Clive Bedford

Mistress of torment

(Bondage book – 133)

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Inspector Harold Wilson of New Scotland Yard Criminal Investigation Department removed his hat in order to facilitate scratching his head. It needed scratching, but for once this habit failed to stimulate his brain. Wilson was a good, solid, stolid policeman who, by dint of doing as he was told and not arguing, had worked himself up in the CID as far as he would ever go. In a year he would retire, if not in a blaze of glory, at least not in a shower of mud! This was beyond his experience, and with the wariness of his age and nature, he could see one thing very clearly. There was likely to be a lot of trouble here! And Wilson did not want trouble. It was the very last thing he wanted.

He spoke to the young intern who stood patiently by.

"I'll have to make a special report about this," he said at last. "You'll have to hold the body for autopsy, but I want you to take special precautions. Do these, things lock?"

Wilson pointed to the rows of gruesome refrigerated cabinets that lined one side of the wall.

"Yes. There's two keys. The attendant has one, and the secretary of the hospital keeps the other in his safe."

"Hmm. I'd better have the attendant's key, now please. And then I'll come with you and collect the other one." They closed the drawer containing the young man's corpse with that degree of respect that most people give to the dead even if they withhold it from the living!

As they went along the corridor, the inspector said, "I suppose we'll have to get a disinter men order for the other one – the woman. That's a bloody nuisance, I can tell you! Every time that happens some maniac or other starts squawking about 'desecration'! Where was she buried?"

"Highgate, I believe."

"Christ, right in the middle of London! We'll have to keep the press away with bloody barbed wire!"

Wilson collected both keys gloomily, signed for them and went outside the hospital to where his driver was waiting. Detective Sergeant Gerry Glasner was an entirely different kind of police ma from his boss. For one thing he had not yet arrived and had practically nothing to lose. For another, he had come into the force from university, and had a well disciplined and enquiring mind. For a third he was by no means sure he had made a wise decision in his career choice, and did not much care whether what he did met with approval or not!

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"Trouble?" he asked, sympathetically, studying Wilson's gloomy face.

"Another one of those damned chastity belt corpses," said Wilson.

"Another one? Another girl?"

"No. A man this time – or a boy really. Only about sixteen years old."

A week before the body of a girl had been pulled out of the Thames at Teddington Lock. She was about eighteen years old, a virgin. Her clothes were good, having been mostly bought in the King's Road, Chelsea. She had been well-groomed and manicured – and dead. There had been no sign of injury, yet the autopsy had proved that she had not drowned. She had been dead before she got into the river. Yet there was no bruising or any other sign of her having been thrown in.

All that was bad enough. Already it had involved Inspector Wilson in the thing he most hated, trouble. He had some twenty Murder Squad men working around the clock, trying to trace the identity of the girl. Until they knew who she was, there was not much hope of tracing her friends, or anyone who might know anything about her death. So far, some fifteen hundred individual contacts and enquiries had drawn a blank. But the worst feature of the affair had been that the girl had been wearing a most odd appliance. It seemed to be made of some kind of grey metal, cold to the touch. Yet it yielded like rubber, so that it fitted her body like a second skin. Worst of all, it did not stretch, and all the efforts of nurses and doctors had utterly failed to remove it. There was no joint, no fastening. It might have been molded over the girl's body.

The staff of the hospital were not altogether unused to removing chastity belts! Especially from men. Every few weeks someone would be brought in from a road accident and if he was conscious his reluctance to be undressed would prove to be due to the fact that he was wearing a more-or-less complex arrangement of chains around the waist and loins – sometimes even along the torso to a metal collar as well. And, at the end of all the chains, there would usually be a metal box of some kind that completely enclosed his genitals, with a small hole in the box for toilet purposes. Sometimes the chastity belts were fastened on with padlocks. Some of them were soldered on. Only last month there had been an extremely complex and unpleasant one, with sharp spikes inside the box which would have made an erection terribly painful, and that had been welded on so that the doctor bad to send for a maintenance engineer with oxy-gas equipment to cut it off!

The standard story was that the patient had put the thing on himself, although in most cases this was manifestly impossible unless he had also been a contortionist! The inference was that the man had been playing sex-games with a woman or another man who found pleasure in depriving him of sex-satisfaction. One or two claimed they had had the chastity belts fitted for religious reasons! It was embarrassing all round, but that was the end of it. If a man cared to wear a chastity belt, that was his affair and no one else's.

But the girl, and now the boy had both been found dead in unusual circumstances. And both had been wearing these curious belts, of an unfamiliar material. Not wishing to publicize the oddity, the police had, in fact, conspired to conceal the facts surrounding the girl. They could not be concealed again. Trouble was in the air! Wilson groaned aloud. Gerry Glasner reached for a bottle lying under the dashboard.

