by Colin Wade
“Sorry Elisha.”
“God Rob, you look terrible.”
“Bad night.”
“Is there anything I can do? How is Anya?”
“Look Elisha, you are doing it. Just being here is more than I can ask for. Anya is really bad and you helping me out is just what I need. I can do the mornings but if you can do each afternoon, I can go and see Anya.”
“Of course.”
Elisha smiled at him, seeking some sign that the Rob she knew might still be in there.
Rob noticed the smile. Almost flirtatious. In another life, he might have cracked onto Elisha. She was just his type. Arty, quirky and incredibly cute. But he had his Anya, his soulmate.
They got down to work and got the gallery business sorted out. At lunchtime, Rob left to go and see Anya, starting what would become a demoralising routine of work, Anya, lonely house.
When Rob got to the hospital nothing had changed. The machines were still beeping, the drips kept dripping and the nurses kept checking her vitals. Anya just lay there. Small and fragile.
Once the room was clear, Rob started nattering away.
“Anya. That man has written to you again. Superman. Clark Kent. He says you were one of five girls treated at the clinic as drug addicts. Two were your friends, but Anya, they are all dead, killed in car accidents.”
Rob had to stop, stifling the tears.
“What do I do Anya? I think someone tried to kill you. Do I trust this man?”
28
Clark was agitated. The attempted murder, because he was sure that’s what it was, on Anya Novak had been the biggest endorsement yet that he was onto something. He studied the murder board.
The girls are all linked and deliberately targeted. We have Dr Normandy being paid big money for something. Other big money transactions. George Walker involved. James Hardacre, involvement unknown. Snap onto that. What can I do next?
He stood and stared, seeking inspiration from the pictures and words he had written. A thought came to him. He started to look back at the pile of social media pictures he had printed off. The ones he had not put up on the board.
Someone was targeting you all. Whoever it was must be in these pictures.
He looked at the pictures of the first group. Anya, Rachel and Lisa. He spread them out on the table.
He soon found what he was looking for.
Hello blondy. You seem like someone who was active in this group and you look like a proper stuck-up posh boy.
A man, tall, fair haired with what seemed like good breeding was all over the group’s pictures. It was a leap of faith but something about his face twitched Clark’s conspiracy radar.
You look like just the type.
He pinned up the clearest picture he had of the man and put him next to the pictures of the five girls, with a big question mark next to him.
He looked at Charlotte and Marjit’s pictures. He wasn’t there. He looked over them again.
Hold on.
He picked up one picture and had to get a magnifying glass out. The image was blurry, but magnified it was a definite maybe.
Hmm, is this you blondy? You look like you are trying not to be seen. Are you the finder? Are you one of the people being paid out of this Cayman Island bank account?
Clark sat down in his ‘kick arse’ office chair, poured himself another coffee and stared at the board, taking it all in. The little grey cells, à la Poirot, doing their thing.
Clark suddenly realised his main terminal was flashing with a Proton message. SnapDevil?
He logged on.
SNAPDEVIL:
Dude. Here is the FTP site link. That is one serious heavy family.
KRYPTO:
Thx. May need you again. How about a Cayman Island bank?
SNAPDEVIL:
WTF? How heavy is this shit getting?
KRYPTO:
Heavy. Will read and let you know when we need to do the bank.
SNAPDEVIL:
Wait your instructions dude.
Clark followed the secure link that Snap had sent him, which contained his initial findings on the Hardacre family. He started to devour the words.
JAMES HARDACRE
PM, obvs. No obvious skeletons on the dark web other than plenty of speculation that his dad got him the PM job. Seems quite a weak-willed man, propped up by his dad’s power and influence. Had his first kid in March 2015. Typical public school upper class knob.
ANNABELLE HARDACRE
James’ wife. Well connected. Rich family. Obvious marriage material for someone like James. Completely shuns the limelight. Very rarely seen in public. Only comes out to be by his side when she absolutely has to.
WILLIAM HARDACRE
Multi billionaire playboy. Owns huge swathes of property in Mayfair. Seriously well connected, nationally and internationally. Presidents. Sheiks. Rumoured to be part of the ‘Deep State’ and, as above, lots of speculation that he got James the job by using his influence with the other king-makers in this country. Married, with one kid (James, obvs), but rumours that he can’t keep his dick in his pants. Definitely the real power in this family and a nasty piece of work. Rumours he has some dodgy connections with major crime groups, including your old pals the Brady Brothers.
Clark was stunned and before he realised it, tears were rolling down his cheeks.
Bastards, Bastards, Bastards.
