When the taxi arrives, I head back to the office to start my initial work on profiling the murderer. Already my mind is racing ahead because Elliot’s assumption that we have a serial killer on our hands is sure to be right. As with any new case, I’m excited by the prospect of finding out who that killer is and where it will lead. But one thing is for sure, I can’t help thinking this is somehow connected to Neva. Not just because of the obvious resemblance of the victims to her, but also because, if Elliot is correct, of the very specific knife used on both victims. I’m sure we have a Network assassin here. But who and why would they be killing innocent women with no other connection to them than a passing resemblance to their most wanted rogue agent?
Chapter Eight
Eldon Fracks
Eldon Fracks orders a continental breakfast and strong, black coffee to help wake up his wine-befuddled brain. He is a creature of habit, and this particular coffee shop has become a favourite haunt.
Coffee in hand, Fracks reflects on how his whole life has changed. At first, he thought this was a disaster, but now Fracks sees that his life has made a dramatic turn for the best. As the former chauffeur of the head of the Network, Fracks was privy to a great deal of information. All of which he’d managed to keep to himself. Like everyone else, he’d feared Mr Beech, but Fracks had been an expert on ‘making like’ the three wise monkeys: though he saw and heard everything, he never spoke of the Network’s evil. For this he’d gained the unquestioned trust of Beech and his associates.
But now Beech was gone: shot down by a task force who brought his private assassin training house down around his ears in the process. And Fracks had been able to avoid capture, all because Beech had sent him off the property on some petty errand. Fracks didn’t even recall what it was that Beech had requested, he only knew, as he drove away from the large mansion, standing in several acres of land in the heart of Alderley Edge, that there were helicopters and army trucks heading directly towards the house. He saw them, just as he made the decision to turn left instead of right, and he passed the assault team as he did. There was no way he would complete the task Beech had given him because he was not going back to the house.
He’d contemplated calling it in, but Beech might have demanded his return. Fracks reasoned that the outcome would be whatever it would be, no matter what he did. So, he decided not to intervene and kept on driving, eventually ditching Beech’s limo and heading off towards Manchester airport.
He heard about the raid on the radio app through his phone which was tuned to a local station. Beech wasn’t mentioned by name but enough was said to let Fracks know that his employer was dead. It was, as he’d suspected, time to get out of Dodge.
As he always kept an overnight bag and his passport in the boot of the limo, along with a holdall stacked with cash that Beech used as an emergency fund, Fracks had jumped onto the next flight to Germany. There, using Network contacts he’d heard of, but never revealed he knew about, he obtained several new identities. Everything was easy when you had money. At the time he’d just planned to lie low until the organization regrouped, but it wasn’t long before he realized how privileged he was to have escaped unscathed not only MI5, but the Network itself. This could be a whole new opportunity. A whole new life. A clean slate, leaving behind the Network and all it stood for. A rarity for anyone who had dared to become embroiled in their machinations.
But Germany was not a safe place for Fracks, since it was a Network stronghold. The grapevine revealed that someone was looking for him, and so he did the only thing he could to avoid detection: Fracks travelled. Never staying long in any one location, he kept on the move. It helped that the Network, having lost their illustrious leader, were thrown into total chaos. Fracks had banked on this too, understanding more than most just how much control Beech had over the other committee members.
But there was one assassin who’d aspired to be more and had set out to move up the ranks. When Fracks heard that Vasquez was looking for him, he went to ground as low as he could get.
That’s when he ended up in Belgium.
In Brussels he hired a cheap studio apartment. He wasn’t flash with money, and made every effort not to be noticed. He lived very simply. The money he had from Beech’s stash – a mere £250,000 – wouldn’t last if he was too frivolous and he had no legitimate way of earning more. He accessed his own savings, transferring further funds to a Belgian bank called KBC to use when he was certain they’d given up looking for him. Then he heard that Vasquez had ‘disappeared’. Fracks breathed a sigh of relief at this news. Rumour had it that the upstart assassin had been erased by the Network’s committee. Fracks didn’t enquire any further for fear of drawing attention to himself.
After that he stayed in Brussels. As time went on, he stopped checking on the dark web platforms for signs of his name being mentioned. With confirmation of Vasquez’s death, he was sure that no one would remember or care about Beech’s driver. What was he in the scheme of this great machine that controlled governments, and destabilized economies? Nothing. Not even a cog anymore.
Walking back from the coffee shop, his stomach rounder from his newfound pastry addiction, Fracks is relaxed and happy. The thing that had once frustrated him now pleases him. Who among those he’d driven around would even remember the face of one chauffeur? He’d been like a piece of furniture to them all, even Beech, which was why they hadn’t been careful around him. And now he is anonymous. He is free. And he can leave those awful people behind.
He stops off at a little bookstore on his route home. Here the owner has imported books in English to loan for a small price. Fracks chooses from some of the new arrivals. He likes history and drama but he avoids thrillers – it’s too close to the life he once led and his reading is for pleasure.
The bookstore owner packages up the books, wrapping them in tissue before putting them in a bag.
‘Three weeks to return,’ he says in pidgin English.
