BLUE MURDER
“Round and round she goes,” said Sarah. “Where she stops, nobody knows.”
It was just like when she’d worked in a call centre – mouthing the same stale words, day after day. But working at the tables was a lot more glamorous, and she got the chance to trade on her good looks.
The ball was rattling round the wheel. The punters watched its progress silently. Ladies in slinky evening gowns and men in well-cut suits. The place had an exclusive clientele. Sarah read the varying emotions on each face. Their habit had begun to take its toll. The men even ignored her ample cleavage. Like all the female croupiers, she had to dress up like a bunny girl.
The casino was plush, as befitted London’s Mayfair, but it had the glitzy aura of a Vegas gambling joint. Clients who came up lucky sometimes saw her afterwards. Sarah flicked a blonde curl back and wondered if she had her ears on straight. Her shapely curves were squeezed into the low-cut bunny suit, offset by a bow tie and fishnet hose.
“Sixteen,” she called brightly as the ball came to a stop. Her cleavage bulged as she leaned forward, raking in the chips. Some of the punters watched forlornly; others looked resigned. And the lady with the winning bet gave Sarah a cool smile.
She was tall and very slender, with a well-bred elegance. Her evening gown was sapphire blue and her shoulders were as pale as ivory. She had a fresh face, made haughty by high cheekbones, and a glossy mane of curling chestnut hair. Her eyes were as bright blue as the gown. Sarah felt their knowing scrutiny and blushed.
She glanced around the smoke-filled room. It reeked of privilege. The bunnies smiled their smiles and dealt their cards. Anna, another buxom blonde, was waiting to take over. Sarah caught her eye and winked. The woman in blue lit up a cigarette.
A sudden shout came from upstairs, and then the clump of boots on the thick carpet. Sarah felt her heart contract as sinister dark figures came in sight. They wore blue coveralls and helmets, goggles, boots and gloves. “Armed police!” a woman yelled as they pointed sub-machine guns at the crowd.
Sarah’s hand went to her mouth as the unit surged downstairs into the club. The startled punters froze, or shrank away. But the blue-eyed lady was unfazed. She blew a stream of smoke, then straightened up and delved into her purse.
She flipped open a warrant card and waved it casually. “Inspector Scott,” she drawled, “CO19.” Sarah stared, and felt her bosom heaving. At least they were cops, not gangsters; but the sight of all those weapons made her cringe.
The elegant inspector tracked her eyes across the crowd. The ladies felt undressed by her, and the men were caught between desire and dread. “We’re acting on intelligence,” the woman went on crisply. “This place is corrupt and we need to close it down.” Her officers kept their MP5s braced tight against their shoulders, as if daring somebody to make a move. Sarah thought that there was something odd about the weapons, but she was too shocked to work out what it was.
An officer armed with a pistol pushed her goggles up. She had a perky, impish face, contrasting with the helmet that she wore. Sarah glanced round nervously, and realised all the officers were female. Their waterproof blue jumpsuits fitted snugly to their curves.
The inspector sauntered over to her unit. “Carry on, Sergeant,” she said carelessly. The impish-featured girl brought up her pistol, and Sarah saw the fat tube on the end. Every gun was fitted with a similar device. But why should armed police need silencers?
Her heartbeat had already starting pounding when the pistol made a gassy popping sound. A neat dark spot was stamped into the forehead of a bunny croupier. Sarah had time to glimpse her stunned expression, and then the girl threw back her head and slumped. By the time her body came to rest, the dark spot was bright scarlet and her blood was dripping down the spattered wall.
The unit opened up at once, with automatic fire. The sub-machine guns whispered viciously. The crowd began to scream until the scythe of bullets hit them. Then the brutal impacts crushed their cries to winded grunts.
Sarah wailed in horror as the storm blew straight towards her. The punters she had patronised fell, jerking, to the floor. Chips were scattered left and right as shots chewed up the table. She held out her hands to ward them off, and felt a searing punch in her flat belly. “Ouggh!” she sobbed and began to double forward. More bullets lacerated her large breasts. Sarah juddered like a table dancer, then crashed against the wall and slithered off.