He couldn’t contain his emotions. Somehow, after all his searching he had found a conspiracy with loose connections to the men who had killed his father.
He sat and stared at the screen, reading the words over and over, his resolve strengthening by the minute. Now this really was personal.
29
They met up in the swanky London gentleman’s club. The type of place where nobody asked any questions. Perfect for the meeting with the new clients.
The boss and the fixer sat sinking large glasses of brandy as they waited for the first client. The door opened.
The boss stood up to greet the visitor.
“Charles, a pleasure to meet you again. How is life?”
“Not too bad. Keeping the wolf from the door.”
They all laughed. The sort of laugh that the filthy rich could make when telling lame jokes about money. There were no wolves near any of their doors.
“Charles. We have had notification from the doctor that he is about five weeks away from being able to start our little… arrangement.”
“Good, what do you need?”
“Well old boy. A payment of £725k into this off-shore bank account would be a start. After that you need to get your son to provide the necessary and send to the doctor in this packaging.”
“OK, seems fine. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow and get this package to Edward.”
He got up, holding the details of the bank account and the supplied packaging. “Nice to do business with you.”
“Our pleasure.”
The boss smiled at his fixer and raised his glass.
“Here’s to more lovely money. When is Castro coming?”
“He should be here in about ten minutes.”
Sure enough, after about ten minutes, the door opened and the second client walked in.
“Castro. How are you and how is your father?”
“Very well, thank you. He sends his regards and can I thank you so much for doing this. We just can’t take any more. You are going to make our lives complete.”
“No problem. The doctor is ready to start in about five weeks, so you need to supply the necessary in this packaging.”
Castro took it and looked away, a bit embar
rassed.
“We also need the payment Castro.”
“Oh, yes, of course. How do you want it?”
“Transfer £725k into this account.” He handed him the details on a piece of paper.
“OK, fine. We’ll get this sorted out.”
“I guess your father is paying?”
“Well, sort of. We are sharing the cost. I don’t have enough yet to cover it all. My job pays well but I can’t pay it all.”
“Hmm, fathers should be good to their sons. We have to show you the way. Make sure you take the right forks in the road, so to speak. I usually find money has a lot to do with that.”
Castro didn’t know what to say and nervously shuffled out of the room.
“God, what a spineless idiot. Why don’t they make them with backbone anymore?”
The fixer just smiled and nodded. The boss carried on rambling.
“Talking of spineless. Are you keeping an eye on what my son is doing? I hope he can count on your support when the important votes come along.”
“Well, you know it will mean me voting against my party, but with the amount you are paying me, I am sure I can be persuaded.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me boy. You’ll do as you are damn well told.”
The fixer pushed back in his winged chair and decided not to say anything else. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the boss spoke again.
“Oh, and as for the other ‘issue’, I presume you know he didn’t get the job done?”
“Well, yes, I gathered from your text messages. Why did you decide to hit her now? I thought she wasn’t a threat?”
“She visited the clinic, asking for the doctor. Thankfully the security protocols he had put in place worked and she was sent away, but it means she is recovering memories like the others.”
“So, the doctor’s approach to our little scheme isn’t as foolproof as he first suggested. That is all five now.”
“I know. Once he has done these two, we will deal with him. I don’t accept failure. We need to eliminate Anya Novak, get these deals done and finish this thing.”
“Message received.”
He looked at his fixer with the stare that intimidated most people he met.
And I will deal with you too, when the time is right, he thought to himself.
30
Rob returned home after another demoralising visit to the hospital. He grabbed a coffee and walked into the living room.
It was still there. The letter. Kind of sneering at him.
He picked it up and read it again for about the sixtieth time. He rubbed his hand over his face.
What the hell should I do? I don’t know this man with his weird name. This has to be a sick joke.
He sat down, his head spinning.
How does he know about Anya? This just doesn’t make sense.
He tried to take his mind off the letter, off the hell his life had suddenly become. Just as Anya had told him about her previous life and the awful trauma she had been going through with the dreams, she was gone. Not able to talk to him. Not able to explain. He couldn’t shake the fear that her life was in danger, that the car accident was like the others. Murder, or thankfully in Anya’s case, attempted murder.
He phoned Elisha and discussed gallery business and Anya. He got off the phone and channel surfed. Nothing was working. The letter still sat there. Goading him.
After much soul searching, Rob made a decision. He had to find out about this man. ‘Clark Kent’ or whatever his real name was. He had to visit him and see if he was for real and find out how he knew so much about Anya.
This Clark person lived in Reading and his flat was not that far from the hospital where Anya was still lying helpless. He decided to write to him, suggesting they meet up one evening.
