by J G Alva
The guardian of these unclaimed treasures ran some numbers on his computer and then passed the paperwork back to him.
“If you’d like to come with me,” he said, coming out of his cubbyhole.
He led Fin and the other officer between rows of tall shelving. The Property Room was exceedingly long, but suspiciously narrow…and the low ceiling, with its multitude of different sized pipes attached to it, gave credence to Fin’s theory that this had once been a maintenance area.
There was something on almost every shelf, storage boxes with mysterious labels abounded – what was in the dreaded LFG-16 box? who knew? – but the officer leading the way stopped at a shelf only twenty feet from his desk. He moved another storage box out of the way – goodbye BR-2 – and the safe was revealed.
“Is this it?” The officer asked.
Besides a dent in the side, it was as Sutton had described it.
“Yes.”
“Can you open it for me please?”
Fin checked him.
“There’s a lot of very personal things in there-“
“I don’t need to see the items in your safe, Mr Henk. I just need to know that you can open it. Just to verify.”
Fin shrugged, and then turned the dial of the combination lock back and forth, stopping at the relevant numbers. There was a click, he turned the handle, and the safe door opened.
The officer nodded.
“Good.”
He started to move away but Fin stopped him.
“Would you mind helping me?” Fin asked, shutting the safe door and spinning the dial.
The officer did not look on the opportunity of helping with a favourable eye.
“I’m sorry, it’s an old safe, and very heavy,” Fin continued. “There’s no way I’m getting this out of here and up to my car just by myself.”
In the end, the two officers did the work, after Fin’s attempts to help only added to their consternation, rather than resolving it. As he told Sutton often enough, he just wasn’t good at the physical stuff.
The officers dropped the safe into the back of the car; the suspension dipped momentarily under the weight.
“Thanks,” Fin said brightly.
His gratitude did not alter the numb expression on their faces, and they walked away without another word.
He was about to close the boot when he hesitated.
He looked around. The car park, in the lee of a handful of tall modern office blocks, was deserted. He was supposed to text Sutton, who would show up and take him home. He had to; Fin couldn’t drive.
He would never have this opportunity again.
Carefully, he turned the dial of the combination lock, pulled the handle, and opened the safe.
At first glance, the contents seemed banal and uninteresting.
Apart from the money.
There was a lot of money. Fin had trouble estimating how much, but in the end thought it might be about £200,000. Why did he have so much stored away? Was it some kind of emergency fund?
After carefully removing the money and stacking it in the boot, the first thing his hand fell on was a wrinkled photograph. He used the light on his phone to see it. It was of a good looking couple, standing in front of a scenic view of a tropical cove. It looked to be from the seventies, judging by the style of the clothes. He guessed it must be Sutton’s mother and father.
He put that to one side, and delved once more inside the safe.
He touched a small leather bound book, and brought that into the light. It was black, with no writing on the cover or the spine. He flipped it open, and read the words on the first page:
This isn’t so much a diary as it is an attempt to understand myself, whatever curious twist of fate has delivered me to this place, this life, and where exactly I fit in.
And to understand whatever it was I did to deserve such a fucked up, evil, cunt of a mother.
He knew what this was…or at least, he knew where it had come from. Alden King, the Headhunter. Was this his secret diary?
But why did Sutton have it?
Why wasn’t it with the police?
Fin put that to one side too.
All that remained in the back of the safe were documents, and a passport.
Fin looked at the photo in the passport, and had a moment of shock.
The photo was of Sutton, but the name was not.
William Scott Stone.
He had no idea why Sutton would have this, let alone how he had managed to acquire it.
Was this a false identity…or Sutton’s real one?
Troubled, he put it to one side and turned to the documents. One seemed to be an official looking report, whilst the other was a handwritten document; possibly a letter. He decided to read the letter first.
Dear Henry,
With any luck, you will now be in a car, or on a train, or flying out of an airport, on your way back to the biting climate of good old Blighty, when you finally get to read this.
You must understand, this is the only thing I could do for you. For you and your boy. My power extends only so far, and the best I could do was to give you enough time to run, to get away. There’s enough we don’t know about the case that will prohibit us from pointing a finger at him with any degree of equivocality, so they won’t spend the time – and the money – to come looking for him…but they found him with the murder weapon IN HIS HAND. I don’t for one moment believe that he killed the man in cold blood, but he was seen spending a lot of his time with the daughter. My inclination is that she is responsible – if not directly, then she manipulated your boy into extracting a terrible vengeance by proxy – but either way, she is in the clear, and he is not.
That is why you must run.
