity with a civilian, a dead one at that!
“Doubt it! Besides there’s some material caught on a nail down there... Actually you seem to have a rip in your tunic, sir, let me just...”
“Stop that you pratt! Next you’ll be calling ME a suspect! I see no proof here at all. Helen slipped, it’s as simple as that...” Goode argued, dismissing everything Dibble had found.
“ ...Uncle Cedric didn’t...” Dibble muttered.
“Uncle Cedric? You bothered your Uncle Cedric with this?”
“Who’s Uncle Cedric?” interrupted Dave.
“Shut up!” Goode snapped.
Dave was surprised at the sergeants’ sharp retort. But Goode's attention had already turned to Dibble.
“You called the head of CID in Scotland Yard over an accident?”
“An accident, you idiot!”
“Well Uncle Cedric didn’t think so. He’s sending a proper forensic team from Great Yarbington over.”
“Townies, Sir? ...But I’m a...”
“Get out of my sight, and clean up the mess you made of that bar!”
And with that Goode stormed out of the pub, through the crowd, and headed for the Police Station. The idiot would have the army down here next! A prophetic thought as events were to unfold.
Cedric Rathbone was gloomy, but the advantage of his position was that he could make those around him gloomy too!
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”
“Ah, Spencer, yes. Remember my dim-witted nephew?”
“P.C. Dibble wasn’t it, Sir?”
“That’s the one, Spencer. P.C. Dibble... and didn’t I tell you to transfer him somewhere so remote, so inaccessible that he couldn’t get into mischief or cause me further problems?”
“Yes, Sir. We transferred him to some village in the West Country ...Why Sir?”
“BECAUSE THERE’S BEEN A MURDER ON HIS BLOODY PATCH!”
“Oh! It wasn’t him by any chance was it?” Quipped Spencer, knowing Rathbone despised the brat.
“I should be so bloody lucky! Get onto Great Yarbington CID. Scare the bloody shit out of them and tell them to sort it out! Quickly!”
Spencer departed briskly, just as Superintendent Rathbone’s secretary beeped through to his desk.
“Your sister on line two, as you requested, sir.”
“Thank-you, Kate, put her through.”
“Hello, Cedric.” Margaret was panicking. “Is it Archibald? Has he been hurt?”
“I wish!” Rathbone let slip.
“That’s a horrid thing to say! He’s your nephew!”
“No, THAT’S a horrid thing to say?”
“What’s happened to him?”
“Does the boy actually listen to you, Margaret?” Rathbone asked, “I often wonder, because he never seems to listen to anyone else.”
“He listens to you, Cedric.” Margaret replied. “He worships you! He joined the police force to follow...”
“...Me! Yes I know all that...” Rathbone sighed having heard this story many times.
“...and then you got him transferred to a remote backwater!”
“Not me Margaret, it was... out of my hands, but I did want to talk to you about that. You see he’s stirring up something of a hornets’ nest down there. Making noise... and dragging me into it all. Phoning me at work, and I’m a busy man!”
“Well, that’s what you’re there for, Cedric. After all, you pulled the strings so he could join up, even when he failed the tests.”
“Quiet sis! That’s, ahem, something of a delicate matter! Besides, the boy should start to stand on his own two feet now.”
“…but nothing, Margaret. Can’t you have a teensy word and stop him botheri... er, coming to me all the time?”
“Well I suppose so, but...”
“...Many thanks… got to go. Bye!”
Spencer smiled, “Helped that cretin when he failed the tests, eh? Thanks, Kate.”
“Please, John, I’ll be sacked!” Kate pleaded.
“Don’t worry darling! Would I let anything happen to you? Of course not. See you later. I’ll pick you up around eight...”
John had gone. Had he been prepared, he could have got all that on tape. A nice little security net in this most political of departments. Right now though it would be more useful kept to this to himself. Besides, Spencer was about to revel in the chance to make someone else jump.
Sitting at his desk he punched up the details for Great Yarbington. Phone number? Check! Anything interesting on the staff files? Oh yes, yes, yes, yes! The head of CID has strong, religious links. Transferred from Bristol for committing a violent act against an atheist hippie, charges were dropped, but.... oh yes!!!
…Time for a phone call.
“Hello, could I speak to DS Althop pleases? It’s DCI Spencer at Scotland Yard.”
“DS Althop. How can I help you?”
