by Ted Tayler
“What do you want me to do?” asked Rusty.
“Phoenix is telling Giles who we suspect; Artemis will be helping him day and night for the next week getting every last grain of data on our targets. Henry will be travelling around the country talking with individuals who knew these suspects in their younger days. We have to build up a complete picture before next week. There’s a common bond that links our conspirators. Henry will be instrumental in finding that bond. We trust you implicitly, Rusty. There have been times though in the past few days when we have started to have doubts about at least one of our number. The faction working against the best interests of the organisation know details they shouldn’t.”
“A mole? Here at Larcombe? That’s incredible,” said Rusty. He was shocked.
“I want you to keep a close eye on my three senior colleagues; plus, be aware of anyone on the general staff who is acting suspiciously. There may be a single traitor in our midst, but we must try to find his fellow rats before we take action.”
“Understood, Athena,” said Rusty. “I’ll be on my guard, and report morning, noon and night.”
“Good hunting,” said Athena and with that, she left.
“Bloody hell,” said Rusty.
He sat alone in the meeting room for a few moments. Shit. Fan. Here we go again.
*****
There are only a few days before the next meeting. I must attend to matters in the basement before I leave home. The draining of the blood from my latest victim should now be complete. Such a satisfying death. Not for him of course, but when you are a serial abuser of young people you should expect retribution to be swift and inevitable.
Maurice Kingston was hired as an associate professor in the music department of a nearby college in 2011. During the following school year, Kingston began grooming his female students. This began when Kingston invited several students to drink alcohol at his home. In October 2012, Kingston invited a nineteen-year-old student to his house for dinner and wine. She said he kissed her without her consent. Kingston threatened her, saying if she didn’t sleep with him, she wouldn’t graduate and her hopes of a musical career were finished. She let him have sex with her on the sofa in his lounge.
Throughout 2012 Kingston routinely put other female students in compromising situations. Kingston even visited a twenty-year-old student in her room on campus, where he plied her with alcohol and had sex with her against her will.
By the spring of 2013, music department staff were made aware of Kingston’s behaviour and they placed him on ‘gardening leave’ in April. Kingston denied any inappropriate sexual conduct or harassment of students. The college advised him they were to start a full investigation into the matter. He resigned on June 30, 2013. The college decided to take no further action.
My own investigations discovered Maurice Kingston had resigned on several occasions from other educational institutions across the country. These girls were the last in a long list of victims.
I slipped out of my home two days ago, late at night and drove across the city to his home. He didn’t expect a visitor. Especially not one who entered his bedroom without him noticing. I injected him with a neuromuscular blocking drug. The drug soon affected his voluntary muscles. I was careful to administer a dose that didn’t paralyse his respiratory muscles. Maurice Kingston was conscious and able to feel pain but paralyzed and unable to speak.
I left him in bed and went downstairs. My colleague had reversed his van up to the front door. The rear doors were open. We collected my guest and placed him in the back, securing him with the four restraints bolted to the floor. One can never rely on traffic at this time of night. Any unforeseen delay might have resulted in the delicately prepared dosage wearing off before we reached my basement.
I drove carefully home in my car while the van followed at a safe distance. Once my guest had been transferred from the van to his final resting place, my colleague wished me goodnight and left. Maurice Kingston was securely tethered on a stainless steel table in the centre of my basement floor. Chest freezers surround the four walls. The ceiling lights are far brighter than is necessary for a typical household, but I need to be able to see what I’m doing.
Maurice Kingston weighed around twelve stones. We arrived at this conclusion when we carried him downstairs at his home. We were grateful for him not being as overweight as the others. I removed his nightclothes and fetched my knives. When I first used this method of killing rapists who had escaped conviction, I warned them what was going to happen would hurt.
I rarely bother these days. I had become proficient in collecting their blood over as long a period as possible. I thought of it as a kindness. One slash of the aorta and they would lose consciousness within seconds. The heart stops beating before all the blood can be pumped out.
Hundreds of tiny cuts allowed me to extend the time the heart continued to pump blood before stopping; then the table can be tilted ninety degrees. The remaining blood then drips into containers and can be salvaged whenever I need it. My latest donor should offer up around ten pints. It was time to descend to the basement to dispose of the empty shell that now hung from the table.
The containers need to be stored away for later use. The table has to be returned to its normal position. The thick basement walls will mask the sound of the saw. The chest freezer on the end wall is earmarked for this skeleton. My personal freezer at the bottom of the stairs will find a home for the bagged up flesh and internal organs. In time my cats will receive a treat mixed in with their normal food.
Just look at the clock. So much to do and so little time.
*****
Phil Hounsell stood a few yards along the corridor from Honey B’s dressing room. He could still hear the commotion coming from inside. They were coming to the end of this UK tour and the singer’s nerves had started to shred. He and Wayne Sangster had stumbled upon a lucrative first gig for HSS. Who and what they might be providing security for in the coming weeks and months was anybody’s guess.
