The violence didn’t anger me. That fucking bitch deserved everything she got. What annoyed me was that he brought her back to the hotel room in the first place. In fact that wasn’t the worst of it either. What really pissed me off was that she was still breathing.
Chapter 12
I’d been thinking long and hard about Matthew Gerradine and what role he could play in all this. I had decided to come clean with him. Tell him about everything. But only if he guaranteed a press blackout until I was ready. If he blew the whistle now, we would have little chance of getting out of Pakistan, never mind back into Britain. If he kept his mouth shut, he would get the biggest exclusive in the history of journalism. But I was paranoid. How did I know that he could be trusted?
I made contact with Serge again. He said it could be arranged but would cost £30,000. And so that is how Matthew Gerradine became my confidant. I didn’t really care what conditions his mother was being kept in, as long as they kept her alive, I was guaranteed absolute discretion.
Gerradine’s home phone number was in the public domain, so Norman called him from a pay phone inside the public library. It seemed like the obvious spot. No background noise to give away where we were. It sounded like he was going to fucking explode when Norman told him that we had his mother. I’m sure everyone in the library heard him too. We told him to email us from a private address, not to tell his police friends and wait for our reply.
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Adela was still in the bathtub when we returned to the hotel. Well, she couldn’t very well go anywhere. Her broken legs were wrapped around her neck. Her arms strapped behind her back like a strait jacket. There was dried blood on the sides of the bath, a faint whimper coming from somewhere within that suffocating ball of smashed bones. Fuck it! Albert was the one that had started this and he was bloody well going to finish it. So I went and fetched him from the safe.
Aside from exquisite food in the hotel’s dining room, they used the finest cutlery, especially the steak knives. “It could cut through a tree,” the headwaiter had told us. Well, we were about to find out.
Albert pulled the bundle by its hair onto the edge of the bath. Her left arm flopped against the side as Albert cut the rope, limp, swinging like a pendulum where her elbow had once been. He held her wrist as the remainder slid back down inside. He reached over with his other hand and turned on the hot tap, forcing her wrist under the steaming water, before he made the first incision.
It took him exactly fifteen cuts to remove her hand. In that time the whimpering grew weaker and weaker, like letting the air out of a football. The scarlet whirlpool draining her life away, her future, her marriage, her children, her old age. Gone in a matter of seconds. Her hopes and dreams now mixed with other people’s shit and dirty water. Exactly where they fucking belonged.
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We knew Gerradine was pissed off. The email was full of spelling mistakes, obviously written in a rage. Well, fuck him; he didn’t know the first thing about rage.
Serge had been considerate enough to have a note left in old Mrs. Gerradine’s home, basically informing her son, in no uncertain terms, that she would be executed if he didn’t obey the rules of the game. Gerradine had found it when he flew around there in a panic.
And so I proceeded to tell Gerradine everything, well not quite everything, I didn’t let him know that we were in Pakistan. I told him that I wanted a posthumous apology to Dermott Madison for any implication in the Facebook killings and I wanted more column inches devoted to the ongoing hunt for Devoy, the real killer. I also demanded that he find out where that bastard Hamid was currently hiding as I had a present for him. He was not to relay any of our communications to the police or his mother would die and he would be framed for it without a shadow of a doubt. I also wanted to know who he was working with.
The reply must have come whilst Albert was getting rid of his ball. We had agreed, no bodies – no death penalty. Adela left the hotel the same way she had entered, in a backpack. We were amazed how much lighter she weighed minus eight pints of blood and a hand. There was nothing ingenious about her disposal. Albert merely dumped his rucksack into one of the many rancid, overflowing garbage containers, most of which already stank of rotting flesh. We found out later that night that the broken patio door and the traces of blood inside had been put down to the blast from the neighbour’s garden. Adela Nissar was simply another missing person in Lahore. Possibly suffering from concussion and memory loss. Her hand in marriage was not lost though. It was in our fridge, awaiting its final ceremony with its betrothed, Abdul Hamid.
Chapter 13
I awoke to a light knocking on the door. It broke my dream about Anna and Laura. We were back home, before it became a pile of ashes, having a barbecue in the back garden. We were laughing and joking about something, I don’t quite remember, I sprayed some more fuel on the coals. Then Laura was screaming; her clothes were alight. I couldn’t move. I was stuck to the spot as if my legs and arms were tied up. Anna tried to put out the flames but they only engulfed her too. The screams were still ringing in my ears. The knock came again. Louder this time. More urgent. I was fully awake, there was nothing I could now to help them. They were in a place I couldn’t reach during my waking hours.
“Who is it?” I called from the bed. My voice sounded hoarse, my mouth was dry.
“Security,” came the muffled reply.
I sat bolt upright. Jesus! The empty bottle of vodka that Albert had taken from the garden shed lay beside me on the bed. Empty. I had a headache. The knock came once again.
“Is everything OK in there Sir?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m trying to get some rest.”
