A Passion So Deadly

One

There was nothing unusual about the tall elegant woman who parked her car with neat efficiency, reversing it at the first attempt precisely into her chosen slot in the quiet avenue alongside the school playing field.

She emerged with athletic ease, swinging first one long shapely leg and then the other out through the driver’s door, and reaching at the same time for the large leather briefcase on the back seat.

It was late afternoon on a pleasantly warm August day — the weather a welcome break in the unseasonably wet and unpleasant conditions which had plagued the Southwest of England throughout most of the month. The sun still shone bright in the sky but was casting deep shadows from the sycamore trees which lined either side of the road like giant leafy sentries. A distant view of Bristol’s famous Clifton Suspension Bridge, glowing orange, could just be glimpsed in a gap between the buildings and their surrounds of heavy foliage high above the city centre. In the playing field a noisy pre-season schoolboy football match was in progress.

The woman locked her car, carefully checking that each door and the boot were all secure. She glanced around her with similar care, as if making sure there was nothing that might be disturbing to her in her surroundings, before setting off at a brisk walk.

Clifton, stretching up to the Downs on the Northwest side of Bristol, was built in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to provide homes for the city’s wealthy merchants and seafarers, well away from what was then a dirty bawdy port below. It remains an exclusive area, and the tall elegant woman, stepping out before a backdrop of grandly imposing dwellings left over from another age, looked as if she belonged there absolutely.

She was wearing an unmistakably expensive cream linen jacket over a black silk shirt and tailored cream trousers. Her high-heeled black suede boots clicked rhythmically as she walked, each foot hitting the concrete slabs of the pavement with a purposeful tread.

Suddenly there was a yell from the playing field and a football, spinning out of control over the high wire-netting fence, landed right in front of her, almost causing her to trip. The woman looked down, momentarily startled, and then across at the teenage footballers, several of whom were running towards the fence.

She put the briefcase she was carrying on the ground, took three steps backwards, loped easily forwards and struck the ball precisely with the toe of her left foot so that it lifted and soared over the fence back on to the pitch. Her action was rewarded by a spontaneous outbreak of applause and several wolf whistles.

The woman, one of the kind who was probably even more attractive in early middle age than she had been in her younger days, treated her teenage admirers to a broad smile and continued on her way.

She was still smiling as she strode through the gateway of the Crescent Hotel, a small but not unattractive establishment set in its own pleasant and secluded gardens. She entered the main building, one of the Victorian villas so typical of Clifton, and approached reception. Standing there holding her briefcase, make-up discreet but immaculate, glossy blonde hair beautifully cut and shaped, her smile radiating confidence and self-assurance, she looked every inch a businesswoman of the nineties.

The receptionist greeted her by name, welcoming, respectful.

‘Your usual room is ready, Mrs Pattinson.’

The woman merely nodded in response, a regular guest being treated just as she would expect.

‘I shall be leaving very early in the morning, Janet, so I’d like to pay in advance as usual.’

Janet, an eighteen-year-old Bristolian still young and coltish enough to feel awkward in the presence of such self-assured elegance, produced a pre-prepared bill at once. And she showed no surprise when she was offered cash, rare in the hotel trade, in full payment.

Mrs Pattinson put her receipt in her jacket pocket, thanked Janet profusely for her efficiency — causing the girl’s rather overly plump cheeks to flush slightly — and walked out again into the garden.

Several of the rooms at the Crescent took the form of individual chalets surrounded by shrubs, trees and bushes which served the double purpose of providing privacy for those within and also camouflage for those without. In stark contrast to the stylish grandeur of the main building, these rooms were nonentities — small neat cream-painted boxes, each identical to the other, with imitation oak front doors and double-glazed plastic-framed windows. They were, however, clean and comfortable. And although the lay-out could be confusing to a first-time visitor, Mrs Pattinson strode through the grounds towards chalet ten with the purposeful certainty of someone who knew exactly where she was going and was rather looking forward to getting there.

Within the privacy of the room — painted cream inside as well as out, unimaginatively furnished, totally characterless, quite anonymous — she tore the receipt into little pieces which she dropped into the wastepaper basket. Then she lay her briefcase on the chintz-covered double divan bed, unlocked it and opened it. The case somehow looked as if it should carry business papers, but there did not appear to be any. Instead Mrs Pattinson removed a large carrier bag from Bristol’s John Lewis department store which contained a dark brown woven-silk designer suit. She had been shopping, and like most women who have just bought something new, gave the impression that she could not wait to try on her purchases. Swiftly she took off her jacket and trousers and tried on the suit, posing in front of the mirror which ran the full length of the wall next to the wardrobe. The suit flattered her figure and complemented her glossy blonde hair, and Mrs Pattinson looked as if she were well aware of that. There could be little doubt that she was a woman of both taste and means.

