RECRUITED: A Mike Humber Novella (Demon Series Book One)

by Haywood, RR

  ‘Yeah it is.’

  ‘For the police,’ she replies pointedly, ‘not for the private sector.’

  ‘Easier for the private sector,’ I counter, ‘you don’t have laws to worry about.’

  ‘Everything leaves a trail, you know that right.’ She fixes me with a steady gaze. ‘We start dipping into his accounts and it’s likely someone will see the footprint we leave.’

  ‘Get off,’ I scoff, ‘you’re telling me that The Carlisle Group doesn’t have people on the payroll in all these companies?’

  ‘The Carlisle Group is a professional and law abiding organisation,’ she says without a trace of humour, ‘we do not undertake such practices.’

  ‘Apart from killing paedophiles?’

  A withering look is cast my way as she thumbs the screen of her phone and presses it to her ear. ‘It’s me,’ she says to whoever answers. ‘We need the addresses…I know but there’s been a change of plan…asap.’ She ends the call and shrugs at me,. ‘It’ll take a few minutes.’

  ‘Fuck me.’ Shaking my head I sigh deeply. ‘You should have done it first.’

  ‘I’m not exactly working with the knowledge of the other directors and every resource we use is an asset of the company. They have to be paid. They have to be invoiced…’

  ‘What? Fuck off, pay ‘em privately from your own money.’

  ‘Can you stop swearing at me please.’

  ‘Sorry. But you get to assess the information and make an informed decision. You can’t make an informed decision without the information. You should have done all of this already. Prepared a package. If you’d provided me with all the information I could have worked out the best form of approach and would have known De Smet was a fucking copper.’

  ‘I’ll certainly keep that in mind for the next round of murders I plan.’ Sarcasm drips from her tongue. Her phone vibrates and she answers it with the movements of someone very used to getting calls. ‘Got it?’ she asks then listens. ‘Okay…you sure? No…no don’t do anything else until I come back to you.’ Without a goodbye or a take care she ends the calls. ‘Williams’ card is registered to his mother’s address in London.’

  ‘Okay, what about the other bloke? Lars Verhoeven?’

  ‘No credit cards but,’ she pauses, ‘he does receive monthly payments from a company registered in Brussels.’

  ‘His salary you mean?’

  She nods. ‘Van De Velde. They’re a packaging company operating throughout the country but they have a site in Bruges. Which is where he obviously works, or works from,’ she adds thoughtfully, ‘either way…’

  ‘It’s a starting point,’ I finish her sentence. Taking a breath I edge closer before speaking quietly. ‘Let me do this,’ I urge, ‘stay here, or see the sights…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, Elizabeth. It’s not…’

  ‘Not what? Not for the faint of heart? Not for the squeamish? I’m tougher than I look.’

  I think back to the previous night, at the cold woman that wanted to fuck the killer in the dingy hotel room.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I shrug and lean back, ‘on your head be it.’

  ‘On my head it will be,’ she replies firmly.

  Nine

  We walk briskly through the winding streets of the old city, weaving carefully through the crowds as we head towards the industrial zone on the outskirts. ‘The post mortem will show strangulation and the ingestion of bleach. They’ll also examine the accelerant used for the fire and work out it was lighter fluid. From there they will send detectives into every shop that sells those things and work out that a man came in yesterday and bought boot laces, bleach, disposable gloves, a towel and lighter fluid.’

  She stares forward. ‘Why didn’t you get them all from different shops?’

  ‘Because the shop I bought it all from doesn’t have CCTV, and it was packed…plus I bought a toothbrush, toothpaste and other items…and the till they were using was an old style cash register…no scanning machine for barcodes which means the stock isn’t registered on a software programme.’