Fracks nods, pays him and takes the bag.
Reaching the small block of flats where he lives, Fracks walks upstairs to his studio apartment. He’s never lived anywhere so small before, but the lack of possessions is freeing, and he has no urge to buy anything that isn’t essential anymore. Sometimes he thinks back to his nice apartment in London, the full cabinet of fine brandies and whiskies that he opened on special occasions. The expensive furniture that populated the rooms and the superking bed that he’d slept on – at times with someone else he’d picked up for the night. But all of that is shallow and he’s learned to appreciate the simple things, which, more than anything means that he remains hidden.
He opens the apartment door and goes inside. As he expects, all is quiet. He fixes himself a coffee, after lunch the wine will be opened, but for now, Fracks’ retirement also means time to read and relax.
He sits down in his favourite chair by the window and watches the world go by.
He drains his coffee mug and then reaches for the bag of books. Yes, life is good, and Fracks will enjoy losing himself again in the fictional historical dramas he loves so much.
Chapter Nine
Michael
I find myself looking at Neva’s photofit picture as I compare her to Sinead and Lizzie. The two women are similar but not really like her. Even so, the strawberry-blonde hair is striking in its resemblance to Neva’s natural colour – rarely seen in her case as she often disguises it. While I look at the pictures, I try to be analytical. The two dead women seem to have their appearance as their link to each other, though they were at different stages of their lives. Sinead was an 18-year-old and single, whereas Lizzie was 20 years her senior and a divorcee. I’m sure this is not a coincidence. We have a serial killer on our hands.
But how are they somehow associated with Neva?
I close my eyes and try to push thoughts of her away but find I can’t. The betrayal and lies sit inside my stomach like a stale lunch badly digested. It hurts sometimes and make me furious at others. Sometimes
I yearn for the days of forgetfulness granted by Beech’s conditioning. Maybe then I could spare myself thoughts of her. Haunted as I am by her memory in every detail of my life. Not least in my working days. No matter how much I tell myself to forget her though, I can’t.
I open my eyes again and look at the dead women once more. I’m sure I’m designing Neva connections with Lizzie and Sinead that aren’t there. Only time and the autopsies will tell. But two deaths within weeks of Neva’s escape doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
But who is doing it, and why?
It’s probably nothing to do with her, I think. A fluke! But deep down my gut says otherwise. Not that I feel I can trust my instincts that much right now. I had thought I was right about Neva, and how wrong I was.
I rifle through the lives of Sinead and Lizzie. So different from each other, but there must be something that draws them together, or brings them into the sightline of our killer.
I open my notepad and read again the interview I’d done with Lizzie’s friend, Vicky. There. The dating site. Yin and Yang. I open the browser on my laptop and search the name. I come up with Wikipedia and Urban Dictionary entries for the meaning of the phrase. Then I find the website: Yin and Yang: Opposites Attract!
The site is closed unless you open an account and so I can’t just browse the member profiles. I weigh up what to do for a moment, before I send Ray an email, explaining that I’m setting up an account on the site in order to look at Lizzie Seacroft’s profile, hoping to find a lead. I don’t want him to think I’m using the work computer for anything other than official research. Though we are generally trusted, such things would be frowned upon and I’m still wary that any of my actions might be misconstrued. Even so, none of this will be necessary if we find Lizzie’s phone – assuming she has the app on there, it would hopefully link us to her account, any messages received, and an opportunity to browse to see if Sinead was on the same site.
Before I continue on the site, I look up Lizzie’s number and find out who her service provider is. Then I set in motion the requests required for information on who Lizzie spoke to last. It is just a matter of formality to get warrants for a murder victim’s phone records but it can take time. I also send the information to Beth to see if she can trace the location of the phone when she’s back in the office. Though, if it’s switched off, this will prove difficult.
I receive an email response from Ray about the dating site.
Good plan! Let me know what you find out.
Happy that my boss knows what I’m doing, I open an account under a pseudonym, using one of our ‘safe’ credit cards to pay the subscription, and then I search through the female profiles until I find Lizzie’s. She calls herself ‘Wild-Haired Lizzie’, but her photos show her with salon-groomed locks. She boasts of her newly coloured and coiffured hair on one of her statuses and there is a swarm of men responding to her, chatting her up, and suggesting they have a ‘private’ chat. This, I learn, is done in the form of ‘rooms’ rather than a private message and both parties have to agree to enter the said room. The site’s terms and conditions boast of this as a feature to stop unsolicited private messages being sent to another person – it helps to keep things ‘above board’.
Looking at Lizzie’s public posts and the comments below, I make a note of all of the men’s names, placing a star against each name every time I see a comment from them on Lizzie’s page because the frequency of their communication may flag something or someone.
Then I look for Sinead O’Brierley. It takes another forty minutes wading through female profiles before finding Sinead. She’s using the name ‘Nadie O’Brierley’ and this is why my specific search didn’t find her right away. I look through her selfies and then wade through the comments looking for matches with those remarking on Lizzie’s pictures, but there aren’t any. The age divide is obvious on the site, and only men around Sinead’s age are leaving comments for her. I wonder if this is another rule on Yin and Yang as often it’s a given that some older men will be looking for younger girls.
