by J. A. Gill
I could see from the photos in front of me that this young woman had a tattoo on her shoulder, a simple wolf tattoo. We both then looked at each other. The same thought process had gone through our heads at the same time: Identifying marks.
I grabbed my phone and called Hamilton. 'Pick up, pick up.'
'She definitely had a tattoo,' said Rayner.
I nodded in agreement.
Hamilton answered. 'It's a good job I'm a workaholic, with no social life, who enjoys being called late at night by tall, dark, single men. How can I help you, James?'
'Sorry to call so late. Aleksandra the young woman...'
'Yes. I know the one.'
'Did she have a tattoo? I mean, I remember she had a tattoo, what did her tattoo look like?'
The line went quiet. Presumably Hamilton was referring to her files.
'Yes. She had a tattoo. Black and white. About 5cm by 8cm. On the back of her upper left shoulder. It's a tattoo of a wolf.'
This was either a hell of a coincidence or the women knew each other. At the very least they were in a way that was unclear at the moment connected in some way. We had our first development and that felt good.
'I assume Rayner is with you,' said Hamilton. I put my mobile to loudspeaker so Rayner could hear. 'As you're both there I will tell you now. The murder weapon used on the victim pulled from the Thames today is the same as the one used on your friend Aleksandra. She had multiple stab wounds just the same, she was also strangled in the same way. In fact her throat was virtually crushed. In my opinion, whoever did this held the victim by the throat and at the same time stabbed them. He was over his victim, he was up close and personal when he did this. Whoever this man is, he is strong and I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the sort of person your dealing with here.'
I sat back in my chair feeling drained. Reading between the lines it was now clear these two murders were related. Already we had a lot of evidence but as yet I couldn't see the big picture. I felt sure that unless this killer was caught he would do it again and again. Anyone capable of this kind of brutality enjoyed or at the very least felt compelled to do it. This man needed to feel power over his victim and that kind of power is considered to be addictive.
Rayner drained his bottle of beer and headed for the door. 'We'll start again in the morning. Stay where you are I can show myself out. And get some sleep, you'll think clearer in the morning if you do.'
It was after 1 a.m. when I looked at the clock. I made some coffee and read the files again.
Nine
Papa sat at the back of his restaurant, 6 a.m. was his favourite time of day. Caesar's would open in a few hours but right now it was closed and quiet. He could read his paper, smoke his cigar and think. The opportunity to think and reflect was something he cherished.
When Papa was a boy he remembered he would often sit with his father at their kitchen table and talk. As a boy, Papa only knew his father had many visitors and was said to be a man of his word. He was also aware that his father was respected by other townsfolk and they were wealthier than anyone he knew. This made the immature boy both proud and at times boastful. He later learned his father was also feared and respected in equal measure by not only his townsfolk but also by many in neighbouring towns.
As a boy Papa often got into fights with other boys, some his own age and some older and bigger. Tired of using his belt on his son for fighting his father instead sat him down to talk.
'I hear you've been fighting again,' said Papa's father. Without waiting to hear his son's side of the story he continued. 'Your strength as a man comes from respect. Without respect you are nothing. True respect can never come from a fist, a knife or a gun - only fear.' With surprising speed and strength his father grabbed his hand and looked his son in the eye. He then pressed a finger hard into the boys chest. 'Listen to me. True respect comes from power. True power comes from respect. Stop thinking with your heart and think with your head. Your heart makes you act from passion: Fear, anger, lust all come from your heart. These feelings will make you act on an emotional level and your decisions can be irrational. Irrational decisions will more often land you in trouble.' His father then pressed the same finger to the boy's forehead. 'Better to use your head, learn to think first. Give yourself time before reacting or making a decision. Just think for a moment of all the truly powerful men in history, first and foremost they were thinkers, strategists. If you can think for others and can deliver for them the result they desire, you will be respected and a powerful man. But first you must learn to think for yourself.'