  ‘They’ll still remember you,’ she replies, ‘and they’ll work out the time you went in and then start checking CCTV for the area.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ I chuckle, ‘Bruges in summer with what? Maybe two, three thousand people moving about on the streets? One man with his head down keeping to the main crowd. Un-fucking-likely.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I worked murder squad for years,’ I interrupt her. ‘Do you have any idea how many police hours are needed to watch so many hours of footage? It’s huge. That’s all budgeted and counted by civvies in suits who work from offices…’

  ‘But,’ she says carefully, ‘De Smet was one of their own. Won’t they go the extra mile for that?’

  ‘They’ll try,’ I nod, ‘but they’ll also start digging into his background to see who he’s pissed off. That’ll mean an examination of his house, office…computers…’

  ‘Indecent images.’ She glances at me. ‘They’ll find indecent images on his computer.’

  ‘More than likely,’ I nod, ‘and they’ll soon discover their star detective was a dirty paedophile and suddenly the pressure to find his killer will ease off. Do you know how many gangland killings go undetected in London every year?’

  ‘No, how many?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit with a grin, ‘but it’s a fucking lot. A gang member gets killed and most of the time the thought process is that he had it coming. It’ll be the same with De Smet. Yes there is a risk from the CCTV in the town but they’ll be examining his computer a whole lot sooner than they’ll be allocating officers to view that CCTV footage. Another thing,’ I lower my voice, ‘when this is over, you could arrange for that footage you showed me to be delivered to a few Belgian news agencies and police stations.’

  ‘We’d already thought of that,’ she says.

  ‘So,’ I refocus my mind on the job in hand, ‘let’s think about this one. It’s late morning so we can assume Verhoeven will probably be at work reeling from hearing his mate has been murdered. He works in a packaging factory so…he’ll take food with him or pop out to get something to eat…’

  ‘During the day?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘Eh? Most people eat during the day, yes.’

  ‘No, I mean are you going to do him during the day? I mean are we going to do him during the day?’

  ‘If the opportunity presents itself.’

  ‘What?’ She stops me in my tracks. ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here remember? To kill the three men who raped that girl? To send a message to every other…’

  ‘But in the day?’

  ‘Yes, in the day. In the night…whenever we see a chance we go for it.’

  ‘How? With what?’

  ‘Same as before,’ I shrug, ‘or whatever comes to mind.’

  ‘Mike, I’m…’

  ‘Go home,’ I snap at her. ‘This isn’t a fucking business strategy that we get to plan in advance. We do it quickly. We find Williams. We do him quickly…then we go.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says quickly with a placating nod, ‘that’s fine… I just thought we were going to…I don’t know, like do a recce or something.’

  I turn and walk on knowing I should be talking her out of it, telling her to go, demanding that the deal is off unless she leaves me to it. But she knows I want them. She knows I’ll stop at nothing now. With her. Without her. If I die or get caught in the process then fuck it. Fuck all of it. My life is shit anyway.

  Medieval pretty Bruges gives way to functional modern Bruges of a typical Belgian style of functionality and a complete lack of flair. Everything is neat and ordered. People look mostly serious and contemplative and boring as hell. No wonder Jean Claude Van Damme went to America and did tons of cocaine if he came from this place. Poirot, he was Belgian but ended up in good old Blighty solving murders and shit. Fucking Poirot.

  ‘We’re close
.’ She breaks the nervous silence with a glance at the GPS map displayed on her phone. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘The story?’ I glance across.

  ‘Why are we here? In case we get made or something.’ Elizabeth using that terminology is like me trying to talk code to an airline pilot, it sounds weird, contrived and forced.

  ‘Tourists.’

  ‘On an industrial estate?’

  I point to the signs that we’ve passed several times while walking. ‘Car hire.’

  She turns to see the tourist signs indicating Avis and some of the other international car hire depots. ‘Oh, so we’re here to hire a car?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Have you got the documents I gave you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re married and looking for a hire car to visit Brussels…we’ve been married three years but we don’t have any children…’

  ‘Shut up,’ I snap harshly, ‘don’t make shit up, it’ll go wrong if you try and spin a load of bullshit. If anyone approaches us let me do the talking.’

  ‘Fine.’ She drops her head at the rebuke. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking.’