"Indigestion?" he asked.

"I shall have! Not now… Do you know, at the hospital they've tried getting that damned thing off with bolt cutters, and couldn't even dent it! Yet its surface feels like satin… They'll have to cut it off! Or if not, I'm afraid they'll have to cut up the body and get it off that way. We've got to have it – and I guess we'll have to have the one off the girl now. It's the only clue we have."

Back in his office, Wilson asked for the file on the girl. In it were several photos.

"Look at these, Sergeant," he said to Gerry Glasner. They studied them together, with a new interest.

The sight of the young, slender body, lying stiff and cold brought a spasm of anger to them both. This, after all, was what their lives were about; punishment for this, and prevention for the future. Yet, there was no proof of murder, except that the girl could not have thrown herself in the river after she was dead! And she had not drowned. That was all they had to go on, except for the chastity belt. The soft, yielding metal thing fitted over the girl's breasts, proving that she had had a beautiful, full figure. The cups totally covered the breasts and there was an area of the metallic substance flat against her chest. This was shaped like a brassiere, and led around her chest to her back. There was no clasp or fastening of any kind. The report said that the cups over the breasts were hard as glass, but the rest was soft and resilient. The girl would have been unable to feel any sensation through the metal of the cups.

Attached to the breast strap was a wide vertical one that joined to a kind of waist belt, about four inches wide and perfectly shaped to fit between her rib-cage and hip-bones. This was as tight as it could be, cutting deep into the flesh, compressing her vital organs. In front of the waist band was a shaped piece that covered her belly and proceeded down to curve up between her thighs, narrowing as it went, and up between her buttocks to join the waist band at the back. Between the thighs was a hole about a half-inch in diameter, and there was another round hole about an inch in diameter over the anus. Investigation had shown that to each of these holes was attached a tube of the same size and same material. The front tube seemed to enter the urethra, and the rear tube was clearly in the rectum. The length of the tubes could not be determined because the metal of the belt was opaque to X-rays. Despairing of removing this garment without desecrating the body they had buried the girl in it. Now she would have to be disinterred and, somehow or other the garment would have to be recovered.

"Maybe the lab will be able to give us a lead of some kind," said Wilson. "Whoever made and fitted that belt must have had some kind of workshop!"

"What about the boy's belt?" asked the Sergeant.

"There's some polyphotos in my case. We'll get the regular ones in about an hour, but these will give you the general idea."

The boy had been wearing jeans and a roll-neck sweater, which before he died would have concealed the high collar of silver-grey metal that was fitted around his neck. It was just fitted close to his skin, not tight enough to restrict his breathing, not loose enough to move. Pushing a finger down between the collar and the skin, the doctor had determined that the inside of the collar was fitted with hundreds of small, blunt spikes that must have pressed painfully into the flesh. At back and front of the body was an extension from the collar, about three inches wide, joining to a tight waist band similar to the one the girl had worn. There was a kind of box in front of the belt, shaped so as to allow no expansion of an inert penis. When the belt had been fitted, the boy had obviously not had an erection – and he had certainly not had one since he had worn the belt! The scrotum was in a separate enclosure, equally small. At the end of the penis-sheath was a hole, not more than an eighth-inch in diameter, and investigation had shown there was a kind of catheter tube attached to it, presumably running along inside the penis. At the rectum there was a one-inch hole and tube, similar to the one on the girl's belt.

The boy had fallen in front of an underground train at Piccadilly Circus Station and had been almost cut in half. The wheels of the first two coaches had passed right over him, and over the chastity belt. But the material of which it was made had not even been marked!

"What are you going to do, Inspector?"

Wilson closed the file and rested his hand on it. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Gerry," he said. "I'm going to pass this one upward, as far and as fast as I can! I'm not a very bright copper. You know that!" He smiled. So close to retirement he could afford to; he no longer had any apples to polish! "But all my instincts tell me that this one is trouble, with a capital T. And I don't want any part of it!" He got up. "I'm going to see the chief inspector," he said. "The intern told me he was going to ask one of his maintenance engineers to try to cut through that belt on the boy with oxy-gas before he locked the cabinet in the morgue. If you get a call from him, say I'll ring him back."

It was Sergeant Glasner's turn to be gloomy. He had just seen an example of the kind of petty-mindedness that made him feel he was in the wrong job. This was a challenge, not something to be passed up the line to where the buck stopped. But there was nothing he could do. He was caught in the rigid discipline machine.

