The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2

by M. L. Stewart

  “Any news on either of them?” Asked Dick.

  “Nothing. That’s why we are here gentlemen. If we can track down Madison, we can hopefully put a stop to this madness. If we get to Hamid first, then hopefully it will simply be a matter of waiting,” Pearson replied.

  “What if you are wrong about all of this?” Gerradine asked.

  “Believe me Matthew, I am never wrong. Everything points to Madison; I just need some more evidence. Dick, I need you to find out how much Madison made from the insurance policies on his family and house, then I need to know where it went, which bank and which branch. If you can get me that, I can get access to the CCTV footage, we may get an idea of how he looks now. Matthew, have you had any reply to the obituary?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let me know as soon as anything happens. If we don’t get a result in twenty-four hours, run the next article,” ordered Pearson, Gerradine nodded, “we’ll flush these bastards out if that’s what it takes. Dick, I need you to try and track down this Abdul Hamid as well,” he passed an envelope across the table, “you’ll find everything we have on him in here.”

  Dick smiled as he accepted the envelope, he was already one step ahead of Pearson, after all he had access to one security level above him.

  “I’ll try my best Bill,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dick, I’m sure you will. One last thing gentlemen,” Pearson reached into a holdall on the chair next to him, “we need to find out, who the fuck made this?” He held Kalif’s head by the hair, like something from a horror movie.

  “All of the nationals had three days coverage of that mask, Bill. No one came forward,” said Gerradine.

  “It doesn’t matter. If they know it’s been used in a serious crime, they’re going to be reluctant to come forward. We need to check all film supply companies, prop hire firms, the works. Things like this won’t come cheap and if he had one made, there is every possibility that he has more. Find them boys. Let’s nail this bastard. It’s in all of our interests,” Gerradine and Dick nodded in agreement, “We will reconvene tomorrow night at 9:00pm. If that’s ok with you Matthew?”

  “I’ll get a bottle of vintage, Sir,” replied Gerradine.

  Chapter 7.

  The old brass door handle was caked with the sweat from a thousand desperate men. Without girlfriends or with uninterested wives back at home, this is where they unknowingly shook hands with each other, shared their common interest, on this blackened, filthy handle.

  Norman waited apprehensively in front of the door, his palms sweating like so many before him. His urge wasn’t in his groin though; it was in his throat, his teeth, his fists, it was coursing through his muscles. The insatiable desire to rip her apart, piece by piece, to destroy this whole fucking place, to burn it to the ground with every one of these dirty bastards still inside of it. He was shaking now; throbbing.

  Then the door suddenly jerked open. Norman jumped. It was her. Fatima. The bitch. She looked shocked, yet managed to remain professional. It was money after all.

  “Well, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” she said to Norman with a forced smile.

  That was the point when we felt the rage take control. The rage saw the smile, it recognised it from the steps in London and by fuck it didn’t hold back. It punched her in the throat with all its might. When she landed on the bed, it ripped off her bra, tore it in half and tied her wrists to the bed head. It ripped the bed sheet into pieces and strapped her ankles to the bed base. Fatima was choking. The rage punched her again, in the stomach this time. One, two, three times. Harder and harder.

  Norman sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the rage to finish its job. When it finally did, he looked down at her shiny red shoes, struggling to break free but unable to do so. She was gasping for breath. It was very unattractive. The tears had caused her mascara to run; yet against her dark skin it was hardly visible.

  He saw her bag protruding from under the bed. He laid the contents out on the floor. The burka, the folded hijab, a copy of the Koran, her purse and a mobile phone. Norman picked up the phone and sat back down on the bed, turning to Fatima he asked, “What is your word for Father?”

  “Aaabbaaa,” she wheezed.

  “I can’t hear you,” he screamed. Someone banged on the wall from the room next door.

  “Abba,” she repeated.

  And there it was, first place on her contacts list, ABBA.

  “Do you speak English?” Norman asked the old man when he picked up.