  I feel a pang of regret for hurting her feelings but she has no idea of the complexity of the ideology of taking someone’s life. An act done in seconds but a life of regret, remorse and nightmares that follow. ‘Just go back,’ I stop dead and glare at her. ‘This is nasty, fucking nasty shit…go back and wait for me.’

  ‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I’m nervous and I’ll do what you say…but I’m doing this.’

  ‘Fucking sick,’ I mutter and keep walking. Five minutes to twelve. Time for lunch. We gain the area and walk more slowly while I hold the glossy tourist map. We keep stopping to stare down while pointing and prodding the map and looking round. Anyone watching will see an average couple trying to find the place where all the hire cars are kept. Elizabeth lets me take the lead and we gradually work towards the units used by Van De Velde Packaging.

  Cars start driving out from the units with drivers either dressed as factory workers or office types. I spare a casual glance at each, checking to see if Verhoeven is one of them.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she snaps, ‘go down the road.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just do it,’ she hisses at me like a completely different person, ‘go down the road, now!’

  ‘Elizabeth…’

  ‘Mike, you’re not the only one with a fucking brain. Get down the road and wait for me…quick.’

  ‘Honey trap?’

  ‘Yes, go…quick.’

  ‘Pick me up. No witnesses.’ I move off at a fast walk after handing her the map for appearance’s sake. Within a few seconds she’s a very attractive woman staring confused at the strange road signs and the glossy tourist map that really isn’t all that helpful. The quick turn of events has my heart beating faster. I keep going down the main service road, my rucksack firmly on my back but a relaxed expression on my face, one of the many workers heading out for a bite to eat at lunchtime.

  I resist the urge to turn and look multiple times. I do glance back but casually and only when there are no cars passing. I get further away and resist the urge to start jogging. The greater the distance between us the better. Being talked into picking up a pretty woman is noticeable but quick. With luck she’ll get herself in that car in a few seconds and bide my advice to only do it if no one is around to see.

  I keep walking with my mind whirring ten to the dozen. A car is a brilliant crime scene. All sorts of fibres, hairs, sweat and DNA fall off the body. She’s not protectively covered in the slightest but then neither am I.

  I turn to glance and spin back to face away with another leap of my heart at seeing her getting into a small white coloured hatchback. Facing forward I strain to hear the engine and risk another look to see the car going in the opposite direction. Fuck it. I’ve got no choice but to keep going now and hope to hell she can talk him into coming back this way.

  Seconds go by. Long seconds that feel like hours. One foot after the other and then suddenly the distinct noise of a small engine comes into hearing. Again I turn casually and see her in the front seat grinning and waving at me. I nod back and offer a grin. The driver is Verhoevan. Clearly recognisable from the footage. Sandy blond hair, thickset with a ruddy complexion. He looks confused, glancing at the stunning woman he just picked up and now back at the strange man with the shaggy beard. He indicates and pulls in next to me. She’s out of the car, leaning out of the passenger door. ‘There you are,’ she half laughs and half chastises me, ‘I got completely lost!’

  ‘I was so worried!’ I call back and offer him a thankful smile which he returns with just the slightest flicker of disappointment. ‘Are you okay?’ I walk forward noticing she doesn't move away from the open door, keeping it open for me. He can’t see her face but takes a long glance at her long legs and chest before looking back at me. She views left and right, checking the view and nods discretely at me. I reach the open door as though to give her a hug. With a deft movement she reaches back in, pulls the lever to move the seat forward and clambers into the back. I’m already lowering to get in when she slams the seat back.

  He stares in shock, too polite to protest but clearly thinking he should say something. I reach down and clamp a hand on the seatbelt where it connects into the fastener. He looks down then back up to see I’m not smiling anymore.

  ‘Drive,’ she orders from the back and presses a blunt metal nail file into the side of his neck, ‘or I’ll cut you open.’

  The blood drains from his face. He freezes and locks eyes on me. ‘Do it,’ I growl, ‘drive or die.’