“Ah, Ted! May I call you Ted?”
“Err... yes, OK....!”
“Good, good! A rather delicate matter in your patch has come to our attention... a murder!”
“A murder? A murder! ...How come I haven’t heard about this?”
“We have our sources… everywhere! Anyhow, we want this checked out. Investigated properly. Discreetly. To make sure our information is correct.”
“I see... why so hush, hush.”
“There’s a possibility that this could be the work of a religious sect. We don’t want to alert them to the fact we’ve made the connection - you understand don’t you?”
“Oh yes, yes indeed.”
Spencer told Ted all about the case. Well in so much that he told him as little as possible, Althop did the rest, grabbing one of his subordinates, and hot-shoeing it towards Chipping Attwell.
Miss Compton-Snort was frustrated. She never felt totally comfortable unless armed with all the facts available. This called for drastic measures. Baking! She never made great claims for her culinary ability - she hated doing it! But in times of crisis it was a necessity and the chocolate muffins were ready! Carefully placing them in an old biscuit tin, she gathered the dogs together, and headed for the police station. Bumping into Ned before she’d got beyond her gate.
“Been bakin’, me Darlin’? Anything for moi?” Ned teased.
“Cetaintly not! Ant don’t be so familiar.”
“Now, you wouldn’t have said that twenty-odd years back, would ee?”
“I don’t care to remember.”
“So moi do oi see a smile creeping onto your face then?”
“I don’t know what you mean, pleass leaf me alone!”
“Oh, oi love that German accent!”
“Shh! You promised...!”
“Oi did, didn’t oi.”
“Come on darlinks.”
“Why, where are we goin’?”
“Not you, you horrit man!”
Ned just laughed as she strutted off.
In spite of her frosty reaction to Ned, Eva felt closer to him than anyone else. Certainly it had been quite frightening to her, the way he had got her to confide in him during their brief affair all those years ago. It was admirable to one with her training the way Ned had so easily disarmed her natural reluctance to confide in anyone about her past, something which could still be dangerous. Rough around the edges he may be, but she trusted Ned, besides, she knew enough about him to stop him doing more than a private tease...
The old lady’s thoughts were disturbed upon the sight that greeted her as she approached the Police station. A car drew up at great speed and two men jumped out and ran into the station. Her past working in a similar field left her in no doubt that these were plain clothed policemen... so there really was a murder!
Goode felt ready to commit a murder. DS Althop and DC Sissons his young assistant had breezed in as though they owned the place. Dibble’s Uncle Cedric had obviously been busy and Goode could see Dibble being very busy. Yes, it had been a while since anyone had checked on shotgun licences and car tax, Oh, and MOT certificates! Oh yes, Dibble was going to be busy after all this went away!
“...Are you listening to me Sergeant Goode?”
“What? ...Yes, yes of course!”
“…about this murder. It is a most grave incident.”
“Murder?” Goode laughed, “It was an accident.”
“That’s not what we’ve heard.”
“P.C. Dibble, my impetuous young colleague, got excited and blew it all out of proportion. I’ll deal severely with him when you’ve left.” Goode reassured Althop.
“Left? We’re not going anywhere, are we Sissons?”
“Er, no Sir!”
“Not until we’ve investigated this properly.” Althop declared theatrically. “So you don’t think there’s been a murder then Goode?”
“I see. Would you be a religious man, Goode?”
“Not particularly, but I don’t see...”
“There is evil all around, Goode, sects!”
“Sects, S.E.C.T.S, Goode!”
Goode was extremely confused and amused, unable to stop himself laughing at this religious nutter spouting on. Quite what religious sects had to do with anything he didn’t know, but from the serious look on Althop’s face, there was no doubt he’d find
“Sects, Goode. …a cancer on the flesh of society, the evil within. You wouldn’t know anything about local sects, would you?”
“Hmmm. Where would I find this fine young officer of yours?”
“Fine? ...Oh you mean Dibble? …at the scene of the accident cleaning up.”
“Cleaning up? Destroying evidence? Quick, man, tell me!” Althop yelled, “Where?!”
“Follow the lane into the village centre. In the Ferret and Duck.” Goode yelled after the two rapidly departing detectives. “Mind for those religious sects, they fair litter the place!”
Goode burst out laughing again as he shouted more directions after the two plain clothed bods from Great Yarbington, as they ran for their car.
