by J. A. Gill
Anya continued to scan the faces of the crowd. She was worried now she wouldn't recognise her. Then it crossed her mind that Miss Reilly might still be in the classroom. She started up the steps of the school when amongst a sea of faces she recognised the face she was looking for. It's was her, coming straight towards her. Miss Reilly was talking to a student. Anya had to speak to her, perhaps her boyfriend the detective would help her.
Monica looked up and recognised Anya straight away. Miss Reilly immediately ended her conversation and walked quickly towards her.
Fourteen
The two women sat in Monica's little Ford Fiesta and talked. 'You must go to the police,' said Monica. 'They're looking for you. Police officers all over London are looking for you. We thought you might have been, you know, killed.'
Anya began to cry. The first time she'd been able to. 'Your husband is a detective? Will he help me?' asked Anya.
Monica put her arms around her and held her. James is a good friend, he's not my husband, we're friends, it's complicated, but none of that matters. Yes, of course he will help you. You should come with me back to the house. You'll be safe. He'll be at home putting his children to bed right now, we can meet him there. You can shower, get a change of clothes and have something to eat.' Monica put her arms around Anya again and hugged her. 'You're going to be okay. James is good man.'
The carpark was empty of cars now, there was not a soul in sight. The night air was hot and full of the smell of cut grass. Monica started her small car, turned on her headlights and headed down the drive towards the road. She stopped at the entrance to check for oncoming traffic. Out of nowhere a black Mercedes 4x4 appeared and pulled up in front of the little Ford Fiesta. The two women watched as the doors of the Mercedes opened and two men jumped out and ran towards them.
Anya's door came open and she screamed as a large muscular man grabbed her hair and arm and tried to drag her out. Without thinking Monica threw the car into reverse and the Fiesta began lurching up the driveway.
Anya took her chance as the big man lost his footing when the car lurched, she grabbed the man's arm and bit down on it as hard as she could. The man cursed loudly, pulled back his arm and fell backwards off the driveway down onto the freshly cut lawn.
His partner looked at him and laughed. 'These two have got some fight, this should be fun.' They then both walked back to the Mercedes and with little haste followed the reversing Ford Fiesta up the driveway. They had no reason to rush, they knew there was nowhere for the little car to go and no escape for the two women.
Fifteen
Sometimes police work comes down to a little bit of luck. My father, once a detective himself always told me we make our own luck. He also like to tell me the luckiest detectives he'd worked with were usually those with the greatest levels of perseverance -- and so it was today.
I'd spent the day calling every detective and investigator I knew, and some I didn't, and eventually I got a lead. A vice detective I knew called Batholomew Bellamy, everyone calls him Barty-B, told me of a case he'd worked on a few years back. He'd been on a raid trying to bust a fast growing prostitution racket in west London. Girls were being brought in from eastern Europe and forced into sex work to pay off their debt to the traffickers. On this particular day the plan was to raid three flats at the same time in different parts of London. The idea was that none of the flats got tipped off about the raid because they were all raided simultaneously.
'If I remember rightly the flats were all above tanning and beauty shops. Anyway, we got the call and my team entered the shop from the front and we headed up the stairs,' said Barty-B. 'When we reached the top of the stairs we met no one, which was really odd. Initially, I thought we had the wrong place. Usually there are women running around and clients trying to get out of windows with their trousers round their ankles. I'm exaggerating, but you know what I mean, it usually gets chaotic for a while, but not that day. That day there was no one in the shop. No girls on the stairs hurling abuse, the place was quiet. It wasn't until the team started checking and clearing the rooms that we understood why.' Barty-B cleared his throat and continued.
'On a bed in one of the rooms four young women were piled one on top of another. It's hard for your mind to comprehend when you see something like that. All those young women had been stabbed over and over again. I don't mean stabbed just to kill them, I mean some of those young women had pieces of them hanging off and some of the pieces were on the bed and some on the floor. I'd never seen anything like it before and nothing like it since. There was blood everywhere. I mean a lot of blood. One of the guys said it was like a bomb had gone off in a butchers shop and I understood what he meant.'
Though this was a horrific story, at first I was unsure how it related to me and my enquiry. Then he told me each girl had been strangled and stabbed multiple times to the abdomen. He told me it was as though their necks had been put in a vice. Someone with a vice like grip had held each girl, crushed their throats whilst at the same time cutting and stabbing them.
'All three raids reported the same thing,' said Barty-B. 'In total eleven girls were found murdered in the three flats. Why? Well, at the time we assumed someone had become aware a raid was imminent and was covering his tracks in case any of the women decided to talk. Dead women don't talk.'
Barty-B then told me that unsurprisingly no witnesses came forward. A wall of silence went up and they never got the guy they suspected of doing it. I was hooked. I now sat with the phone pressed to my ear and my pen poised waiting for the name. This had to be my guy. There were too many similarities.
'If I were you' said Barty-B. 'I would look at a man called Vladimir Kastrati. Known to his friends as Vlad the Wolf.'
'What else do you know about him?' I asked.
'Not much really. Your man Vlad is Albanian mafia and as you'd would expect from any mafia boss-type he's a real nasty piece of work with a ruthless reputation. I won't go into details right now but as far as we can make out he's into everything: People trafficking, prostitution, drugs, money laundering, you know the kind of stuff. He's also right at the top of the food chain so he's always got someone willing to provide an alibi. Failing that, witnesses simply vanish or like these girls wind up dead.'
'So how do I get near him?' I asked.
Barty-B then did something I hadn't expected, he started laughing. 'You won't have too much trouble with that.'