  With fumbling, terrified hands he gets into gear and pulls out into the road without checking.

  ‘Slow down,’ I snap, ‘mirror, signal and then manoeuvre. Don’t they have the highway code here?’

  ‘What?’ he gibbers and glances at me again before rattling something off in French or Belgian or whatever fucking language he speaks. Elizabeth leans forward and snaps out a long sentence in French. He nods and goes to reply but grips the steering wheel, swallows and stays quiet.

  ‘We’re stealing your car,’ she says in English, ‘stay quiet and drive properly and you’ll be okay.’

  ‘Okay…okay,’ he nods and drives, ‘where I go?’

  ‘Somewhere quiet,’ I reply, ‘somewhere we can drop you off…but er…no cameras…no police station…no witnesses either…’

  Elizabeth translates my words. He nods and the slightest look of relief comes into his face. The eternal hope of the terrified. We just want his car, that’s all. He doesn't even contemplate why anyone would be stealing a shitty old hatchback. It’s the glimmer of hope that he’ll walk away from it that makes him believe everything we tell him.

  ‘Forest?’ I ask, ‘woods…somewhere like that.’ He stares in confusion until Elizabeth translates. He nods in understanding and gabbles something off. ‘He said there’s a place about two kilometres away.’

  ‘That’ll do fine.’ I nod at him remembering the last time I saw his face was when he was repeatedly raping a schoolgirl and I want to kill him right now. He senses the anger coming from my glare and spares me a frightened look with eyes that are rapidly filling with tears. The sight of him about to blubber fuels my rage to a higher degree until I can barely stop myself from attacking him.

  Verhoeven pulls off the road and into the entrance of an old track. We bounce along, heading deeper into a wooded area and he keeps glancing over waiting for one of us to tell him to stop.

  It’s a nuance that triggers me. One of things that people do, the things that make them that person. Some cough or clear their throats when they are nervous. Others rub their faces. Verhoeven wipes the end of his nose with the back of his hand in a nervous gesture I saw him do in the footage and I explode, smashing my fist into the side of his head. He screams and slams the brakes on but I’m on top of him punching again and again with my hard knuckles breaking his nose.
Blood spurts out thick and red and I’m out the car and racing round the front to wrench his door open and drag him out.

  ‘His seatbelt,’ I grunt at Elizabeth clambering out from the back. She stops and looks at me, then at him and seems confused for a second until she realises I can’t pull him due to his seatbelt being on. She pushes the red slide down and he’s out, being dragged free of the car while screaming for me to stop. A dark stain forms at his crutch as his piss spurts out like a frightened dog. I hit him again, driving him down to the ground as my memory floods with the vicious assault he perpetrated on the girl. He stood over her like I’m standing over him now. He relished the power he had. I don’t relish that power. I simply give to him what he gave to someone else too weak to defend themselves. I straddle his chest and start slapping him. Once. Twice. Three times. Again and again with hard open handed slaps but I don’t have the hard on he proudly displayed while he did it.

  ‘Look at me,’ I snarl down and stop slapping him, ‘look at me.’ He spoke to the girl in French and although I don’t know what the words were, I know he was ordering her to look. He does look so I copy the thing he did and spit down into his face. ‘Do you remember this?’

  He gabbles in his own language. Elizabeth steps closer to loom over him with a grim look on her face. She says something and he stares up at her. His eyes go wide. She repeats what she said. He denies something, shaking his head side to side. She asks again. He denies it even more, shouting his innocence. She speaks slowly through gritted teeth. She drops down to his side and leans close. He breathes hard as she rattles off a long speech and then the realisation hits his face. He listens with increasing horror as she speaks, her fluency is fantastic and not once does she hesitate or pause to find the right words.

  ‘No…no….please…’ In English he begs now, looking at me as though I might be able to save him.

  ‘He knows,’ she mutters. ‘I told him what we saw.’

  ‘Williams?’ I say the one word and keep him pinned down. She speaks again and the fucking coward rattles his mate out instantly, even I can understand that.