His father then took out his knife and stabbed it into the table in front of the boy. 'I am not saying you will never need to fight, on the contrary there are times it is unavoidable. You will learn when those times are and when you do fight be sure it is the right and only course of action and that it is the last resort. Be sure also that at all costs you win that fight. Strike hard, strike fast and strike with ruthlessness and with finality.' His father then removed his belt and punished the young Papa that way for the last time.
Ten
Orel placed a strong black coffee on Papa's table and went back behind the bar where he continued cleaning glasses. Orel held up each glass to the light, polished it, inspected it and placed it neatly on the shelf.
A loud rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat cut through the silence and peace of the restaurant. Orel walked over to the glass door, took a deep breath and then opened it.
Vlad erupted into the room. He immediately looked out of place in the traditional surrounding of the restaurant. With his shoulder length hair, dark glasses and expensive suit he looked like a rich city banker who'd likely gotten lost and stumbled into the wrong bar.
Vlad patted Orel on the shoulder and pressed a wad of cash into his top pocket. He then headed to the back of the restaurant and sat down opposite Papa.
Orel nodded politely to the driver outside, closed the door and locked it.
'What?' asked Vlad.
Papa said nothing. He continued to read his newspaper.
'What?' Vlad repeated. Vlad raised his hand, winked at Orel, nodded and pointed to Papa's coffee. Lighting a cigarette he sucked hard and blew a large cloud of smoke into the air. Orel put the coffee down in front of Vlad and returned to polishing his glasses.
Papa put down his newspaper and sipped his coffee. 'Why would you do that?' asked Papa in a low voice.
Vlad shrugged and shook his head. 'Why would I do what?'
'Every week you come in here and every week you give Orel money. Why would you disrespect him like that?'
'I don't mean any disrespect. I'm sure you don't pay him enough and anyway I see it as insurance.'
'Insurance?' said Papa. 'Really? Explain that to me.'
'You know what. Let's not do this again. Let's enjoy our coffee. Orel's coffee is the finest in London.' Vlad raised his cup, saluted Orel and drank the strong rich coffee.
Papa ran his hand over his balding head and stared at Vlad. The two men sat in silence until Papa eventually spoke. 'You know this isn't the way I had intended to run things after we returned to London. I thought that after a few years I would retire and you could sit where I am sitting. I see now that you enjoy getting your hands dirty,' said the old man.
'I am ready to sit where you are. I just need a little more time putting the right people in the right seats. To do that I need to be out there, I need to be seen.'
Papa looked dissatisfied. 'The longer you are out there the more exposed you are,' said Papa. 'In here you distance yourself. With distance you gain perspective.'
Orel returned to top up the coffees then respectfully returned to bar.
The old man's face turned hard, his eyes darkened and narrowed. He lay both his hands flat on the table. 'I want the truth. The young woman. Was that you?'
How did the old man know about that? Of course he knew. Vlad turned and looked at Orel behind the bar and then back to the old man. The old man knew everything.
Pap
a asked again. 'Who was she?'
'She was no one, a whore. I had information she was talking to the police, I felt sure the information was good and so I acted in the interest of the business. Sad yes, but necessary. These girls like to talk when they think they can get citizenship in return.'
Papa knew he was being lied to again. My God, his arrogance, he doesn't even try to hide his lies any more. 'Did you know she was Albanian?'
'No, I didn't know she was from home?'
Another lie. 'It's your job to know those things,' said the old man angrily. 'The girl was from your uncle's town.' Papa put up his hand to stop Vlad speaking. 'She was not just some whore. Her name was Aleksandra, her family are asking me to find her. We are the very people expected to protect our sons and daughters when they come to London. Tell me, what should I tell them?'
Orel sat down at the next table and said nothing. He looked straight ahead and sipped his coffee. Vlad watched Orel's muscular and tattooed arm as he placed his coffee cup back in the saucer.
'Vlad, this is very important,' said Papa. 'You will speak to the girl's family. Offer our condolences. Send them a gift, a generous gift. Let them know the man that did this to their daughter will be brought to justice. They'll know what you mean.'
Vlad eyes turned quickly to Papa but showed no emotion.