  “A little,” came the reply.

  “Your daughter is in very big trouble,” he said slowly, “she is in the Diamond Market. She might die tonight,” and with that he hung up.

  Fatima groaned on the bed. Her breathing had stabilised and she started to fight again. Norman stood up and walked to the base of the bed, he took one step back, towards the door, until she filled the screen. It was a beautiful photograph, he thought. It deserved to be shared, and so it was. Norman sent that picture of Fatima the whore to everyone in her contacts list, her parents, husband, boss, co-workers, friends and fellow worshippers.

  As Norman sauntered down the alleyway towards the taxi rank, he made one last call from Fatima’s phone. Abdul Hamid could hear the police sirens in the background as he answered, “Aunt Fatima?”

  “No. This isn’t Aunt Fatima.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Haven’t you noticed some of your best friends have been leaving you quite suddenly?”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “You!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me son. I’m coming for you.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll meet soon enough. How’s the weather in Brighton? It’s bloody freezing in Lahore.” Norman hung up.

  Nine hours later, Fatima Hamid leapt from the minaret tower of her beloved mosque. Norman watched from the Coco’s Den, sipping an espresso, as she squashed like a rotten apple.

  Chapter 8.

  London

  Dick Hall and ACC Pearson sat opposite each other. Their workspace neatly arranged with a pile of paperwork and laptop each. Gerradine dominated the far end of the table, his papers scattered around him, his scratched laptop surrounded by a collection of mobile phones. He poured a whisky for each of them.

  “He’s on the run,” announced Dick.

  “Which one?” Pearson demanded.

  “Hamid. He withdrew £250 from a cash machine on Brighton Main Street this morning at 8:05 am. He has used his credit card twice since then, the first time at a fuel station South of Leeds and then again just over the Scottish border.”

  “Good work, Dick. Keep a track of him. Let me know where he settles down. Matthew, any reply from Madison yet?”

  “Not yet Bill, but my editor has agreed to go to press at midnight if he doesn’t reply beforehand. He has agreed to publish the medical photographs as well.”

  “Excellent,” replied Pearson, “Dick! Any word on the mask?”

  “My boys are checking around, like you asked, but nothing so far. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope on getting a result with this one Boss.”

  “What about the insurance payout?”

  “Two million, eight hundred thousand,” replied Dick.

  Gerradine whistled, “Jesus, a man could disappear for ever with that amount of money.”

  “It was withdrawn in cash from the branch of Barclays on Oxford Street,” Dick continued, handing Pearson the details, “that was the day he seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet.”

  “He hasn’t disappeared, Dick, don’t you worry about that. We just need to start turning over a few stones, that’s all. I’ll try and get hold of that CCTV footage, if they still have it,” Pearson replied.

  “Have you taken into consideration Hamid’s family back in Pakistan?” Gerradine asked.

  “I was just coming to that, but first. I have a shortlist of suspicious deaths in the
last year that may be attributable to our man,” Pearson handed both men a sheet of paper each, “as you can see they range from suicide, to arson to accidental death and everything imaginable in between. Now, I have obtained exhumation orders on Gillian Baxter and Robert Chapel, they both had definite links to Hamid. We need to take a step back here; start from the beginning.”

  Gerradine counted under his breath, “Shit. You think as many as twenty?” He asked.

  “Not for certain, but I’d be prepared to wager at least ten of those are the work of our Facebook Killer,” replied Pearson.

  “So what the hell do you think has happened to the other suspect, this Devoy character,” asked Dick.

  “I can’t say for certain,” replied Pearson, “but again, he had solid ties to Hamid, yet he hasn’t shown up dead yet. Maybe he’s being held? But that doesn’t fit the MO of the killer. He wants these bodies to be found. To tell you the truth gentlemen, I really don’t know where our friend Devoy is, but I bet Mr. Madison does.”

  “You mentioned his family in Pakistan,” reminded Dick.