“At least it’s the management of the Alex that’s getting an earful, and not us,” thought Phil, as he edged further away from trouble.
The Honey B roadshow was appearing at the New Alexandra Theatre, in Birmingham for three nights. The singer was hugely disappointed at ticket sales and placed the blame fair and square on the shoulders of the poor manager. So far only between seven hundred and eight hundred tickets had been sold for each performance. The auditorium was going to be less than two-thirds full each night.
“Why didn’t you advertise it better? How many ‘walk-ups’ do you generally get per performance?” she yelled. Each question was punctuated with another glass or bottle smashing into a wall. The manager tried to tell her how much effort they had made; to pacify her with promises of potentially hundreds of her fans making a late decision to attend.
Honey B didn’t listen. “Don’t you know who I am?” she screamed.
A celebrity should be aware that they’ve lost the argument once they resort to that plea. Honey B waited for a reply. There was nothing forthcoming from the young manager. He was scared stiff to tell her the truth ‘No, as a matter of fact, I don’t have a clue who you are’. He thought it best he kept that information to himself, but his silence merely infuriated Honey B even further.
“I’ve had enough of these provincial theatres,” she said, “I’m leaving.”
The manager suddenly grew a pair and reminded her of the contract she signed. He walked out of the dressing room, having told the former Sixties’ pop idol that she was due on stage at eight-thirty and not to be late. He closed the door just in time to avoid the bottle of champagne hurled at his head.
Phil spoke to Wayne through his wireless headset. The other two HSS personnel were on a break until later this evening.
“Wayne, I’m going into her dressing room. If I’m not out in ten minutes, please send a rescue party.”
“OK boss,” said Wayne. He was in the wings, watching the support act doing a s
oundcheck. The girl singer looked tidy, and Wayne wondered whether she liked a man in uniform.
Phil waited thirty seconds, took a deep breath, and knocked on the dressing room door.
“What?” yelled Honey B.
Phil opened the door and entered. It was a mess. Broken glass, vases overturned; flower petals everywhere and water dripping from the dressing table onto the carpeted floor.
When she saw him, Philomena Victoria Jacinta de Beauchamp Alexander gave him one of her half-smiles and pouted like a spoilt teenager.
“I’ve been a diva again haven’t I, darling?” she purred.
“Nothing a cracking two-hour performance can’t put right,” said Phil. “Just keep your eye on the prize. After next Monday night in Nottingham, you’ll be able to put your feet up and rest until you spend the winter in Australia and New Zealand.”
Honey B knew that there would be very little rest. There was much to be done if she and her colleagues were going to achieve their goals. Over the past two weeks, she had been travelling from one luxury hotel to another. She was ferried to and from the theatre in which she appeared by an HSS driver. Her security cordon had been perfect on every occasion.
For the first time in years, Honey B had no complaints about someone she employed. Truth be told that was why she had flown off the handle earlier; she had to have something to get stroppy about and the manager was the nearest person at the time. No, employing Phil Hounsell and his team was her best decision in ages.
Honey B would cast aside the pop star image after next Monday. She then became Demeter, Queen of the Titans. The meeting in Nottingham would set in motion a string of events that would change the course of British history forever. Phil Hounsell would unwittingly provide help in getting things moving. On the very first date of this tour in Bristol, he spotted the photograph that showed Phoenix and Athena.
It was only recently Demeter had met these two leaders from the Olympus HQ at Larcombe Manor. She now possessed background information on both of them from her inside man, but Phoenix remained a mystery. Erebus brought him on board three years ago and promoted him rapidly. Who was he and where did he come from? Demeter had been convinced that Phil Hounsell knew. That was the clincher; no way was she giving her security contract over to anyone else. No matter how experienced they might be in comparison to the new outfit. She wanted to keep Phil Hounsell close by her side.
They had chatted before, and after shows in her dressing room. She had to be patient. She couldn’t risk revealing the true purpose behind wanting to unmask the mystery face in the photo. She used glasses of champagne and her feminine wiles to gently prise snippets of information out of the former policeman.
Phil Hounsell was a happily married man. He had been tempted by a younger woman on one occasion, but Demeter wasn’t aware of this fact. She was sixty-three, with a very young partner, and despite expensive cosmetic surgery, she couldn’t disguise the fact she was several years older than the security consultant. She had to concede that as far as Phil was concerned ‘her mojo definitely wasn’t working.’
As for Phil Hounsell; he knew Honey B was coming on to him. He wasn’t stupid. He was flattered, but not prepared to risk the contracts that might come his way with the singer’s glowing references after this tour ended. After all, if he could stay in her good books for three weeks, then he would be a diamond and much coveted. He needed to tread warily so that he didn’t antagonise her by sidestepping her advances.