But everything wasn’t OK, far from it. I had done it again. Well one of us had anyway. The mirror was broken, its shards strewn around the room, mingling with broken pieces of furniture. The burka was pinned to the wall with the steak knife. The curtains had been torn down and lay in shreds next to a broken table lamp.
There were two voices now, speaking in their own language.
“Alright Sir, sorry to disturb you. Enjoy your day,” and then they were gone. I waited a couple of minutes, half expecting the door to burst open, closely followed by an armed battalion, but they never came. No one came. I lay in silence amongst the devastation that was my life. Norman and Albert were still sound asleep.
I used a broken chair-frame to clear a path to the bathroom, quietly sliding the broken glass into a pile by the dressing table. As I moved the final piece of mirror, I saw it. Something I hadn’t seen for all this time. It wasn’t Norman or Albert, it was me. At least I think it was. My eyes were yellower than I remember, the clumps of hair, greyer. My skin looked like it was rotting, too many days, weeks and months under latex. I didn’t feel angry. The rage was nowhere to be found. I just felt an immense sense of sadness. It was at that moment that I realised what I had become, no, what that bastard had made me. For fuck’s sake, Abdul Hamid had created me. I was his monster.
*
Gerradine had kept to his first part of the bargain. The Mail Online carried the story of the ongoing manhunt for Adrian Devoy. I had been exonerated of any blame. I don’t know how he had wangled it with his editor or police friends and quite frankly, I didn’t care, but he had bought his mother and myself some vital time.
We only had three more apples to pick in Pakistan and then we could all go home, back to our sanctuary in the sky and finish the job. Once and for all.
Imran Hamid.
I didn’t have to go looking for Imran. He came to see me. After all his C.V. was plastered all over the Internet. Age: 26. Status: Married with two children. Occupation: Actively seeking employment as a computer programmer or in the field of Advanced Mathematics. Willing to relocate and work from anywhere.
By God I bet he would never imagine in a million yea
rs where he would end up working.
Norman had trawled the electronic stores for a good five hours, not to mention the time it took to secure the rental on the office space. When he got back to the hotel he was met by a courteous smile from reception. We were surprised, to say the least, to find that the suite had been returned to its former glory, without a word mentioned. The furniture was back in place, no sign of a broken mirror or shredded curtains. I began to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing until I saw the burka lying neatly on the bed, the stab wound still visible through the material but no sign of the steak knife. There was also the faintest smell of fresh paint.
Norman and I had a late lunch together in the hotel restaurant. There was very little we could do until six o’clock that night, by which time we could collect the office keys from the landlord and take delivery of the components. We had a few more things to buy but they weren’t too far away and we could carry them to the office ourselves.
During our meal, I still had this nagging in the back of mind, which I couldn’t pin point. I still kind of regretted involving Gerradine, but that was Norman’s fault and his bloody drinking. No, I don’t know what the feeling was, all I can relate it to is when you leave for holiday and keep thinking, “Did I pack the passports? Did I turn off the gas?”
It wasn’t until I finished my main course that I realised what I had just done. I hated lamb, I always have, I hate it almost as much as flying. What the fuck? But there was the evidence, right in front of me, the meatless ribs. Jesus, I had to finish this soon. That was the first time I actually started to doubt my own sanity. I had an inkling that the other two were a bit crazy, but me?
*
As the landlord left, Norman and I looked around the office. It was going to be perfect. Small, yet furnished with the necessary desk and chairs. We had electricity, water and a telephone line. The storeroom, which we had seen when we viewed earlier in the day, was just the right size as well.
The delivery driver arrived an hour late, apologising that the place was difficult to find in the maze of back streets. We offloaded and he left. We pulled the desk and chairs to one side, stacking the sheet metal in the centre of the old tiled floor. The welder had promised to be there at 8:00 am to start work on the box. It would take him about six hours, he reckoned. Norman and I spent the rest of the night wiring up the network.
*
I kind of felt sorry for Imran, I should have hated him for being that bastard’s brother, but he was so gullible I had to take pity on him. As I sat looking at him across that desk, his boyish excitement couldn’t help but affect me. He actually believed that he had been handpicked to work for the British Government. He thought that the pay offer of £120,000 per year was true. Of course he would come back two days later for a final interview, of course he signed the Official Secrets Act. Little did he know that he had less than forty-eight hours left to live.
*
I found out everything about it on the Internet. I downloaded it and spent eight hours devising my game. Game Salad is what I used. A funny name, I thought. Obviously designed for more innocent purposes than terror and death. Nevertheless I had no doubt that it would work.
Imran was going to be my experiment. In my experience, it doesn’t matter how unalike two brothers are, they are from the closest gene pool and somewhere deep down they are the same and they will normally react the same under pressure. This was the closest I would come to Abdul until we returned to England.
“Her Majesty’s Government have checked all of your references and credentials Mr. Hamid and my superiors, along with myself, are more than satisfied that you meet our criteria,” said Norman, reaching across the desk with an outstretched hand, “We have, however, one final test before we can offer you the position.”
“And what would that be Sir?” Imran enquired.
