The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2

by M. L. Stewart

  Then I saw it. I could now imagine how a prisoner, strapped to the electric chair, feels when the switch is flicked. My nervous system went into shock. I was blinkered again. I could only stare, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  Dermott Calum Madison: Obituary.

  Gerradine.M@Dailymailonline.co.uk

  Former London banker, Mr. Madison, passed away during surgery in the United States of America on January 17th. He was a widower of Anna and beloved Father of Laura-Jane.

  Mr. Madison was cremated, as per the request of his last will and testament, in Florida County, where he had been resident for the past year.

  To say I was confused would be an understatement. What the hell was he playing at? This was not what I had expected. Even though I couldn’t clearly remember the content of the email I had sent, I’m bloody sure it had nothing to do with me dying. Christ, they had even spelt my middle name wrong.

  I read that obituary over and over again. Probably looking for some hidden code, some message maybe, but I couldn’t find anything. What in God’s name was Gerradine trying to do? He had just cleared me of any wrongdoings. After all he had just declared me dead. Did this mean he wanted to play ball? But, hang on; didn’t this make him an accomplice?

  Whatever the reason, I didn’t have time to concern myself with it now. The hotel had booked Norman a ticket for the guided tour of Badshahi Mosque, the last one of the evening. The taxi would pick him up from the lobby in an hour.

  The gridlock that was Lahore’s traffic, meant that Norman’s cab ride developed in a frustrating ninety minute ordeal. “Sometimes quicker to walk in this city,” the driver had remarked after forty-five minutes. When he eventually arrived Norman jumped out of the cab before it had barely stopped, tossing a tip at the driver, the hotel would settle the rest of the fare.

  As he hurried across the square and into its shadow, the monolithic size of the building filled him with awe. It’s eight minarets towering over him like space rockets. The colossal white domes glinting in the evening sun. Approaching the marble steps he could see a small group of five or six tourists, waiting impatiently at the top. A small flag was being waved above their heads, a union jack on one side, the stars and stripes on the other. Norman couldn’t see the person holding the flag but he knew exactly who she was. All that remained was to find out exactly where she lived.

  “Are you the gentleman from the Avari Hotel?” Fatima asked an out-of-breath Norman.

  “Yes. Sorry I’m late. The traffic was hellish,” came his panted apology.

  Fatima was an unremarkable looking woman, but without a certain attractiveness. Her profile claimed that she was only 38 but Norman reckoned she was a good fiver years older. Her skin was much darker than her nephew’s, which made her piercing blue eyes appear even brighter in real life. She was wearing a headscarf and a long flowing hijab. Her nametag read simply, Fatima. The three flags beneath her name denoting the foreign languages that she spoke. English, French and German.

  Fatima’s Facebook photos had been littered with her and Abdul, some in Pakistan, one in front of this exact mosque, two in front of the Eiffel tower and, more poignantly, on the steps of the Old Bailey.

  As Norman’s eyes met with Fatima’s, he felt no sympathy, nor guilt for what was about to happen to her. He felt only pure, unadulterated hatred.

  “Then since we’re all here. I would like to begin the tour, if I may?” Fatima announced.

  And so Norman followed, like a sheep. Actually more like the wolf. The mosque impressed him, by its sheer scale, but in reality, he didn’t care one iota about why or when it was built. He wasn’t here for an injection of historical culture. He was here to follow the prey.

  It had been Norman’s misfortune to be the only Englishman in the tour party of Americans. He was convinced that it wouldn’t have taken half as long had it not been for the inane questions that his fellow travellers kept throwing at their guide, “What are ablutions?” “Has it ever been struck by lightning?” And the best of all, “Has the Pope ever been here since it was finished?” He tried to appear interested and took as many photographs as his fellow tourists did. Although all of his featured Fatima within the picture.

  When the two hours of torture were finally over, the Americans had their photographs taken with Fatima and left. Norman approached her. They stood alone in the vast courtyard, the mosque empty now; the only sound coming from the central fountain.

  Fatima and Norman were looking at each other in the midst of an uncomfortable silence. Christ, we had stared at that face, those eyes, for countless hours back in Laputa. But she wasn’t smiling now, not like she smiled outside the Old Bailey, with her arm around her favourite nephew. The murdering bastard that she doted on like the son she never had. Well that smile had an expiry date and it was rapidly approaching.

  “Is there something I can help you with Sir?” Asked Fatima.

  Norman felt the pulse in his cheek; he was beginning to shake, the rage rising again like bile.

  “No, no,” he stammered, “well actually, yes there is. I’m writing an article for the, em...Daily Mail in London, the travel section about Lahore and it’s history. I wondered if maybe we could go for a drink when you get off work. So I can cross-reference some points with you about the mosque?” Suggested Norman.

  “I am sorry Sir, but that would be completely impossible. Besides I have at least another two hours of paperwork to complete,” Fatima replied without a hint of regret in her voice.

  A voice called across the courtyard in what Norman assumed was Urdu. A security guard emerged from the shadows; Fatima nodded her head and replied.

  “He is asking you leave now,” she explained to Norman, “they are locking up for tonight,” another burst of conversation, “he says that he didn’t realise any visitors were left inside. He says you will have to take the staff exit. You must go with him.”