From no-where appeared Miss Compton-Snort. One of her dogs tugging at Goode’s trouser leg.
“Stop that, Fifi! Did I hear something about sects?”
“Oh yes! They’ll have the army here soon and none of us will be safe!”
The old lady suddenly went white.
“Are you all right?” Goode asked, slightly concerned that the silly old trouble maker was about to faint.
“Yes, yes, fine. I must leaf now...” and she staggered back toward the village.
This time Miss Compton-Snort would have to move on. Ned getting her drunk enough to boast about her past was one thing. He could be bribed into keeping quiet, but the army? They could get him to talk. She should know....
Back in 1943 things were quite different for Eva Compton-Snort, or Eva Wagner, as she was then known... and feared! Even her fellow Gestapo officers were left breathless by the cruelty of her methods, but it took a considerable natural talent to break into an area considered to be too rough for women. Women were supposed to provide babies and the next generation for the Third Reich!
But Eva, a particularly striking 22 years old, used her sensuality combined with a light-switch mood change during interrogations, a technique, which left even her hardened colleagues, amused. It had seen her promoted quickly, this caused some resentment but no-one could deny the effectiveness of her methods to extract information from any man, unlike Colonel Eric Hoffman, her senior officer.
“You are not helping yourself Captain Smithers, just tell me what I needs to know.”
“I really can’t help, old man.”
“Please, Captain... speak to me, you would raser speak to me!”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, old bean, and if I did, it just wouldn’t be right, you understand, don’t you?”
“Sadly I do, Captain Smithers, but couldn’t I beg you. I like you... old man... and would not like to see you suffer.”
“Oh, don’t worry... goes without saying, but I really don’t know anything, you see!”
“Very well sen, I’m sorry.”
Visibly saddened the Colonel left Captain Smithers. In spite of his stiff upper lip, Smithers was dreading what was to come. He was certainly not going to fall for the friendly Colonel. The door to the interrogation slowly opened, Smithers gulped... and then... then a vision entered the room. Surely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. The uniform clung beautifully to her body, pinching her waist and following the curves of her hips faithfully, the tight skirt came just below her knees, but rode up as she sat on the table in front of him, giving Smithers a brief glimpse further up her stockings before she crossed those long... long, legs.
Although not giving away the fact, Eva was unusually attracted to this English pilot, she usually kept a handful of lovers dangling on a thread. A couple of fellow officers and an Italian, and she got certain sexual gratification from some of her interrogation techniques, of course, but emotions? Never! Yet here was a man hitting certain buttons without touching her.
She raised her skirt a little, which usually elicited some sort of reaction, and indeed there was a bead of sweat on the Captains forehead.
“You like legs, Captain?”
“Er... y ...yes ... Actually, something of a connoisseur.”
Eva smiled, “You like mine?” raising the skirt to show the stocking top and a teasing glimpse of a suspender strap.
“Yes... very, erm, nice... actually.” Smithers nodded.
Eva kicked off one of her shoes and pushed her foot between Smither’s legs to his bulging crotch. Then undoing a couple of shirt buttons she lent forwards, causing Smithers some additional sexual frustration.
“You want to please me, don’t you...?” Eva suggested.
“Oh, yes. Yes!” Smithers blurted lustfully.
The Colonel and his two colleagues observing from behind and above Smithers through an observation hatch turned to one another and smiled. This part of Eva’s routine made for one hell of a show, and she got off on having an audience, so much so that someone always became the recipient of her pent up sexual energy afterwards.
Smithers was straining at the leather straps shackling him to the chair. He’d never known such frustration... THE BITCH!
“Tell me where the allies will land.”
“S, sorry... I... can’t... oh!”
“Please... talk to me darling.”
“ I know... nothing... oh!”
Eva took off her jacket and slowly removed her left foot from Smithers' crotch. Then, with a sudden look of fury on her face she aimed her right shoe where the left had been and kicked... hard! The
three observers winced in unison as the piercing scream rang out. Eva was on form today and broad smiles now crossed their faces. She was now slapping Smithers around the face with her leather gloves.
“Talk to me!” (slap ...)
“BITCH!” screamed Smithers.
The observers giggled like schoolboys.
The beating continued for another ten minutes. Enough time for the throbbing in his crotch to seem inconsequential by comparison. Then Eva changed tack yet again. She unbuttoned her shirt further and raised her skirt right up. Sitting astride him and pressing her crotch against his.