Ten minutes later the phone rang and, as Gerry answered it his face changed from boredom to incredulous horror. "OK," he said, quickly. "I've got all that. I'll tell Inspector Wilson. Yes… I expect we'll be right over." He put the phone down and was just reaching for another one to call Wilson, when it buzzed. A girl's voice spoke.

"Sergeant Glasner? The chief inspector would like to see you in his office right away please." Gerry threw down the phone and ran!

He entered the chief inspector's office soberly enough, although his eyes were bright with excitement.

"May I give Inspector Wilson a message first, Sir?" he asked, and as the great man nodded, Glasner said, "Just had a phone call from Emergency Services, Sir. There's been a hell of an explosion at the hospital, in the morgue. A young intern is dead, the attendant, two nurses and an engineer!"

The other two men sat, suddenly alert, tense.

"What was it?" asked the chief inspector.

"Did the gas explode?" asked Wilson.

"Apparently not, Sir. They've only had a quick look of course, but, you know the stuff that chastity belt was made of? Well, apparently when they started to use the oxy-gas on it it exploded – just blew up. It was a hell of a bang. Shattered every pane of glass in the building, and for about a quarter-mile around. Everyone thought it was the Irish at it again!"

The chief inspector sat still, looking at his finger-tips.

"Sit down, Sergeant," he said. "You're twenty-five and unmarried, I believe."

"Yes Sir."

"Engaged to be married?"

"Not yet Sir. Nothing serious anywhere."

"Parents?"

"My mother passed away last year Sir. Father's due to retire from the Air Force next year."

"He'll be a man who knows his duty…" said the chief inspector, mysteriously. "Glasner, Inspector Wilson has been talking to me. And he's given me a glowing account of you, I may say. I know a lot more about this chastity belt thing than either of you. And I don't think anyone is going to get very far by routine methods. This is very serious, very serious indeed. And terribly dangerous too. Both the bodies you have seen have been agent working for Special Branch!"

Gerry stared in amazement. "On the force, Sir?"

"No. And that, I think was the mistake. They lacked enough experience to be able to look after themselves." He counted his fingers carefully, as if he felt there was one missing. Then he looked up so that Gerry had to meet his gaze. "I need a young, intelligent and dedicated volunteer for a job of great danger," he said quietly. "A job on whose success may depend the security of the country – and indeed the security of the world…"

"You mean me, Sir?"

"I am not giving any orders, Sergeant. In this you are a free man. And there won't be any adverse remarks on your Conduct Record if you refuse. I'm by no means sure I'd accept the job myself, even if I were young enough."

Without a moment's hesitation, Gerry said, "I'll do it Sir, if I may."

"Good. Wilson said you'd take that attitude! There's not a moment to waste. I'd like you, Wilson, to go along to the hospital and see what you can find out, if anything. I want to talk to Sergeant Glasner."

When they were alone, the chief inspector said, "This is all covered by the Official Secrets Act, Glasner. You could get ten years in jail if you talk! And now I've said that, let's be informal. This is not routine police business. In fact, as soon as we are finished here, I am going to dismiss you from the force in disgrace!"

"Sir?"

The chief inspector smiled, thinly. "It's only to give you cover! When it's over, you can come back in as Detective Inspector if you want to – and with no loss of pension rights! But I expect we shall find something else more interesting for you to do, if you want it!" He took a small box from a drawer and opened it, pushing it across the desk to Gerry. "What do you make of that?" he asked.

Gerry took the box in his hand. In it there was what looked like a length of very fine fuse-wire, about an inch long. He looked up, baffled.

"It is a fantastic piece of ultra-micro-miniature circuitry," said the chief inspector. "We don't know how it works yet, nor even what it is for. All we know for certain is this. That piece of wire was removed from the back of Betty Bronson's neck – that's the poor kid that ended up in the river. It was driven straight in, just between two vertebrae, into the spinal cord."

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"Is that what killed her Sir…"

"Not the driving of it in. That much is certain. But some kind of signal generated by that circuitry did kill her, instantly. And I'll tell you another thing. We may never be able to check the boy after that explosion, but I am sure there was a similar thing in his spinal cord – just as there have been in five other agents we have employed in the past six months, all of whom have died accidentally – and all of whom have been found wearing one of those chastity belts!"

"Seven gone? In six months?"

"Yes. Want to change your mind?"

"No Sir."

"Good. Now, tell me, what do you know about UFO's?"

Chief Inspector Dodds smiled again, fleetingly as he saw the sudden tension in Gerry's face. He knew just what the young man was thinking!

"Unidentified Flying Objects" – witches on broomsticks? Or the delusions of weak-minded people? Or a mystery wrapped in an enigma that had not so far been opened up? Should Gerry show his chief that he had an open mind – and risk being considered eccentric at least, if not downright unstable? Or should he dismiss UFO's as nonsense, and risk being thought of as having a mind closed to new ideas? It was a difficult dilemma for an ambitious young police officer. Dodds resolved it for him.

