Page 63 of The Professor
“She was murdered when she was eighteen. It’s the reason he set up Galahad. Her killer wasn’t found for ten years, and then it was his investigations that finally got him.”
“Go on.”
“But they couldn’t make the charges stick. Some of the evidence was circumstantial, some they said had been tampered with.” Dalton glanced at the screens.
Andrew was going into one of the rooms. It had a red door.
“The guy was released without charge,” Dalton went on. “Two months later, another woman was murdered, he was brought in, but again he was let off.”
“What? I mean, if they knew it was him, why didn’t they…?”
“Bastard was good at covering his tracks. But that was a red rag to a bull for Andrew. I didn’t know him back then, but he went after him, killed him, got rid of the body and all that. The police didn’t care much about a missing person report from a distant family member, they knew the guy was a murdering asshole and that he’d done what he’d been accused of. They knew as well as anyone it was good riddance.”
“And within the confines of the law they couldn’t do a thing.” I shook my head. “Even though they knew what he’d done.”
“Exactly, and they weren’t in a position to take the law into their own hands.”
“So how did Galahad come about from that?” I was beginning to piece it together. “How did Andrew go from being on his own to all of you guys?”
“Mitch was on the missing person case, and when his path crossed Andrew’s he kind of guessed what had happened.Patted him on the back. Said next time he needed help to give him a call.”
“Fuck, really? Mitch being a cop and all that…wow.”
“Some people have a stronger sense of needing justice than others, even in cases that aren’t related to them personally.” Dalton shrugged and set his hand flat over his shirt, where his heart was. “Justice is justice.”
“How did the rest of you meet? How did you all come to trust each other so much? This is serious shit what you do, nothing within the framework of the law going on.” I had so many questions now.
“You’d be right. But that’s a story for Andrew to tell you. I’ve said enough.”
“Why did you tell me any of that at all?”
“Because if you’re sitting at this table in Rose Cottage, Chelsea, you’re special, very special.”
* * * *
Andrew
I studied the pleasure room. The girls used it if they had trusted customers with particular needs—particular kinky needs. But right now, I had a need for it. I wanted to make Chelsea forget all the bad things and know only pleasure—the pleasure I could bring her.
We’d both lusted after each other for so long, and now we’d admitted what we craved, it was time to show her the real me. It was time to give her this piece of myself.
The room smelled of orange-scented cleaning fluid, and the red walls and red lights gave it a scarlet glow. A row of dildos and butt plugs were set on a shelf over what had been a fireplace but now contained a basket full of whips, floggers, andspreaders. To my right was a spanking bench, and beyond that a drawer unit that contained lubes, condoms, gags, and blindfolds.
I reached up and tugged a chain attached to the roof. It had a set of cuffs on it, high up, designed to stretch the torso once it was adjusted.
My cock tingled. This was what I wanted. To have her at my mercy. She may have sat at the back of my lecture theater masturbating and thought that was kinky, but now I’d show her exactly where my twisted, warped mind could go when I was horny for her.
I glanced in the small en suite attached. It also smelled of citrus and had two fluffy white towels folded neatly on the countertop.
“Get ready, little girl,” I said, “to forget everything, including your goddamn name.”
I shut the door and walked along the corridor. There was one customer in the house according to the board in the kitchen, and he was in with Bridget. A regular, going by the star next to his first name. One we could have a modicum of trust in.
The paying blokes didn’t use the back way into Rose Cottage. They had to use the front entrance so we could get a good look at them on our camera. It came in useful for bastards like Brian Dix, meant we had a record.
Brian Dix.
Fuck, my woman was a killer, like me. I hadn’t seen that coming. Though why I was surprised when her passion for honesty and justice had come through in every essay I’d ever read of hers, I didn’t know.