Eventually she took off the suit, delved once more into the briefcase and this time removed a much smaller plain paper bag, a package conspicuously lacking any indication of its place of origin. Mrs Pattinson stroked the bag with one hand, lightly, almost caressing it, her face suddenly a picture of anticipation. As if dragging herself away from some unexplained pleasure, she wandered into the adjoining bathroom and ran a bath, pouring in a generous slug of sweetly scented oil. As she lowered herself into the warm suds everything about her seemed sensuous, and her obvious enjoyment of the bath was even accompanied by small murmurs of pleasure.

After a lengthy soak she wrapped herself in a big bath towel and turned her attention to the plain paper bag, emptying its contents on to the bed. Out spilled a selection of exotic underwear of the kind most usually associated with Soho sex shops. Smiling to herself, Mrs Pattinson picked up a bright red lace G-string and rubbed it against her face. There was also a skimpy red suspender belt and fine black stockings with seams.

She discarded the towel and, in a series of slow and sensual movements, rubbed moisturising cream into her body before putting on the skimpy garments. There was also a matching lace brassiere which uplifted her already ample breasts. Her nipples, which were firmly erected, protruded through strategically positioned holes in the flimsy material. Mrs Pattinson played with her own breasts for a few seconds — glancing approvingly at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror — before covering herself this time with the towelling bath robe provided by the hotel. She seemed quite relaxed, almost peaceful — yet expectant.

From the briefcase she also took a bottle of whisky and three paper cups which she set on the dressing table. She poured herself a small measure, adding water from the bathroom tap. Then she removed the final package, two tall black candles, which, in a manner suggesting the ease of regular habit, she inserted carefully into the necks of the pair of small Chinese vases standing on the tables set on either side of the big bed. She lit the candles, fussed for a moment over their exact position, drew the heavy dark curtains across the window, and sat down to wait.

Her hands were clasped lightly in her lap. Her eyes were closed. An indecipherable smile danced on her lips.

After just a few minutes there was a knock on the door, which she answered at once.

Two rather good-looking young men stood on her doorstep. She looked them up and down, rather in the manner a farmer might appraise his livestock.

She seemed to know only the shorter one — a well-made young West Indian wearing tight black jeans, a bright white T-shirt, and a leather jacket — addressing him as Charlie.

‘Good to see you again,’ she said. Her voice was softer than before, almost husky. Her eyes, strikingly deep green, were very bright.

She reached out and touched Charlie’s cheek fleetingly. He pushed her gently back into the room, gesturing to his companion to shut the door behind them, took hold of her by both shoulders and kissed her briefly but firmly full on the lips.

She drew apart from him, running her tongue over her teeth as she did so.

‘This is Bob,’ said Charlie.

Mrs Pattinson turned to the second young man. He was tall and blond-haired, with curls which framed a full-featured face, making him look vaguely cherubic.

‘OK,’ said Mrs Pattinson. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of, Bob, shall we?’

She did not sit down, choosing instead to lean against the wardrobe.

Bob looked uncertainly towards Charlie. ‘Well get on with it mate, get your kit off,’ ordered Charlie.

Bob looked as if he were about to say something, but didn’t. Instead he silently complied, removing his cotton bomber jacket first and then his shirt. He had a fine body. Mrs Pattinson gave a small appreciative gasp, but said nothing.

Instead she waited patiently.

‘Get on with it, Bob,’ said Charlie again.

Just a little self-consciously Bob peeled off his trousers and paused only briefly before, with an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, also removing his underpants. Without warning Mrs Pattinson stepped forwards, reached out, and put a hand briefly on his crotch. Bob did not yet have an erection but the contact seemed to exert a certain knee-jerk reaction. Mrs Pattinson smiled. It did not seem that Bob would need much encouragement to perform.

‘Not bad, Charlie,’ she said, lifting her whisky glass in his direction. ‘Would you like to join me in a drink?’

She gestured to the whisky bottle and began to walk across the room towards it. Charlie moved swiftly behind her and, without warning, pulled the bathrobe apart and off. She stood in the silly underwear, still with her back to him. She was visibly trembling. In seconds his hands were everywhere. Then he pushed her, not so gently this time, face down on to the bed, holding her there with one hand while he casually undid the zip of his jeans with the other.

Mrs Pattinson’s breath was coming in short sharp gasps. Charlie pushed her stockinged legs carelessly apart.

Bob watched closely, as if entranced, anticipating perhaps whatever part he was to play. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with excitement.