  “Oh yes, sorry, I spoke with an old contact of mine in the British Embassy in Islamabad. He tells me there are thousands of Hamids in the country. There is no way we can narrow them down without help from the family. That’s why, Dick! I have made an appointment for you to meet with Hamid Senior tomorrow at noon. He thinks you are from Special Branch, I need you to find out the names and addresses of his closest relatives back home, he knows that we are looking at his son as being a potential victim. He’ll cooperate fully; don’t worry. I assume in your line of work you’ll have some suitable form of identification?”

  Dick returned the smile and no words were needed.

  “More whisky anyone?” Offered Gerradine. He was the only one who had drained his glass; the other two remained almost full.

  “You’ve got mail!” All eyes turned to Gerradine’s laptop.

  “Well open it will you?” Pearson asked impatiently.

  Gerradine pulled his chair closer, Hall and Pearson had moved behind him, looking over his shoulder. A tense silence filled the room.

  “It’s him,” Gerradine yelped, visibly excited for once, “he’s bloody well replied and it’s not anonymous this time.”

  “We’ve got the bastard now,” said Pearson, triumphantly.

  “Don’t be so certain,” warned Dick, “what does it say?”

  “Nothing,” Gerradine replied, a little bemuse, “absolutely nothing. There isn’t even a subject line. It’s just a blank email.”

  “What’s the address?” Pearson demanded.

  “DermottCHARLESmadison@gmail.com”

  “What’s to say this isn’t that crank again?” Asked Dick.

  “Oh no,” Pearson shook his head, a broad smile on his face, “this is our man. That obituary I gave you to print, I purposely got his middle name wrong, we called him Calum. His real name is Charles. That’s what he’s telling us here. We’ve got him boys. Dick, can you run a trace on this IP address?”

  “Forward the email to me please Matthew.”

  “On it’s way.”

  “I think I will take that whisky after all, by way of a celebration,” said Pearson.

  “Em, I wouldn’t celebrate too soon,” Dick interjected, “we might have his email address but we still don’t have a location. He’s re-routing it.”

  “Matthew send him a reply,” Pearson snapped.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “As him what he wants.”

  Gerradine sent the message, “This could be a long night,” he said, checking his watch.

  “Somewhere you’d rather be?” Asked Pearson.

  “I was just thinking about ordering in some pizza. Any takers?”

  “You’ve got mail!” The electronic voice repeated.

  “Will you turn that bloody thing off,” cried Pearson, she sounds like my ex.

  Lahore

  It never failed to amaze me how I could send a letter 4,000 miles in a matter of seconds. My simple answer to the question was “Justice”.

  I flipped between my emails and the article on The Pakistan Times website. They certainly didn’t mess around in this country. They told it how it was. They had even used the picture of Fatima on the bed. She had been branded “La Whore.” There was no inkling of sympathy. Statements from her family and friends only helped to fortify the condemnation. She was no loss.

  “Justice? For what?” Was Gerradine’s best reply.

  “Do not treat me like an idiot! I can just as easily disappear again.”

  I would bet the remainder of my life on the fact that wherever Gerradine was, he wasn’t alone. I would guess that he was working with his “informant”, probably someone from Scotland Yard. If this was the case then Gerradine was a bigger mug than I had first thought.

  “How many more are going to die? Can you call me?”

  Jesus! I had to laugh. If that wasn’t a copper talking?

  “Mr. Gerradine, please do not take me for a fool. I know that you have most probably involved a certain faction of the Police by now, and if you would be so gracious as to pass on this message for me, I would be most appreciative. If Abdul Hamid undergoes a retrial for his crimes, this needless destruction will cease.”

  Before it even arrived in my inbox, I knew what the reply would be. We need fresh evidence. Gerradine took twenty minutes to reply. I guessed that he would pretend to call his friend in the force and pass on the demand, even though he was probably sitting right next to him.

  Surprise, surprise. Just as I had expected.