Your son is a strange boy, but not in the sense that I would refer to other boys of his age. He does you credit, he does us all credit, and it would be too much of a shame to see that potential thrown on the dust pile simply because there was no other practical scapegoat available…but it would not be the first time that there has been such a transgression of the law, for simple neatness sake. You know this better than most.
Of course, there is another possibility that I would be remiss if I didn’t mention: that your boy knowingly and willingly killed the man known as El Buitre. I hope for all our sakes that this is not the case.
I think you can understand me when I say that I hope we will not see each other again anytime soon.
I will always be your friend.
Jesus.
Fin took a moment to digest what he had just read.
He looked at the signature at the bottom of the letter, but it was a squiggle; indecipherable.
He turned to the report next. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to read it – that he could take any more revelations – but the temptation was simply impossible to resist; the itch of his curiosity had to be scratched.
Report: Mullhall Clinical Institute
Date: 17th September, 1996
Case Manager: Dr Edward Runstable
Subject: Sutton Henry Mills, age 16
Diagnosis: The Subject has been referred to me by his father, in response to repeated episodes of “acting out” (a full list of which can be found in Appendix B). Some of these incidents have, on occasion, turned violent, when the Subject has been confronted (please refer to Appendix D for the case file). There have also been episodes of infatuation, which I believe only to be facets of the same “acting out” which has caused so much consternation to the surviving parent and other authority figures into whose care the Subject has been deposited, at one time or another, however briefly. Such erotic fascinations are not uncommon in adolescence but the protracted nature of the Subject’s fascinations on such inappropriate contacts – a married woman of thirty eight and the wife of a prominent and successful police Detective, being the one that springs immediately to mind – combined with thorough testing has, in my opinion, provided enough evidence for a formal classification of Autassassinophilia. It is this
doctor’s recommendation that initial schools of discipline have proven ineffective and the only course left is medication. A course of mirtazapine (Zispin), followed by a six week evaluation will, to my mind, show if more robust physical methods of suppressing this behaviour are warranted
Fin shut the file.
He cursed himself for looking, for being so curious. What was he doing? Sutton was his friend. He was like a brother. There was no one he trusted more.
And yet…there was some part of him that was always aloof. That was always distant. Fin was sure Sutton wasn’t aware of it, but it was there, always floating at the edge of every conversation.
Fin had only been trying to understand that. To understand him. To help.
He shut the safe door.
It was a good five minutes after Fin sent his text before Sutton wandered into the car park from the street.
“Any problems?” He asked, as Fin gave him the keys.
Fin hesitated…and immediately could have gouged his own eyes out at his own stupidity. Damn it.
“No.”
Sutton checked him.
“They wanted me to open it, like you said they would,” Fin said quickly.
“And did you?”
Fin nodded. He tried not to appear guilty.
“You didn’t look at anything inside, did you?” Sutton asked.
“No.”
Sutton stared at him.
“I told you: no,” Fin said, worried that he was protesting too much…and powerless to stop protesting. “I promised you I wouldn’t.”
A promise that meant nothing.
Sutton studied him for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, nodded to the passenger side of the car.
“Come on. Get in. I’ll take you home.”
When Fin was finally able to lock himself away in his computer room, he looked up El Buitre, but could find no criminal cases referencing that name or anything like it. His relief was palpable. Next, he typed in the word Autassassinophilia and clicked on the Wikipedia link. He sat back and read the description…and felt his curiosity being replaced swiftly by something like horror. What was this?
Autassassinophilia is a paraphilia in which a person is sexually aroused by the risk of being killed. The fetish may overlap with some other fetishes that risk one's life, such as those involving drowning or choking. This does not necessarily mean the person must actually be in a life-threatening situation, for many are aroused from dreams and fantasies of such.
Oh God.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone?
Why did he have to pry?
Autassassinophilia.
Was Sutton sick?
Did he need help?
Oh God, what was he meant to do with this new and terrible knowledge?
THE END
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If you are hungry for more novels, then here are the first three chapters of the standalone thriller THE BRISTOL SAVAGES. I hope you enjoy this unusual tale…
JG ALVA
JG Alva was born and educated in Somerset. From an early age, he showed an aptitude for art, and studied for four years, earning a Fine Art degree and a HND in Design and Visual Communication. In 1998, he won Brunel’s Hewlett Memorial Award for Best Illustration student. Over many years, he has held various jobs: Cleaner, Bartender, Shoe Laster, Warehouse Assistant, Sales Coordinator, Planning Engineer and Production Manager. Among the numerous adventures featuring Sutton Mills and other works of fiction, he has written multiple screenplays, some of which have been made into short films. He currently lives in Bristol.