Papa continued. 'I am not asking you to do this. Tell them what they need to hear and do it soon.'
Vlad lit another cigarette. He turned in his seat to lean against the wall. 'I'll do as you ask, Papa,' assured Vlad.
Orel got up and walked to the restaurant door, unlocked it and opened it. Vlad looked at Papa and then at Orel. 'Guess it's time to go,' said Vlad with a smile on his face. 'So good to catch up again. I do love our morning strategy meetings.' Nobody replied and Vlad strutted out of the restaurant, pausing only to knock over some chairs on his way out.
Eleven
Around midnight I heard a knock at the front door and the doorbell being rung repeatedly. I checked my phone. It wasn't Rayner, he always texts me before coming over late. It wasn't my parents, they would call first.
'Okay, okay,' I called to the late night visitor. I looked out the window and my heart sank. 'Scott. It's late. How can I help?' I said as I opened the front door. I didn't need to hear him speak, I could see he was drunk. I watched as he swayed and tried to gather his thoughts.
'I want to speak to my wife, she's still my wife.' Scott looked past me and into the house. Then he started calling her. 'Monica! Monica! I want to talk.' I saw a light go on across the street. I stepped forward to quieten him and calm him down.
'Scott, look at me, Scott,' I said soothingly. 'Monica is asleep. It's after midnight. My daughters are in the house and they're fast asleep too. I don't want them disturbed. What I suggest is you go home, sleep it off and call Monica to arrange a good time for you both to talk, preferably with your solicitors present. Take my word for it that will be better in the long run. You don't want her seeing you like this. How about I call you a cab?'
'Who the hell do you think you are? I know what you're up to. You're screwing my wife aren't you? Think you're above the rest of us don't you? Get out of my way, I want to talk to Monny now.' Scott staggered forward and tried to push me aside. From behind me I heard Monica come to the door.
'Scott? What are you doing here. Do you have any idea what time it is? Christ you're drunk.'
'I love you Monny, I do. I'm so sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for what I said. Ashamed of what I did. I never should have hurt you, I know that. I will get help, I promise. I'm getting help. I'm going to be different. I want you back. I want to start again. Can we start again? I just want to hear that we can try again and I'll leave. I promise I'll leave. Just say it.'
'Scott you're drunk. There are children asleep in the house. You're waking the whole street,' said Monica.
'I don't care, I love you. Say you'll give me a chance.'
I could see this conversation going round in circles. 'Scott, now is not the time. Let's do this another time. Could you call a cab please, Monica?'
'Who the hell do you think you are?' Scott lunged forward and gave me a shove and then took a slow swing at me which I side stepped with ease. He lost his balance and fell onto his side. He got back up and looked around for Monica who was looking dismayed with her hands over her mouth.
'Monny, I just want to talk.' Scott turned his sights on me again. 'Why don't you sod off, Hardy? Just leave us to talk. You're always around aren't you. No wonder we can't put our marriage back together, what with you moping around her all the time, hovering like some pathetic injured child.'
'Okay, that's enough. Monica please call a cab now or call the police. I really don't mind which,' I said.
Monica stepped toward Scott and I immediately stepped between them. I hadn't seen Monica like this before. She was furious. How dare Scott come here and bring his aggression and foul mouth to the place she felt safe. 'Scott, just go home, I don't want to talk to you. You're a weak man. You're a bully. You're not a man, a real man doesn't hit women, a real man doesn't blame his wife for his problems. You're nothing. You abused me and that is unforgivable. I never want to see you again. You hear me, never again. Now -- fuck off!'
That had the text book effect, I would have liked to have avoided, of Scott completely losing it. He paced around in circles ranting and raging. He then turned his focus on me and charged at me. I grabbed him and held him while he spat more abuse in my face.