"Level with me, Glasner," he said. "Be frank. I'm not trying to catch you out, lad… I'll tell you something – under the umbrella of the Official Secrets Act – the Prime Minister is in daily contact with the President of the United States over the hot line about this very question. And even though we may not think much of politicians, no one thinks they are that crazy!"

Gerry Glasner took a sudden resolve. If this new assignment proved to be worthwhile, it could lead him quickly out of the boring routine of police business, and into something that would give him the chance to use his intelligence to the full. If not, well, he already had in mind to resign anyway, so what had he to lose?

"I think there have been genuine sightings of UFO's, Sir," he said quietly. "A lot of the reports – maybe most of them – may be illusions, genuine or crazy, but there are some that seem, from the little I have read, to be beyond question… After all, a lot of policemen have reported sightings, on night patrol!" He smiled, disarmingly.

Chief Inspector Dodds sat silent for a moment his face hard, frosty, and Gerry wondered if he had said the right thing – then he thought, "So what the hell! I've said what I honestly believe. He can like it – or lump it!"

"You're right, of course," said Dodds, surprisingly. "There have been sightings, quite recent ones, that are absolutely genuine. And I don't mean just sightings in the sky. I mean, real, genuine sightings of craft – and of personnel – on the ground. Backed up by photographs that are unquestionable – and by eye-witness accounts that tally so well that there can be no question of collusion, or even of mass hysteria."

"I'll give you the data to read later on, but for now you may take it as certain that there are some kind of space-craft, peopled by living beings with human characteristics – or some of them at least – flying about in our atmosphere, and making landings from time to time. What's more; the creatures concerned have been interfering in human affairs for a very long time. For centuries in fact. And in the past year this interference has grown into a serious and dangerous menace."

"Was it… them… who killed Betty Bronson and the boy?" asked Gerry.

"We believe so. And the other agents too. We've used these young people because about a year ago, we became convinced that a lot of mysterious disappearances were due to abduction by these… creatures. As you know, there's always hundreds of people disappear into the blue every year. I guess most of them are husbands getting away from wives – and although the wives don't like it, it's not really our affair. So long as there's no suspicion of foul play, it's not illegal for a husband to disappear!"

"But last year the number of young people disappearing suddenly trebled, and that's serious. A lot of older, experienced officers began raking up the old stories from the 1920's about the white slave traffic, and the possibility that these youngsters were being sold into brothels and such, like in the Mid-East. But you know it's not easy these days for anyone to be taken against his will out of the country. It can be done, but not on such a large scale. I mean, we were dealing with something like an additional two thousand disappearances of people between about sixteen and thirty years."

"And then we got a lead, just one, that opened up an entirely new line of enquiry. We had to take the whole thing out of the hands of the regular force and give it to Special Branch – and it looks as though they've failed too, with all their agents dead. So now I am under orders from the home office to try a different angle."

"I'm going to use just two agents, more mature, experienced, working together. It's a slender chance, but we hope that one at least will survive to tell the tale!"

Gerry shivered, in spite of himself.

"Two agents?" he asked.

"Yes. You, now you've volunteered, and an American, a girl. She's just turned twenty-two years old, of an age to appeal to these… creatures. And old enough to have some sense and experience. She'll work with you."

"But why are the Americans involved? Isn't this a matter for NATO?"

"In a way, it's accidental. But for one thing, the Americans have the hardware and the technical capacity to help. Their satellites, for instance, have actually sighted dozens of these craft, although the damned things don't stay in one place long enough – and they move too fast – for us to be able to pinpoint them – yet. And it's better for us to work with the Americans. Oh, we have our differences, especially at newspaper level! But in a general way, we lead the-same kind of life, we have much the same kind of aspirations, we speak the same language – and that helps a lot. But more than that, these days when we confide anything to our NATO allies in Europe, it gets back to the Russkies inside a couple of days, and we're still not sure it is not them!"

"You think these may be Russian craft?"

"No. We don't think so. But they could be. And in the present state of the world, we've got to be damned sure it's not, before we blow the gaff! They are so tight-lipped that they wouldn't tell us about it even if they knew, even if it meant we could all get together to deal with the situation. In fact, we are sure they've had sightings, but they blame them on 'spy planes', usually American, and that adds to the gaiety of nations as you know! So, we're going it alone, with the Americans, and the Cabinet are convinced this is the best way. If and when we get incontrovertible proof, then we'll tell Russia and ask for their help. In the meantime, they'll have to go on assuming it's the Americans, or NATO, or even the Chinese!"