Anna choked and clawed her tits as the officers kept firing. There was no escape for the cornered clientele. Men clutched at their blood-spattered tuxedos, and women’s heads flipped back orgasmically. A lady in a red dress caught a slug in her left breast and flopped face down over her gambling chips. A girl in a backless yellow gown tried running, and took a burst between her shoulder blades. Some girls tried to hide under a table. They squealed as an officer crouched down and opened fire on them at point blank range. The spitting of the guns turned into isolated coughs as the last surviving bunnies were shot down.
The inspector’s sapphire eyes stayed calm, unblinking. She nodded to her sergeant. “Trash the CCTV tapes.” The officers moved on to check the croupiers’ changing room. They caught a bunny in her briefs and shot the startled girl between the tits. A lady in the toilets hadn’t heard the muffled slaughter. She was still fixing her makeup when a policewoman fired a burst into her back.
The woman in blue picked up a card and turned it in her fingers. It was an ace of diamonds with a bullet hole in it. “Nice work, girls,” she told her team. “I guess we’ve earned our fee.” She smiled and tossed the card onto the bloody cleavage of a bunny girl.
* * *
It was a bright spring day, and Becky had gone to the park to eat her lunch. She sat on a bench, legs primly crossed, and nibbled at her sandwich thoughtfully. She was too mousy to have many friends among the typing pool and usually took her lunch break on her own. The guys would sometimes pester her if she ate in the canteen, so the chance to sit outside was doubly welcome.
Her sober suit and diffident demeanour seemed a conscious effort to play down her looks. Becky was petite but had a well-developed figure, with 34C breasts under her blouse. Her dark hair was cut short and she wore glasses, a distraction from her velvety brown eyes. She kept her handbag close, as if afraid it would be snatched. A Sig-Sauer 230 was inside, the walnut grip just peeping into view.
As she dabbed crumbs off her lip, a woman strolled into the park. Another office worker, with a briefcase and a paper Subway bag. She glanced towards the children who were playing on the grass, then came along the path to Becky’s bench.
“Is that seat free?” she asked politely. “May I join you, then?” Becky shrugged and took another bite. The woman sat down next to her and unwrapped her own lunch. “It looks like spring is here at last,” she said.
“So it is,” said Becky with her mouth full. She chewed and swallowed. “What’s the job this time?”
The polite young woman opened the flat briefcase on her knees, as if browsing through her papers while she ate. “You’ve heard about the Babes in Blue? That’s what the tabloids call them, anyway.”
Becky shook her head. “I read The Guardian.” The woman smiled and sifted through her files.
“They’re CO19’s first all-female team,” she went on brightly. Becky nodded as she ate: she knew about the London firearms branch. The woman produced a photo of a girl with wide pale eyes. “And this is the girl in charge: Inspector Scott. The press all love them, as you can imagine. But the Babes are very naughty girls indeed.”
Becky licked her lips and raised an eyebrow. The woman handed her an envelope. “They’re in the pay of London’s biggest gang boss, and they sometimes do his dirty work for him. Nicola Scott’s a high-flyer, and as ruthless as they come. She saw going bad as a career move. And it probably didn’t take her long to bring the others round. I hear the team are very close.” She winked.
Smiling thinly, Becky riffled through the documents. “So why not just arrest them all?” she asked.
“We’d find that most embarrassing,” the woman told her mildly. “Much better if they died heroically.”
“Fair enough,” said Becky, still examining the details. The thought of all those targets didn’t bother her too much. The bigger the job, the pricier the contract – and the young woman’s department had a budget for such things.
“Scott’s team has a vacancy, and you’ve just got the job. You’re a PC transferred down from Birmingham. Your record looks exemplary on paper, but we’ve spread a rumour that you’re into drugs. You need some extra money and you don’t care how you make it. The Babes should welcome you with open arms.”
“I always fancied working in a uniform,” said Becky. She put her wrappers in the litter bin. “Nice to chat to you,” she murmured, getting to her feet. “I’ll email you the invoice when I’m done.”
She walked away unhurriedly, the file under her arm: a secretary returning to her desk. The woman from the Government closed her briefcase and set about devouring her lunch.
* * *
Becky parked in front of the main building. It was brick-built, with a Fifties look. The dour façade reminded her of school. But the lessons taught at this place were much harder. It was the training centre used by London’s armed police.
The Babes had been rotated here for a refresher course, and Becky had all the paperwork to join them. She took her gym bag from the car and slammed the boot again – then noticed a tall figure on the steps. An elegant brunette in an inspector’s uniform, as smart as if she’d just come off parade. The dark clothes emphasised her slender figure. She gave the newcomer a haughty look.