Dear Mr Kent, or whatever your real name is,
I am disturbed by your letters. How do you know so much about my partner Anya and, if you are for real, why haven’t you reported your findings to the police?
I am prepared to meet you, only because much of what you say seems true to Anya’s situation. I truly believe that her life is in danger and that someone tried to kill her in a car accident. The bottom line is that I need an explanation from you. You had better not be some sick prankster.
I am in Reading every day at the hospital seeing Anya. I will come to your flat on Saturday evening around 7.30 p.m. If this is not acceptable, please leave a message at the hospital for me.
Rob Simmons
31
Snap’s preliminary findings on the Hardacre family were still spinning in Clark’s head. When his dad took his own life, Clark had been too young to do anything about the Brady Brothers. He hadn’t acquired the skills he now had or the access to the virtual friends that he could always count on to find what needed to be found. Now though it was different and, whilst he hadn’t set out to find a connection with the Brady Brothers, fate had somehow given him the chance to bring down somebody that had clear associations with them. Revenge by association, unless of course they could find some firmer connections.
He was also concerned that he hadn’t heard back from Anya Novak and was unsure whether she had even received the letter before her ‘accident’.
He decided all he could do was to keep on building the case.
Follow the money.
Follow the evidence.
He decided to search further on the secure Cayman Island server of Fairport Medical for more evidence.
Right, Hardacre. Let’s see what else we have on you.
He did a rudimentary search through the file structure for any mention of the Hardacre name. Nothing. He logged back onto Dr Normandy and George Walker’s email accounts. Apart from the one email he had already found… nothing.
How odd. Why is James Hardacre’s name only on one email and no mention of William Hardacre?
He changed tack and started aimlessly trawling through the file structure, looking for anything interesting. He found a sub folder under George Walker’s main folder called ‘Dr Normandy – pictures’.
The folder had hundreds of picture files. He clicked on the first one. The shock of what he saw made Clark’s body convulse, which forced the chair he was sitting on to roll away from the desk on the slick wooden floor.
From the few feet away he now found himself from his computer screen, he fixed his gaze on the most depraved thing he had ever seen. A child being sexually abused. He guessed all the others were the same. He couldn’t bring himself to look at another one, but he had to see if these were all what he thought they were. Evidence of paedophilia.
He forced himself to look at a few more and sure enough the same horrific pictures came up one by one. When he got to the fifth picture something else took the wind out of him.
Oh my God, that is Dr Normandy. Abusing these children.
He looked at a few more and sure enough there was Dr Normandy in many of the pictures.
What is this? How does this fit in with what I have found so far?
He had to close the pictures down. He couldn’t bear to look at any more. It was making his stomach lurch. He sat in his chair, trying to make sense of this new revelation.
Dr Normandy. A dirty fucking paedo.
Clark was now spending most evenings staring at his murder board, seeking inspiration. He knew the Cayman Island bank account was key. If he could somehow hack in and find more on the money trail, he was sure this conspiracy would be blown wide open.
But, that was easier said than done. He would need Snap’s help. Banks did good cyber security and Cayman Island banks probably had the best around. People like the Hardacres and the Brady Brothers used institutions like this to protect their dirty little secrets and would not tolerate some two-bit hacker getting at their information easily. Clark smiled. He and his friends were no two-b
it hackers.
He logged onto Proton.
KRYPTO:
Snap. You out there?
SNAPDEVIL:
Always Krypto. What can I do for you?
KRYPTO:
This thing. The conspiracy. Getting really fucking real. We need to hack that Cayman Island bank account.
SNAPDEVIL:
Loves me a challenge. Send me the details.
KRYPTO:
Here is the IP to the outer firewall. I’ll send you a Bitcoin.
SNAPDEVIL:
Appreciate dude, but the thrill of the hack is still enough.
KRYPTO:
I know but if this goes all the way it will be like nothing we have ever done. You deserve some payment.
SNAPDEVIL:
OK, leave it with me. This won’t be fast.
Clark logged off. He knew Snap would love the challenge. Knowing he was onto that would give him some head space. Once again, he sat in his office chair staring at the board.
The reassuring thud of the post on his hall floor brought his wandering mind back to the present. Clark’s heart skipped a beat as he came upon a hand-written envelope.
She must have written before the accident.
He ripped open the envelope and read the contents. It wasn’t from Anya. It was from her partner Rob. Clark was glad that Anya had someone looking out for her.
The letter was a bit terse. Rob was clearly sceptical about Clark and what he had said in his letter but wanted to meet. The next evening.