'She's my wife,' shouted Scott. Then he looked at me with loathing in his eyes. 'You had your wife. She's dead. Bled to death in the street like a bitch. Some copper you are. You're not a man. Can't protect your own wife. How are you going to protect you're kids when you can't protect your wife? I bet you were screwing my wife, while yours was dying in the gutter.' Without hesitation I punched him. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, he was out cold. I dragged him by his coat and lay him on his side. I tilted his head to clear his airways in case he vomited. I looked up at Monica. Without a word Monica walked into the house and returned with my mobile phone and two coats. We sat huddled together on the front step with Scott snoring on the lawn beside us. I looked at my phone then looked at Monica.
'Shall I call the police or an ambulance?' I asked.
Monica shrugged. 'Ambulance, I suppose.'
I made the call then looked over at Scott and spoke to him as if he was able to hear me. 'You know Scott, I had a really bad day and you were able to make that bad day worse. That really is some talent. Now look at the three of us. You with your face in the dirt. Me effectively talking to an unconscious drunk. And Monica, well Monica dropped the F-bomb. Who knew she could swear like a sailor?'
Monica laughed and shoved me with her shoulder. 'I know lots of swear words. Shall I tell you some of my favourites?'
'Perhaps we should save them, that would be too much excitement for one day.'
Twelve
Papa and Orel were drinking Rakia and playing chess. Over the last few days Orel had noticed a change in the old man. He looked troubled. 'We've been friends a long time, Papa. Together we've been through a lot. Ups and downs. You've never questioned my loyalty. I've never asked for anything and yet you've always been good to me.'
Orel was a quiet man. When he did speak Papa had learned it was always for good reason. So he watched out of the corner of his eye and listened but pretended instead to study the chess board.
Orel topped up each glass, he drank his down in one and topped it up again. 'Growing up I had a dog. I loved the dog. I think the dog loved me. But the dog was unpredictable. I felt the dog couldn't be trusted but I loved the dog so I did nothing. One day my beautiful baby sister was playing with her dolls by the fire when the dog attacked her. Unprovoked, it nearly killed her. It grabbed her by the shoulder and thrashed her like she was nothing. She screamed and cried and there was blood, lots of blood. This only increased the dog's blood lust. My father heard her cries and ran into the room and w
ithout hesitation grabbed a fire poker and drove it straight through into the dog's skull. My sister survived though she was scarred down her face, neck and shoulder for the rest of her life. She was scarred because I avoided doing what I knew needed to be done. If I could have my time over again I would not hesitate. I would cut that dogs throat the first time it looked at me the wrong way.'
Papa sat back in his chair amazed. The two men had known each other for over fifty years and that was possibly the longest he'd ever heard Orel speak. 'What a load of nonsense,' said Papa. 'You must be the worst story teller I have ever heard. You never had a dog. You never even had a sister.'
Orel looked at the old man with shock on his face. Then the two men laughed. The sort of laughter that brings tears to your eyes. When they had regained control the two men lit cigars.
'Thank you,' said Papa. 'Watch him, I need to be one hundred percent sure it's him. I want to know everything. If it is him then I have protected him long enough. If he does anything to put the business at risk then I can no longer protect him. If Vlad behaves like an animal, then like an animal he must be put down.'
Orel knew this was hard for the old man. 'I'm sorry,' said Orel.
'I know. Now pour me some Rakia, that bloody story of yours, 'I think the dog loved me.' Christ Almighty, you should have been a comedian.'
Thirteen
Anya stood smoking her third consecutive cigarette outside in the car park of the school. She had cut her hair short and was wearing sunglasses but she doubted her new look would fool anyone who knew her. She felt exhausted and hadn't slept properly for days. Every sudden noise or voice caused her to jump.
She watched as students began leaving the building. It was late evening and the students weren't children, they were adults of all ages. They were attending the school for a wide range of courses. Some looking to learn computer skills, some wanting additional qualifications and some learning a new hobby like pottery, art or photography. She crushed out her cigarette with her foot and walked over to the building. Weaving amongst the crowd her eyes scanned the faces, looking for the tutor. Anya had met the tutor once or twice. She remembered her name was Miss Reilly, Monica Reilly. Aleksandra had talked about her a lot. The way Aleksandra always did when she learned something new or had a new idea. She would talk and talk and talk. Excited and full of enthusiasm like a child.