Becky was wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt which did little to conceal her splendid breasts. Her short hair had a punky cut and she wore Armani shades, like a girl who rather liked to spoil herself. Shouldering her bag, she sauntered over to the steps. “Hi, I’m PC Palmer … I was told to report here?”
Inspector Scott had a face like fine bone-china. Her eyes were sapphire blue, and just as hard. She smiled, disdainfully polite. “Rebecca, isn’t it? You’re here to join a first-class team. I hope you measure up.”
“I’ve been waiting for this chance, Ma’am,” Becky told her evenly. “You’ve seen my record, and my references.”
Nicola sniffed. “It all looks good on paper – but I want to see you coping when the shit begins to fly. We’re doing a hostage rescue exercise this afternoon. Get yourself a weapon, and we’ll see how you make out.”
Another girl had come out of the building: a perky-looking blonde in coveralls. Boyish hair and combat boots gave her a butch appearance, compounded by the frankness of her gaze. A sergeant’s chevrons glinted on her shoulders. She made a point of eyeing Becky’s breasts.
“Suzy here will show you round,” said Nicola, po-faced. Becky gave a careless shrug. “I’ll see you later, Ma’am.” She went in through the door and Suzy glanced at Nicola. Her lips curved in a spiteful smirk. The young inspector smiled meanly back.
* * *
“Go, go, go!” snapped the woman at her elbow, and Becky kicked her way in through the door. The empty space beyond was full of darkness. She glimpsed a solid outline in the gloom. The MP5 was braced against her shoulder and its built-in torch flicked on to flood the room. A female mannequin sat in an armchair. Another stood behind it with a gun.
Becky fired a single shot into the standing figure. The hooded shape was jolted off its feet. As it fell, she registered another in the corner. Swinging down onto one knee, she blew a chunk out of its plastic skull.
“Clear!” she called and straightened up, the sound of the shots still ringing in her ears. The room was bare apart from the old armchair. The crumbling plasterwork was pocked with holes. Lines of daylight showed around the boarded-up window. The “hostage” stared at her with empty eyes.
Lowering her gun, she went back out onto the landing. The pair of girls assessing her looked piqued. Danielle was a sporty, green-eyed blonde with an air of self-importance. She couldn’t help but pout at Becky’s skill. Russet-headed Rachel pushed her Glock into its holster. She had a sweet face and a sour look.
All three of them were wearing dark blue coveralls. Becky’s suit felt tight enough to show her panty line. She detached the carbine’s clip and pulled the bolt to check the chamber. “Weapon safe,” she said impassively.
The manoeuvre had been perfect, and she knew it. “I guess you cut the mustard,” said Danielle. They were in an isolated wing of the old building , converted to a practice range that took in all three floors. There were mannequins round every corner – innocent or hostile. Creeping up the stairs, she’d felt an unexpected thudding in her chest.
“Welcome to the team,” said Rachel wryly. The afternoon was sombre but her clear eyes caught the light. Becky shrugged and turned towards the staircase. Then Danielle pounced and dragged her to the floor.
The violence of the tackle caught the smaller girl off guard. She gasped as Danielle landed on her back. The big blonde jammed her knee against the base of Becky’s spine. “Let’s have your hands, you cow. You’re fucking nicked!” Seizing hold of Becky’s arms, she twisted them behind her and tied a loop of plastic round her wrists. Becky bucked and wriggled but Danielle would not be budged. Her knee dug into Becky’s back as she grasped the new girl’s coveralls and pulled.
The one-piece suit came off her shoulders, trapping Becky’s arms against her sides. She was wearing a pink bra underneath. The blonde girl smiled and twanged one of the straps. Then she eased back, hauling Becky up onto her knees. Rachel stood in front of her. The blue-eyed girl had drawn her gun again.
It was a police-issue Glock 17, a pistol with an ugly plastic shell. The smile on Rachel’s pretty face was even uglier. She pointed the black gun at Becky’s mouth.
“We call this `sucking a Glock lolly’,” she said evenly. “Open wide, you little bitch. All newbies have to have a taste of this.”
Becky glowered back, but let the gun into her mouth. It poked around obscenely on her tongue. She sucked at it defiantly. The gun was drawn back out. Danielle ruffled Becky’s hair. “That’s better, girlie. Now you’re one of us.”