SUTTON MILLS
Sutton Mills was born in Bristol but travelled extensively as a child with his family; he visited many countries, including Spain, France, Italy, Morocco and Germany, before returning to England. Over the years, Sutton has held various jobs, from Mechanic and Warehouse Assistant, to Security Guard and Graphic Designer. In 2007, he held an exhibition of his work in the Arnolfini, which was received warmly by critics. He currently works as a self-employed illustrator, and lives in Bristol.
THE BRISTOL SAVAGES
Anna is a wife, a mother, a businesswoman...and a serial killer.
As part of a unique support group comprised of like-minded compulsive multiple murderers known as the Bristol Savages, she has been able to suppress the compulsion to kill and begun to carve out a normal life for herself.
But someone is aware of the Bristol Savages, and is targeting its members...and making it look as if Anna is responsible.
At the same time, a new task force is set up to focus solely on psychopaths, and as this new unit begins to close in on her and the Bristol Savages, Anna must race against the clock to find out who is behind the killings and stop them, before either her secret is exposed or her family becomes the next victims of this insatiable killer.
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Read on for the first three chapters of the novel THE BRISTOL SAVAGES…
PROLOGUE
The man wasn’t dead.
Just paralysed.
It was no less than he deserved.
After coming back upstairs, Slim had turned on the lamp beside the bed; he needed light to work by. The lamp was strange, almost an antique, and the bulb only threw a small cone of light out, like a halo. But it was enough.
Jeffrey hadn’t moved much – he couldn’t, of course – but he had sweated enough to fully dampen his vest all down his back and at his armpits. He lay face down on the bed, in the position he had been sleeping in when Slim had entered the room, his face buried in a pillow. A horrible way to sleep, but everybody did things their own way. Slim had smashed the top of his vertebrae with a hammer so that he wouldn’t run or fight back; a sensible solution to a difficult problem. Curiously, Jeffrey’s right arm, hanging over the edge of the bed, continued to twitch, but it could not be from any conscious control.
Slim put the small pot of paint and the paintbrush on the bedside cabinet. He had written down the message so he wouldn’t forget, and he checked it again now, a long passage he had copied out on to the notepad beside the phone.
He knew he was stalling. Best to get it over with so he could get out of here.
He grabbed the back of Jeffrey’s head and turned it toward him – and toward the light – uncovering Jeffrey’s face. Jeffrey was breathing rapidly, and his face was sweaty too. His one visible eye rolled up toward Slim fearfully, like the eye of a cow. The screwdriver was in his front right pocket. He brought it out and then held it up for a moment. Jeffrey’s cow eye fixed on it.
Slim brought the screwdriver down with all the force he could muster.
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 1
Anna backed into a parking space by the main gate, pulled on the handbrake, turned off the ignition.
She did not get out however. She sat for a moment, listening to the cooling tick of the engine, and stared through the windscreen at the building opposi
te. Crown Bonding Distribution. She didn’t want to go in.
Looking up, she noticed the rear view mirror was slightly out of true, and reached up to adjust it, so that it lined up with the roof of the car.
◆◆◆
Alan Crown was already in the seventh floor Conference Room.
He stood at the long wall of windows, looking out at the car park. The owner and Managing Director of Crown Bonding Distribution, he was fifty two but looked older. He had white fluffy hair, green eyes, and a mild face, but the mildness was only to disguise his shrewdness…and perhaps his ruthlessness too. He had built this company from his garage, and by all accounts it had not been easy. If the stories around the office were true – a partner that stole his wife, bank foreclosures, a drinking problem, a fire started by a disgruntled employee, a lawsuit by a competitor – then it had not been easy at all.
He smiled when he saw her, but the smile quickly turned down at the edges.
“I’m concerned that this could turn ugly,” he said, with a careful eye on her.
“Really, Alan, I’m fine,” she said, with a smile.
“Try not to react to whatever he says. He’ll try to make it personal. Don’t let him.”
◆◆◆
“…Know the criteria that these redundancies are based on,” Anna was saying. They were seated at the end of the oval table by the windows, she and Alan on one side, Mike Bottomley three seats away on the other. She counted the criteria off on her fingers. “Quality of service, length of service, and attendance-“
“I’ve been here nine years,” Mike said. “Which should automatically preclude me from your selection criteria.”
As a younger man, Mike had been good looking, but now in his early forties the good looks of his youth were fading: he was going grey, getting fat, and losing his hair. A dark foppish mop, it was getting thin at the front and back, and the close cropped beard he sported was more salt than pepper. And his teeth were going bad. Yellow. Ew.