  “Sorry for the delay but I have been on the phone with my senior contact in the police force and he informs me that the only way a retrial can be sanctioned is if you are able to supply irrefutable new evidence. Please advise.”

  London

  “How the hell can he come up with any new evidence?” Scoffed Pearson, “There were over seventy officers working that case.”

  Gerradine looked contemplative as he finished off his third glass of whisky, “His cousin!” He said, banging the glass down. Pearson didn’t react for a moment.

  “Jesus Christ, he’s in Pakistan, isn’t he? He’s gone after the cousin,” Pearson realised, “Matthew, you’re a genius. You’re overweight and drink too much but you’re still a bloody genius.”

  “What was the cousin’s name again, Bill?” Asked Dick.

  “Ahmed Butt,” Pearson replied, “he disappeared soon after Madison’s wife and daughter died. We always presumed that he had gone back to Pakistan but we came up against a brick wall.”

  “And you really think that’s who he is looking for,” asked Gerradine.

  “He is the missing link gentlemen.”

  Chapter 9.

  I had no desire for a retrial, by the way. I didn’t want to see Abdul Hamid spend an easy life behind bars. Free food, television and a gymnasium. No way. That little bastard was going to suffer.

  To tell you the truth, at that point in time, I didn’t actually have a plan for Gerradine and his pals. I cursed the day that we emailed him to start with. Bloody Norman and his drinking. All I knew was that I had an ear at last. All these months of silence, with no one to talk to or discuss things with, hadn’t been the most enjoyable period of my life, albeit a very necessary period.

  I had found the nightmares starting to return. Maybe it was the strange surroundings that I found myself in or the alien language? When we all lived together in Laputa, things had been better. We all felt safe. I had begun to miss Kalif as well. He was younger than Norman and Albert and we had gotten along so well. It felt like yet another part of me had been torn away.

  I couldn’t wait to get the job finished in this god-forsaken country and head home, back to our tree, to face our destiny. To face the apple tree.

  It would be two days until I contacted Gerradine again. I knew I had to get my head together. I felt like things were starting to fall apart. Paranoia and nervousness had become part o
f my waking being. Yet when I sat down and thought about it, there was no logical reason for it. No one knew where I was or even what I looked like anymore. The English orchard lay bare. I had the choice to stop this now. I had enough money left to buy a house somewhere and live out the rest of my days in solitude. But something was pulling me deeper into the darkness. To this day, I still can’t explain it; I suppose you have to experience it for yourself. The pure hatred of a person cannot be put into words, I couldn’t write it down. Not for myself or for them. It is something you have to breathe, a poison in your veins, a hatred, which rots your soul and the only way to cleanse yourself, is to eradicate the cause.

  When I was a small child, I remember a neighbour kicking my arse for hitting a tennis ball against the side wall of his house. My parents grounded me for a week, during school holidays of all times; I remember festering in my bedroom for those long, seven days. Maybe that was the start of the rage? On the eighth day I stole a few shillings from my Mother’s purse and paid some older boys to teach that neighbour a lesson. I told them that he had touched me in a place that he shouldn’t have, a place that even my parents wouldn’t go. I watched from my bedroom window as those boys beat that man to within an inch of his life in the alley behind our house. I watched as he lay in the pool of his own blood and I had a strange feeling of satisfaction pass through me.

  Adela Nissar.

  Age: 17. Location: Lahore, Pakistan. Status: Engaged.

  Adela and Hamid were second cousins. I found out about the arranged marriage through Adela’s prolific Twitter account. She bleated on like a spoilt princess about the ring he had given her with their entwined initials on it, how sweet he was and how she couldn’t wait for the date to be set. Wake up time! I’m setting the fucking date bitch!

  Adela was proving a little trickier to find than some of the other apples. She didn’t mind blurting out her private life all over the net, but she kept certain things close to her chest. For instance where she lived, worked, played, ate and drank. To tell you the truth, she was beginning to piss me off. I had spent a whole day online, trying to find her, but at each turn, I drew a blank.