“You must endure a sustained period of torture,” replied Norman, grim faced.
Imran looked terrified.
“I’m only joking,” laughed Norman, “don’t worry. Just follow me please; we have installed a computer system in this next room. It is a simulation of the Indian Secret Service’s network. To guarantee you this job you must find a back door access to the network within one hour.”
Imran rose and followed Norman to the storeroom door.
“After you,” Norman smiled, indicating towards the door handle.
Imran smiled nervously before opening the metal door. He took one step forward before realising that there was nothing inside. His pause was broken by the force of Norman’s kick to the lower back. A quick lock of the door and Norman pushed the box forward with all his strength. It fell backwards into the storeroom, the noise deadened by the foam placed on the floor.
The welder hadn’t questioned the dimensions, the strange additions or the fact that it resembled a coffin. The payment of an equivalent to six-month’s salary ensured his full and silent cooperation.
All we had to do now was get the box in position, connect the network and it was playtime.
London.
“What the fuck do you mean they are missing?” Assistant Chief Pearson screamed down the phone, Gerradine and Dick jumping in unison. Pearson’s hand was shaking as he listened to the unfortunate bearer of bad news, “NO! You will not report this to the Chief Constable; in fact you won’t report this to anybody. Do I make myself clear?” He hung up. The other two stared at him.
“A problem?” Dick asked.
“Where’s that whisky Matt?” Pearson asked, trying to compose himself.
They were in their usual positions around the kitchen table. Gerradine fetched the remainder of a bottle of whisky and three, not so clean, glasses. Pearson downed his straight away before helping himself to another, larger measure.
“If you call modern-day grave-robbing a problem, then yes, we have one,” he continued.
“You mean...?” began Dick.
“Yes. Our killer has come back and taken the bodies, the first two at least.”
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Gerradine.
“What do you think he’s doing? Trophy hunting?” Asked Dick.
“Anybody’s guess,” replied Pearson, “he could be trying to hide any evidence that we missed, maybe he’s just taking the piss out of us, who knows?”
“Man, this is scary shit,” said Gerradine.
“Scary shit that is by no means allowed to make into the newspapers. Do you understand me Matt?” Growled Pearson. Gerradine nodded, “This is my problem and mine alone. I will deal with it in my official capacity. In the meantime let’s get back to the case in hand. Madison. Where is he and what the hell is he doing?”
Gerradine gave his update first. He hadn’t told either of them about his mother. Christ he didn’t dare.
“He still hasn’t been in touch since we printed the apology and the piece on Devoy,” he reported.
“But that was only online, wasn’t it? It didn’t go to press?” Pearson asked sternly.
“No, no, only online. My editor wasn’t too happy about the change of tact but I explained to him that this was the only way Madison would deal with us.”
“Let me know as soon as he makes contact,” ordered Pearson, “Dick. Where is this Hamid character now? Do you have a fixed location?”
Gerradine shot a look at the private detective, he felt his face reddening.
“I know exactly where he is now, Bill. He has registered at an address in Edinburgh, 14b Carlton Terrace, to be exact. His credit card activity indicates that he will be staying put for a while. He’s been buying furniture, electrical goods and the like. I have all of his details here, phone number, email address etcetera.” Dick looked more than satisfied with himself. Gerradine was busy memorising the address when Dick handed him the details on a sheet of paper.
“Excellent work Dick. Can you send of your boys up there to keep an eye on him?” Pearson asked.
“He’s already on his way, Bill. I assume my share of the reward money will more tha
n cover his expenses?”
“I’ll come to the reward in a minute,” snapped Pearson, obviously still reeling from his phone call, “ Matt, this is what I want you to do next,” Matt was starting to get a little rattled by Pearson’s tone towards him, “I want you to taunt him. Wind him up. Make out that you don’t believe he is the killer. Tell him that he’s only pretending because he feels guilty about his wife and kid, I don’t know, whatever it takes. We need him to make a mistake, to give us some concrete evidence, but whatever you do, don’t mention the missing bodies before he does.”
Chapter 14.
Imran Hamid’s only source of light came from the Apple Ipad attached to the inside of the box at the far end, as he adjusted himself in the box, the screen filled with apples falling from a tree; each one had a smiley face. The button in the centre of the screen read...
PRESS TO PLAY
Norman and I watched silently in front of our monitor on the desk. I prayed that this would work. We had agreed to treat this apple a little differently to the rest, however many there had been, I was beginning to lose count. He was to be given a chance. A chance to escape but on one condition.
Sixty seconds passed. Imran still hadn’t pressed the button. The screen changed to angry apples.
PRESS TO LIVE
He touched the screen.
WELCOME TO
“WHO WANTS TO BE MY NEXT VICTIM”
The rules are very simple. You will find yourself faced with a number of questions and puzzles. You have sixty seconds to input the correct answer. If you fail to respond or input the wrong answer your life will be shortened. If you feel, at any point, that your life is threatened you may opt for the “phone a friend” function.
The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 Page 5