  Norman was lead past a security desk, to a side door. The two guards exchanged an incomprehensible joke, obviously to Norman’s detriment before he was ushered outside, the door slamming behind him.

  During Norman’s gruelling tour of the mosque it had grown dark outside. He found himself wondering what to do. He couldn’t very well hang around outside. Then he saw it, across the street high in the rooftops. A stark contrast to the graceful and splendid architecture that he had just witnessed, a red neon sign, Coco’s Den, and this was where Norman would spend the next two hours sipping vodka and orange, waiting and watching.

  The place was quite busy, mainly tourists, he assumed by the accents. Nothing to write home about but it had one undeniable facet, an uninterrupted view of the now floodlit mosque and more importantly, the staff exit.

  Fatima Hamid

  She took almost three hours to finish her “paperwork”. When she left the mosque she was wearing a full burka, it was only the bright shoes that gave away her identity. Norman quickly finished his drink and headed back downstairs; he had purchased an “I love Coco’s” baseball cap, one with the red love heart replacing the word. He sat down on a bench, across the road from the mosque, watching Fatima descend the marble steps. He kept one eye on the taxi rank, they weren’t busy, there were eight cars, he wouldn’t have a problem following her home.

  Fatima was crossing the square in front of the mosque, all she carried was, what looked like a backpack. Hating to be cynical yet Norman couldn’t help but think how this would have looked in the London Underground. She would have undoubtedly been stopped by now and searched. He watched as she approached the taxi rank. The feeling of hatred hadn’t left him since he first saw her waving that flag. Her blue piercing eyes, that smile! We were to going enjoy picking this apple. This was going to be a bolt in that bastard’s heart when he found out about it and believe me, he would find out about it. Playtime was over. We had too much to lose now, too much yet, at the same time, nothing. We had gone too far. The point of no return had been reached weeks ago.

  Norman was on his feet as Fatima ap
proached the taxi rank. Some exchanges in Urdu were made between a couple of the drivers and her. She shook her head. She continued walking, past the taxis. Norman hurried across the road behind her. She was walking home. This was good news; it meant she couldn’t live far away. No taxi, no trail, no witness.

  We still didn’t have a firm plan for Fatima. The first thing was to find her home and it looked like we were halfway to our goal when she turned left into a noisy, busy street, the sign read Shahi Mohallah. A fat policeman was standing on the corner.

  “Hello,” Norman initiated, “can you tell me what is up here?” He asked slowly, motioning towards the bustling alley.

  “That, my friend, is the Diamond Market,” replied the policeman with a growing smile, “Go! Enjoy yourself!”

  Norman glanced up the narrow street. Fatima was getting away. He followed, picking up his pace. She was one of the only women around. The bars were filled with men, both locals and tourists, most of who seemed to have drunk a little too much.

  “Fifteen more minutes,” cried one waiter, “fifteen minutes until close.”

  Norman checked his watch. It was ten forty-five. When he looked back up, Fatima had slowed her pace, glancing around. Norman pulled his cap down lower over his eyes. Fatima approached the doorway of a house. After one last glance both up and down the street, she let herself in.

  “Ten minutes to go,” announced another waiter from the bar behind Norman. What did he have to lose? He had found Fatima’s home. He decided to have one last drink before returning to the hotel. This apple could wait until tomorrow.

  “Double vodka and orange, please,” he asked the waiter after taking a seat.

  “Right away gentleman,” he replied.

  Norman took in the scene, so when he returned to make his kill, he would know exactly where Fatima’s house was. It was a strange setting. The best description that he could come up with was ramshackle. An obviously residential side street, dotted with tables and chairs. None of the bars had signs above the door, but they were obviously legal or the roaming police officers would surely have something to say. As for the diamond stores, maybe they traded in the same discreet manner as the bars, behind faceless front doors.

  “Here we are gentleman,” said the waiter, placing Norman’s drink down on the wobbly table, “I must ask you to pay now please.”

  Norman handed over the rupees.

  “What’s the big deal with eleven o’clock?” He asked.

  “You don’t know?” The waiter asked, “it is against the laws to drink alcohol after that time. You must be finish this by eleven,” he explained in his finest English.

  “Perfect,” thought Norman. After eleven o’clock this place will be dead. The bars would be closed and the police would leave. “So Fatima, we will have that date after all. Tomorrow at midnight,” he smiled to himself.

  My God! You couldn’t miss the eleven o’clock curfew. Bells were sounded at each bar, waiters shouted in any language they could muster and the police presence swelled dramatically. Norman’s waiter cleared the tables of glasses, whether the customer had finished or not. The outdoor lights were turned off and the front doors locked.

  Norman rose to his feet, about to leave when the strangest thing happened. For the entire length of the street, as far as he could see, each and every front door began to open. Spindly old ladies, their faces like leather, fiddled with rusty old bolts. As the doors and shutters were pinned back, the street seemed to be getting busier. “A strange time of night to start dealing in diamonds,” thought Norman.