The observers looked puzzled, this was a new tactic they hadn’t seen before.
She put her arms around the struggling Smithers, holding his head to kiss him.
“Help me, Darling. Tell me what I need to know!”
“I... don’t... know anything.” Smithers insisted.
She tried to kiss him again and he bit her lip.
“Ach! Why do you fight me, I could be so goot to you.” Eva scolded him.
He swallowed hard as he felt her thighs grip tighter and her breasts press against him. All he could manage was a whimper in reply.
Eva flew into a rage. Starting to get up, she buried her knee deep into his crotch again.
The observers smiled in relief as the scream rang out. For a minute, just a minute, they thought that Eva may have been getting too fond of this prisoner, but obviously she had a new tactic, a very impressive tactic.
Eva, of course, was fond of this prisoner. Annoyingly so, given that the situation was hopeless, but with no-one but Smithers to take it out on, his crotch became the victim. Eva stormed out of the interrogation room, the moans of her victim following her as she stormed down the corridor.
The youngest of the observers, Helmut, had rushed (with hope of sexual reward after Eva’s wonderful display of power that usually led to the need to relieve the passion) down the corridor towards Eva.
“You were wonderful Fraulein, wonder... ooof !!!!”
Eva did indeed relieve her pent up passion with a knee in Helmut’s groin - it worked briefly, but only momentarily improved her mood. Helmut’s mood wasn’t brilliant either.
Eva couldn’t get Smithers out of her mind. No-one had got to her this way and he was the bloody enemy! Over and over, it all turned around in her mind, but she had to see him again. There was just no escaping the fact, and he was no good to her where he was, she had to get him out of there. Blow her career, blow everything - she HAD to have that man!
The guards were confused. Eva had unusual methods, it was well known, but she rarely failed. Only once in fact, but how was she to know that particular English Major would get off on being whipped? Or that he’d get turned on even more by the male officer who replaced her? So they knew better than to question her now. If she wanted to stage a mock escape to demoralise this prisoner, then who were they to question.
Smithers was equally confused and suspicious. His groin was still sore and he was under the same impression as the guards - which didn’t help Eva at all!
“Come on, I am helpink you escape!” Eva whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, it’s a trick!” Smithers yelled hysterically.
“Oh God, we’ve no time for this!” She produced a pistol, “come on!”
“Just as I thought, you bitch!”
“Come on, quickly.”
The guards were easily convinced now, because the British officer was behaving in character with his situation. Eva was showing her usual tactical flare and they were in no doubt that Smithers would be back soon.
Colonel Hoffman, who hadn’t authorised this jaunt wasn’t so sure, and when Eva couldn’t be found his fears were confirmed. He knew there was something odd about her behaviour with this Englishman, but this madness was beyond anything he could have suspected. The guards were severely reprimanded and put on a charge, and orders were made that Eva Wagner was to be arrested and the Englishman shot on sight.
The Englishman was already confused. This crazy bitch was surely going to change, as she had before, and this so-called escape could yet turn into a trap, and he didn’t have to wait long. Not of Eva’s doing, the army had tracked them down after finding her abandoned car, but with Smithers expecting Eva to deceive him, she found him doing the exact opposite of anything she asked. So when she told him to stay down, out of sight as the patrol came closer, his scrambled brain told him to stand up. What could be worse than anything this mad woman had in mind? The bullets splattering his body answered the question. “Shit!” was the last thing he uttered as his brain suddenly cleared to the reality of his situation.
Eva’s situation was all too clear. A traitor to her own side because she’d helped the Englishman escape and if she managed to reach Britain she would be the enemy there too! In fact the only person who could have verified her story to the British had just been shot to pieces! Escaping the patrol by the skin of her teeth, Eva wandered for three days, making for the coast. Upon reaching an old fishing village she managed to persuade two men, partly by bribery and largely by sexual favours, to risk taking her to Britain in their small boat. Feeling sickened by the experience Eva left with her eager helpers at night to lessen the danger of discovery.
A few hours later they were off the South East Coast, near Hastings, somewhat appropriate in the circumstances, but this was an invasion party of one. Rain lashed down as she landed, pure luck helped her avoid a mined stretch of beach, and further luck led her to the little house on the cliff top - the residence of one Miss Compton-Snort, retired schoolteacher. A recluse who was about to become much more reclusive!
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