She kept that photograph in plain sight in the dressing room of every theatre she played so far. The photo of a beautiful woman with a man who reminded him so much of Colin Bailey. Each night she entertained him after the show; she handed him a glass of champagne; because she said ‘I hate drinking alone’. Then the questions began.
New Theatre, Cardiff: -
“I think you know these people, am I right?”
“Never met her, but the man seemed familiar.”
“Your paths met while you were a policeman I suppose?”
“I was a copper for thirty years; I met an awful lot of people. Not all of them criminals.”
Swansea Royal Theatre: -
“Why do you say the man only seemed familiar?”
“He reminds me of someone who died.”
“He has a striking face hasn’t he; surely you wouldn’t forget it?”
“I bumped into him at Glastonbury in June; he was with the lady.”
“You said you’d never met her.”
“You asked if I knew her; I don’t.”
Llandudno Venue Cymru: -
“How did he die, the man who looked like the man in the picture?”
“He drowned.”
“You saw this woman with this man at Glastonbury Festival?”
“Yes, when he literally bumped into me.”
“Go on,” urged Demeter slipping from behind her mask, “I find this most interesting.”
As the shows in Manchester, Liverpool, Belfast got ticked off the list, Phil gradually told Honey B his history with Colin Bailey.
Finally, in Usher Hall. Edinburgh; after the second glass of champagne: -
“When he bumped into my shoulder that day, I spun around to apologise. Facially, he hadn’t registered. As I watched the two of them striding through the crowds of festival-goers, something triggered a memory. The way he walked, carried himself, his shoulders - it’s hard to explain. It was him, yet he was so different from the man I knew.”
“They never found the body?”
“No, but that’s not unheard of in those situations. He was under the water for so long; it’s inconceivable he survived. I only escaped thanks to a colleague diving in to drag me to the wall. When they got me up onto the towpath I’d stopped breathing. A female colleague carried out mouth-to-mouth and got me back.”
“Lucky girl,” said Honey B, back in her on-stage persona.
“Another minute tops and I would have died. Bailey never surfaced. The rescue services stayed on site until night fell. That’s why it’s incredible that this man makes me think he’s Bailey. It can’t be him.”
“What a shame,” said Honey B, “but it’s a great story isn’t it?”
Oh, but it is him, Demeter had thought; it made perfect sense. That sly old fox Erebus named him Phoenix. What else do you call a man who rose from the dead?
They played more theatres after that, working their way towards the Midlands. The questions kept coming, the details of Colin Bailey’s former life altered from a briefly sketched outline to become a fully-fledged oil painting,
Demeter had everything she thought she needed to bring down Phoenix. She looked at Phil Hounsell. Wayne stood in the corridor, ready to ride to the rescue. The pop singer glided across the room and stood next to her security consultant.
“Thanks for everything you’ve done for me on this tour,” she said, standing on tiptoe to brush an ice-cold kiss across his cheek, “I won’t forget you. You are my hunter; my Orion. When the time comes I shall contact you. I want you to work for me and my colleagues. You’ll find it very rewarding. What do you say?”
“We’re always ready to talk business,” said Phil. “You only need to tell us who we’re hunting for, and we’ll trace them.”
“The chase has begun then,” whispered Honey B. “I’ll see you after the show.”
Phil left the dressing room. Wayne leant against the wall.
“Everything OK, boss?”
“A little chilly,” said Phil, rubbing his cheek, “but the future sounds promising.”
CHAPTER 12
Honey B performed to just over a thousand adoring fans in the end. The young manager had his ‘I told you so’ face on as he strutted around backstage. He was clever enough to steer clear of the top of the bill when she made her way to the stage. There was no point in rubbing her nose in it.
Wayne was somewhere backstage deep in conversation with the pretty singer in the support band. He had no chance, but Phil didn’t want to spoil the moment. I
t filled in time until Honey B had finished her two-hour set and retired to the dressing room. He would then interrupt Wayne and get him to have Dusty and Leggo on standby; ready to whisk their charge off to her five-star hotel.
How long they hung around depended on how much champagne she wanted to use to loosen his tongue tonight. She was a very strange woman. She was attractive and yet cold. She exasperated him when she pouted and stamped her feet over the slightest glitch, yet she could be sweetness and light with her audience.
As an interrogator, Phil reckoned she could have made an excellent detective.
Their after-show conversations were convivial and covered many subjects that demonstrated her high level of intelligence. She sensed instantly when he was off his guard and he found himself answering an apparently innocent question without realising its importance. Her follow-up questions came rapidly, leaving no time for filtering out things he didn’t want to reveal.
He knew he had told her far too much about Colin Bailey; but if he was dead, what difference did it make?
Phil stood in the wings listening to Honey B going through her greatest hits for the umpteenth night in a row. He heard something that caused him to listen more closely. He shook his head. Well, she was sixty-three after all, and his late mother-in-law Mary started forgetting things in her late sixties.