  It took a few seconds for the realisation to sink in. Norman felt a strange numbness in his legs. He looked up at the clattering noise above his head. More shutters were being opened. Within, what seemed like seconds, the entire street was alive again, the lights from the higgledy-piggledy houses bathing the cobbled street in a warm glow.

  Norman sat back down in his seat; it was more of a spasm than a voluntary decision. He tried to assess the situation. Could this really be happening?

  First, the music started. Then they came, one by one to each window. Fatima’s house was also wide open; a red couch visible just inside the hallway. They wore nothing but lingerie. Some were even topless. This wasn’t Lahore’s Diamond Market; this was the Whore Market.

  Norman needed time to think. He certainly hadn’t bargained for this. Was Fatima one of them? Is this how she paid for her trips to Europe? Surely a tour guide would be on a pittance of a salary. Or maybe she just rented an apartment in the unfortunate building? He was beginning to feel dirty, guilty, the sight of all that flesh was arousing a feeling. A feeling he hadn’t experienced for a long time. He knew that he had to leave.

  Norman sat on the cold steps of the Badshahi Mosque for the best part of an hour. He watched the taxis come and go, picking up and dropping off groups of men. He listened to the music and the drunken cheers coming from the Diamond Market and couldn’t help but feel it was some form of blasphemy, happening so close to this holy place. His mind churned with the day’s events. The obituary. The tour. The whore market. It had been a long day. He knew he had to make a decision. The taxis looked tempting; it would be nice to get back to the warmth and safety of the hotel. Yet, he felt there was an opportunity here, an opportunity not to be missed. He stood up slowly and turned to face the mosque. His eyes following the steps upwards towards the massive illuminated dome. That’s when he saw it. The flashback. Her. Fatima. That fucking bitch Fatima standing on those steps in London. Smiling. Laughing. That’s when he felt it. The rage. The uncontrollable fury.

  The old woman sitting by the door recognised her instantly. “Room fourteen,” she told Norman as he pulled the camera back from her face. He paid her the five hundred rupees and headed up the old wooden staircase. There was little space to pass the sweaty old men trying to make their exit, but Norman hardly noticed them. He was focussed on one thing only; his surprise date with Fatima Hamid.

  Chapter 6.

  London.

  Matthew Gerradine’s flat had somehow, surprisingly to him, become the nerve centre for Operation Hard Drive. The alternative, off the record, hunt for the Facebook Killer.

  Bill Pearson was determined to have the Chief Constable’s job and he couldn’t think of an easier way than to prove the man to be incompetent. Pearson was ten years his junior with an exemplary police career, spanning some twenty-one years. He certainly wasn’t ready to retire yet, not until he had the crowning glory of the top job and its accompanying financial benefits of course. A divorcee, married to the job, as his ex-wife used to say, who lived and breathed policing.

  The pine kitchen table had been scrubbed clean. A private detective named Richard Hall, known as Dick within his limited circle of friends, had joined Pearson and Gerradine in their crusade. Between the three of them they had access to unlimited information, phone taps and underworld informants. These three misfits had taken it upon themselves to prove thousands of hard-working officers wrong. If they were successful it would undoubtedly rock the British police system to its very core. Questions would be asked in parliament and resignations would soon follow.

  Gerradine was all too well aware of the story he had within his grasp. He would rocket from being a two-bit reporter to one of London’s finest and most respected. He may even find himself a wife in the process.

  Dick’s only agenda was pure financial gain. He had started his “Agency” back in 1995 after a generous win on the Lottery. The first year had been spent greasing palms. Influential members of the Cabinet, bankers and Health Trust Managers. His sole aim, to obtain access to online databases. Dick Hall had become a powerful man over the years. If one Minister left power, Dick was offered a replacement on the inside. From the privacy of his own laptop, he had back-door access to most of the major banks’ servers, Ministry of Defence, Work and Pensions, to name but a few. When he wasn’t investigating industrial espionage or embezzlement, he was digging up dirt and selling it to the likes of Gerradine for a few th
ousand pounds a go. He had a second laptop, which he kept in a safety deposit box in the depths of Harrods. He knew that the hefty annual fees would eventually turn out to be worth the investment. This was Dick Hall’s gold-plated pension. This computer gave him top security clearance to access everything from the Counter-Terrorist Agency through to MI6. He had paid £40,000 for the privilege back in 1996 to a Police Inspector who was experiencing financial difficulties at the time. A certain, Anthony Highgate, a man who no longer suffered from cash-flow problems. Sir Anthony was now the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police. He knew that Dick was still using his access codes and he feared, that one day, they would be used against him.

  Gerradine sniggered as ACC Pearson began the meeting. It reminded him of when he was in a gang as a kid, and Pearson was the eldest, therefore the self-appointed leader.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to this, the convening of Operation Hard Drive,” he said formally.

  “That’s OK,” Gerradine butted in, “I didn’t have far to travel.”

  Pearson shot him down with one look.

  “This is the situation, so far,” he continued, picking up a bamboo cane from the table, “this is my chief suspect,” he said, pointing at one of several photographs taped to the kitchen units, “this is Dermott Charles Madison. I have briefed you both on his history and his relationship with this man,” he pointed towards another picture, “Abdul Hamid.”