She yanked the new girl’s coveralls down to her slender waist, then left her kneeling there, her wrists still tied. “Marvellous things, those Wonderbras,” said Rachel mockingly. Becky didn’t rise to that. She knew her tits had no need of support. “We’ll see you later,” purred Danielle, and the two girls went downstairs. Becky heard them snigger like a pair of spoiled brats.
Her full lips tightened grimly as she clambered to her feet. Business and pleasure didn’t mix, but in this case she might just make an exception. There was no way she could shrug into her coveralls again. She made her way downstairs, her arms still pinned. Not that she was bothered if her boobs were on display. She’d long ago lost any sense of shame.
By the time she reached the locker room, she’d run the gauntlet of the giggling team. She stalked past with her head held high. Their mockery was welcome. It psyched her up for what she had to do.
There were three girls in the changing room, but one was in the shower. The other two could not conceal their glee. Becky glanced away from them forlornly, like a lonely rookie on the verge of tears. One of the girls took pity on her. “Come on, I’ll untie you.” She was a dark-haired Irish girl with toffee-soft brown eyes. Becky sniffed and waited as the plasticuffs came off. The other girl had carried on undressing. The Irish girl’s white blouse hung open on a satin bra, and she wore the regulation skirt and hose.
“Thank you,” mumbled Becky as she massaged her bruised wrists. “You’re welcome,” said the brunette carelessly. Her fair-haired friend was down to her lace knickers. She folded her jeans, still smiling to herself.
Becky pulled her coveralls back up but left them open. “I owe you a favour …?”
“Karen,” said the girl.
Becky nodded, opening her locker. She reached into her gym bag. “Just for that, I’ll make it quick.”
She drew her silenced gun with one smooth movement and shot the Irish girl between the brows. At point-blank range, the bullet punched a neat hole in her forehead and splashed the wall behind her with bright red. In between, it pulped the thoughts in Karen’s startled brain. Her mouth dropped openly stupidly, and then she crumpled like an empty coat.
Becky wheeled at once and met the other girl’s wide eyes. Her pistol coughed twice more. The girl’s breasts twitched as they were hit. The pert PC convulsed and groaned, clawing vainly at her tits. She slumped against her locker and slid down.
Becky walked towards the showers. Her boots clicked on the tiles. The third girl had her head down and was rinsing out her hair. Becky stood and eyed her for a moment, watching soapy water spilling down her curves. Then she shot the girl through her flat belly. The slug bit through her navel and the tanned young copper gave an anguished squawk. Becky flinched in pleasurable sympathy, then put another round into her chest. The girl flipped back against the wall and slithered to the tiles. The shower sluiced the blood away, revealing the dark holes in her firm flesh.
Returning to her locker, Becky changed the magazine. The compact P230 only carried seven rounds. Re-cocking it, she eased into the corridor again. There were a dozen targets left. She needed to get a Glock or MP5.
She walked towards the main reception area. The girl at the front desk was daydreaming. She wore a snowy short-sleeved blouse with black epaulettes and the standard chequered tie. Her dark hair was tied primly back, but she had a curvy figure. Her blue eyes blinked through stylish spectacles.
Maybe she was based here, not a member of the Babes. But what the hell: she’d smirked like all the rest. Becky raised the gun and shot her neatly through the heart. A poppy blossomed on the spotless blouse. The girl jerked back and flopped, her pale eyes staring. Her body swivelled, drooping, with the chair. Becky turned and walked into the daylight. A patrol car was just pulling up outside.
The silenced pistol spat again, and the windscreen cracked and frosted. The female driver slumped back in her seat. The girl beside her struggled with her seatbelt. She wore a dark blue sweater, moulded snugly to her breasts. Becky heard her whimper as she walked towards the car. Perhaps she was a good cop, but who cared?
She fired through the side window and the mewling girl cried out. Her sweater bore the word POLICE, and the shot had struck the O. She clutched herself in agony, and Becky fired again. The slug pierced the woman’s pretty head and she sagged against the driver like a doll.
Becky strode away, around the building. She was headed for the practice range again. Behind her, an alarm had started ringing. Nicola was at her desk when the clamour sent a quiver through her nerves. Compressing her glossed lips, she pulled a pistol from her drawer. It was against regulations to keep it there, but she’d thrown away the rule book long ago. The gun was unofficial, too: a lethal Glock 18. It looked just like the standard gun, but was capable of automatic fire.