Even so, I hope to find one or two of the same names to narrow down the search but nothing shows up. Then I notice something. A photograph that looks familiar. I flick back to Lizzie’s page and study the profiles of her admirers again. There. A man called Werner, he says he lives in Europe, but is no more specific than that. I check his entry, looking at the other photographs he has there. I open another browser window and lift up Sinead’s profile. There is someone there called Stacey. A girl. But she has posted an identical picture of the same Bengal cat that Werner has.
This is not evidence in itself, it could be a coincidence that both people had found and shared the same photo, but in each case, ‘Werner’ and ‘Stacey’ claim that the animal is theirs. That is suspicious. Could there be two different people pretending they owned an animal that they didn’t? Or had one of them taken it from the other’s profile?
I’m not that familiar with catfishing but something is awry on Yin and Yang, despite the rules and regulations they impose on members. And I’m going to find out what.
A few hours after sending the warrant, I receive the information from Lizzie’s phone company. There are several phone numbers listed on her account, but one shows up over and over again. I check it against Vicky’s number and see this isn’t hers. Neither is it Lizzie’s ex’s number. When I search for the owner of the phone, I find that this number isn’t registered to anyone. That means that the number has been obtained, but never registered to top up with funds. It’s probably a burner, or a temporary number that someone has been using. But assuming it is our killer, it confirms that they are no ordinary or random murderer. Lizzie was specifically reeled in and this person made a conscious effort to go after her.
I look up at the photos on the wall again. My eyes fall on Neva’s photofit. Every gut instinct in my body is telling me that she and Lizzie and Sinead are connected. I just don’t know how or why yet or even if I dare listen to it.
Chapter Ten
Neva
It’s a hot summer’s day and Neva is wearing shorts and a strappy top. Big sunglasses hide her face and a floppy hat covers her hair. She’s carrying a backpack filled with her essentials and looks every bit like she belongs in Brussels as she rides around the streets on a bicycle.
As Elbakitten had promised, Fracks was at the coffee shop like clockwork every day and Neva is waiting for him to come outside.
He has his coffee and pastry, then Fracks saunters down the street, relaxed and confident. He doesn’t believe anyone knows he’s here. But the mistake he made first was transferring money from his personal accounts into the small local branch of KBC. All it took to find him afterwards was Elbakitten searching street camera footage back to the day when Fracks had first entered the bank to set the transaction in motion. He’d had to use his real I.D. in order to access his accounts in England, but the man had become complacent over the last two months. Elbakitten had found him several times on different cameras since then, and often at the same time in the same district. This information she’d sent to Neva, and as it had proved valid, Neva planned to use Elbakitten more. Her fees were reasonable too.
Neva focuses on Fracks as he approaches a small bookshop. After going in and browsing, he comes out half an hour later with a bag of books in hand. Neva doesn’t move from her spot until Fracks is four hundred yards down the road, then she gets on the bike and follows. Fracks makes a turn at a side street ahead. When Neva reaches the corner of the street, she sees Fracks coming out of a bar, holding a bottle of wine he’s just purchased.
A few feet away he enters an apartment building.
Neva rides the bike past the building and then parks and locks it up at the end of the road. Fracks is inside and climbing the stairs to his own apartment when Neva walks back. She studies the building. Then she returns to her bike and takes off again for a ride.
By late afternoon, Neva returns to Fracks’s building. After remotely monitoring CCTV nearby,
she knows that Fracks hasn’t left. At the door she reads the names on the residents’ doorbells. The only one not listed is on the top floor. From the research she’s done, she knows that this one is a studio apartment. She doesn’t press the bell for this flat, instead she calls one of the others and waits for a response.
‘Hallo?’ says a voice in Dutch.
‘Ik heb een pakket bezorgen,’ Neva says in a bored tone in response. I have a parcel to deliver.
‘I’m not expecting a parcel,’ the occupant replies.
‘It’s for your neighbour,’ Neva responds. ‘They didn’t answer and I want to leave it by their door.’
‘Which one?’ asks the woman on the other end.
Neva says it’s the top floor.
‘Ah. Him! Yes, he’ll be drunk by now!’
The door buzzer sounds and allows her access. Neva never takes for granted the help of nosey neighbours, but sometimes their information is invaluable. She’d seen the wine, but this woman must have noticed Fracks’ return and routine daily. It also means the woman is very observant, which could be a problem for her too.
Neva takes a small parcel out of her holdall and walks into the hallway. The apartment block is basic with no main reception, Neva notes that the stairs go all the way up to the top floor in a spiral. Holding the fake delivery package in her hand, she begins to walk upstairs. On the second floor a woman is standing by her door waiting for her.
‘You the delivery girl?’ she asks.
Neva nods, ‘Dank u, I have to get this delivered today or they won’t pay me!’
The exchange is made in Dutch and the woman nods and goes back inside her own apartment, satisfied that she hasn’t let a thief inside. Neva passes by and heads up the next flight of stairs.
Kill a Spy Page 6