Boyish Suzy barged in without knocking. She saw the gun swing round, but didn’t flinch. “It’s the new girl, Boss. The bitch has just gone crazy!”
Nicola smiled tightly. “So the team can have some proper practice, then.”
Becky, meanwhile, had reached the practice area. One of the Babes was lounging by the door. She was drawing on a cigarette with her coveralls unfastened, revealing the transparent bra beneath. An MP5 was slung over her shoulder. She gave the new girl a disdainful glance.
Becky smiled sweetly back and shot her in the breast. The PC gasped and reared against the wall. “Tit for tat,” said Becky as her victim slithered down, exhaling her last lungful of blue smoke. A stream of blood ran into the girl’s cleavage as Becky relieved her of her MP5. The assassin checked the mechanism and swore under her breath. The carbine was police-issue, and limited to firing single shots.
She sidled through the door into the dimness of the range. The hallway was deserted and the whole block had a spooky, gutted feel. Then she heard the crack of shots from up on the next level. Another group of Babes were working out.
A dummy stood and watched her from the shadows. Her fine hairs prickled as she climbed the stairs. Another shape was waiting on the landing. Becky jerked her gun to bear, then breathed out as her forefinger relaxed.
As she stepped around the mannequin, there was a careless footfall. A policewoman emerged from the next room. Becky flashed the built-in torch and the girl blinked stupidly: a rabbit in the headlights. Becky fired. The bullet raised a puff of smoke on well-filled coveralls. The PC’s mouth gasped open and she dropped.
“For fuck’s sake,” grumbled someone, “did you leave your safety off?” Another girl came down the corridor. Becky lamped her too and pumped a bullet through her forehead. The girl’s head whiplashed sharply and her bosom almost popped out of her suit.
The others in the building caught on quickly. Becky heard them whispering. She slipped into the first room on her left. This one was completely bare, the window half un-boarded. A connecting door had been knocked through. She edged towards it through a veil of dust.
Then the door burst open to reveal a third PC. She had an MP5 as well, but Becky beat her with a double-tap. The combined force of the pair of bullets flung the woman backwards, while Becky sensed a new threat and swung round. A fourth girl with a Glock was in the doorway she’d just come through. Becky fired and rolled aside. The Babe spat blood and slumped.
An eerie silenced settled. Becky clambered to her feet. The dead girls lay inert where they had dropped. Then she heard more footsteps creeping slowly up the stairs. She backed away through the connecting door.
Rachel and Danielle had ventured back into the building, with Nicola and Suzy at their heels. Now Rachel led the way upstairs, her Glock gripped in both hands. Danielle gave her cover with an MP5 tucked tight against her cheek. Suzy waited further down with a carbine of her own. It was one of their illegal stash, with the option of fully automatic fire.
Nicola looked out of place in her tidy uniform, but her eyes were bright and baleful in the gloom. She waved the others forward and ascended after them. Her gun was switched to automatic too.
The practice wing was silent. Motes of dust hung in the air. They smelled the bitter reek of powder smoke. Rachel grimaced as she reached the landing and saw the bodies in the passageway. She stepped around them gingerly and checked the nearest room. The connecting door creaked faintly in the draught. She gestured at Danielle to make an outflanking manoeuvre, and the blonde moved on along the passageway.
Rachel stalked across the room, her pistol poised, the trigger halfway back. She took a shallow breath, then heeled the door aside and lunged. The room beyond was darker, but she glimpsed a figure in blue coveralls. Rachel pumped the trigger and the flashes seared the gloom. The bullets knocked the target off her feet. Rachel smirked – then stiffened as the blank face registered. Empty eyes stared back at her. The mannequin in coveralls collapsed.
Before the redhead could react, Becky swung out of the shadows. She was wearing only bra and panties now. She struck Rachel in the belly with her gun butt, and the PC doubled forward with a grunt. Becky dropped the MP5, snatched the Glock from Rachel’s fingers and poked the pistol into the girl’s mouth. Rachel’s baby-blues stared back in horror. She tried to speak, and gagged on the black gun.
“Suck it, sweetie,” Becky said and squeezed the trigger coldly. A crimson dollop spattered the bare wall. Rachel’s eyes rolled upward to reveal the milky whites. Her body crumpled heavily, and a whorl of smoke came drooling from her mouth.
Danielle was waiting by the door into the passageway. She heard the muffled shot, and then a thump. She waited for her friend to give the all clear. There was silence. “Fuck,” she said and stepped away, then started pumping shots into the door. A storm of bullets splintered back in answer, and Danielle sobbed with pain as she was hit. Becky had Rachel’s pistol, and another girl’s as well. They gave her double Danielle’s rate of fire.
The green-eyed blonde reeled back across the passage, and the small assassin followed through at once. She blazed away with both Glocks as the riddled door swung open, aiming at Danielle’s large breasts and hoping it would hurt. Danielle screamed obligingly as the slugs chewed through her tits. They joggled with each impact as the squirming PC slithered to the floor.
Suzy raked the corridor with a burst of automatic, and Becky balked, then dropped into a roll. She fired both pistols as she moved, making Suzy flinch in turn, and fetched up in a room across the passage. “You bitch!” the sergeant squealed at her and fired another burst. Becky scrambled up again. Her sweaty breasts were heaving in her bra.
Suzy started to advance. Becky fired one pistol blindly round the doorframe. After four more shots, the slide locked open. She dropped the gun and glanced around the room. There were connecting doors on this side too. The nearest was ajar. Gripping her remaining Glock, she tip-toed up to it.
Peering through the crack, she glimpsed the sheen of silver buttons. Then Nicola squeezed her trigger and a blurt of bullets smashed into the door. The recoil sent her pistol kicking upwards. She quickly drew a bead again, but Becky had already ducked away.
The inspector’s bosom rose and fell beneath her buttoned jacket. She braced her levelled pistol with both hands. Outside in the passage, Suzy prowled towards the doorway. Becky’s gun came into view and fired an un-aimed shot.
“Shit!” cried Becky frantically and thumbed the magazine catch. The clip fell out and clattered on the floor. Suzy recognised the sound and rushed towards the doorway. I’ve got you now, you little cow, she thought. She swung into the room, and Becky fired at point-blank range. The Glock still had a bullet in the breech. It struck the sergeant just above her cleavage and ricocheted off bone into her heart.
Suzy whooped and somersaulted backwards, a shocked expression on her perky face. Becky threw herself aside as Nicola lunged through the other door. The inspector’s Glock spewed murderously, lighting up the room. But the recoil made it hard to aim – and the magazine was emptied in a flash.
Becky came up on hands and knees in a haze of powdered plaster. She gave her prey a vulpine grin and scrabbled over to retrieve the clip. Nicola swore like a spoilt child, her blue eyes full of hatred. Her thumb unlatched the magazine as she drew a fresh one from her jacket pocket. She reloaded while the empty was still falling, and Becky shoved her own clip into place. The sound of clicks and rapid breathing seemed to fill the room. The spent clip hit the floorboards, like a signal which both girls responded to.
The Glocks swung up as one, but Becky got her shot in first. It plucked a button off Nicola’s smart jacket. The bullet burrowed on into the inspector’s shapely breast. The crushing pain made Nicola cry out. The pistol jumped out of her hand and tumbled towards Becky, who straightened up and snatched it from the air. Nicola lurched back towards the window, her stockinged legs as wobbly as a foal’s.
“Bitch …” she sobbed, still full of spite, and Becky smiled. “I know.” She aimed the Glock 18 and triggered it. The burst tore into Nicola’s firm tits and slender belly. The prim inspector wailed in agony. The barrage threw her bodily against the boarded window. The flimsy panel splintered loose and she toppled out and plummeted to earth.
Becky heard the deadweight thump and breathed out shakily. She went back to retrieve her coveralls. When she slipped out of the building there was no one left to see her. She ran towards the treeline, leaving her identity – and hired car – behind her.
* * *
HEROINES IN BLUE GUNNED DOWN, the tabloid headline said. The woman from the Government gave a sigh. “Such a tragic loss,” she said, and bit into her sandwich. “But I guess they would have wanted it this way. It says here that they all deserve a posthumous award ...” She folded up the newspaper. “What do you think, Miss Black?”
“I think …” Becky said, “… that Mark & Spencer’s sandwiches are getting better.”
The woman tittered and stood up. “We’ll be in touch again.” Becky watched her leave the park, then smiled faintly and resumed her lunch.