'I won't have too much trouble getting near him? What do you mean?'
'Vlad is a real wannabe playboy. He loves an audience. I think he's a little confused about whether he's a gangster or a playboy. Whatever you do don't for a second forget what he is, from what I've heard he'll flip in a second from name dropping to dropping you off a building.' I could hear someone calling Barty-B's name so could tell he would be wanting to wind up the call. 'Listen Hardy, if you get anything on this animal let me know. I can also tell you there are detectives in vice, serious crimes, fraud, flying squad, you name it, they all have their own reasons for wanting to see Vlad the Wolf taken down. So anything you need just ask. Right gotta go. Good luck, mate.'
With that he was gone. I sat in my chair and drew a line under the name Vladimir (the Wolf) Kastrati. Was he Aleksandra's killer? I spent several more hours calling detectives back and pulling files and learning as much as I could about Vlad the Wolf.
Sixteen
The gallery had been closed an hour now. Simon Baker watched from across the street as Toby Fielding stood at the front door of the gallery and gazed out of the window, he looked up and down Old Potter Street. Baker watched as Fielding checked his watch.
'Twenty minutes late,' Baker said to himself. 'I'll give it ten minutes more to really piss him off then I'll pay him his visit.'
Eventually Baker crossed the road and appeared at the front door of the gallery just as Fielding began to pull down the blinds. Fielding had given up and decided to leave. 'I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm late. Why do our trains never run on time? It's me, Richard
Money,' said Baker. 'We have an appointment?'
Fielding smiled politely and unlocked the door. 'No bother,' lied Fielding. 'I was just catching up on paperwork. Very pleased to meet you Mr Money, please come in.'
'Thank goodness for paperwork,' said Baker. 'I really thought I may have missed my opportunity. Since I heard the canvas had become available I have been unable to think of little else. If I had lost it to another buyer I would have been more distraught than you can ever imagine. You know how it is? Well of course you do. A man of your extensive experience.' Baker was enjoying this already, more than he imagined. 'This fool has no idea who I am. I'm stood inches away from him and he doesn't have a clue.'
'Can I get you a tea, coffee, glass of wine perhaps?' said Fielding.
'A white wine, if you have it would be perfect, thank you. I really must apologise again for being late, it really is so very good of you to have waited.' Baker took off his coat and placed his briefcase on Fielding's desk. He watched as Fielding disappeared into the back office to fetch the drinks. He was a little concerned that in his excitement he was overdoing his performance. He took a deep breath then unclipped his briefcase in preparation.
'So what do you do, I mean what's your line of business, Mr Money? That is if you don't mind my asking?' called Fielding from the small office.
'I'm semi-retired. For many years I had a successful business exporting British luxury goods around the world, I had very little in the way of overheads and was able to build quite a nest egg. Then a few years ago I was forced to reassess my life and change direction. Due to unforeseen circumstances I had to - well let's just say I came to a crossroads and had to rethink my priorities. Fortunately, as I said, I had a little tucked away for a rainy day. Which was just as well because boy oh boy did it rain. But you know how it is, we brush ourselves off, pick ourselves up and move on. One door closes, another opens and all that. I now look at those experiences as being little more than chapters in my life story.'
'Yes, life can throw us all sorts of unexpected challenges, can't it. But we move on.' Fielding eyed Money's gold watch and expensive shoes. 'You certainly seem to have bounced back from whatever your challenges were.' Fielding handed Baker a cold glass of white wine. 'To challenges,' said Fielding. 'And to new chapters.'
'To new chapters,' agreed Baker. Laughing inside he watched Fielding sip his wine.
'So, Mr Money, shall we take a look at what you came all this way to see? I have it prepared in a private viewing room which is just through here.' Fielding lead the way. He opened a door to a small private room off the main gallery. The limited edition canvas was on the wall of the warm and brightly lit room. There were two double sofas and a small glass table upon which sat a bottle of Champagne on ice and silver plate of canapés. 'Here we are,' said Fielding with pride. 'The latest piece from Meredith Churcher. In my opinion, her finest work to date. It certainly reinforces her position as one of Britain's finest contemporary artists.'
Baker stood admiring the canvas for a long while. He put on a pair of glasses and stepped closer. He then took the glasses off and stepped back. He stood to the left of the canvas, then moved to the right. He said nothing for as long as he could stand it, savouring every blessed moment. He was having so much fun.
'Is it genuine?' Baker deliberately mumbled.
'I'm sorry, Mr Money? I didn't quite catch that.'
'Is it genuine?' said Baker. 'It's a simple enough question.'
'How do you mean, genuine?'
'How can I tell this canvas is genuine? I don't mean to be rude but for all I know you may have knocked this up in your garage.' Baker could feel the excitement rising within him.
Fielding was unsure how to respond, he wasn't entirely sure he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish.
Baker pressed on with his taunting. 'You tell me Meredith Churcher splashed the paint on this canvas in this child-like fashion but for all I know one of her spoiled grandchildren did it and she is passing it off as her own. I'm looking at the price tag and I want to be sure it's authentic.'
'I have all the paperwork to verify its authenticity, if that's what you mean, Mr Money?'
'I'm a very cautious man, Fielding. I once read of this man, I believe it may have even been an article you wrote, who had his life destroyed by accusations of fraud. Now I come to think of it, it was you who wrote it. What a coincidence. It seems this artist was accused by you of passing off his wife's art as his own. I believe you said, and I paraphrase. "It is talentless fraudsters like Simon Baker who bring disrepute and uncertainty to an otherwise proud art community. Men like Baker should be imprisoned and given very long sentences as a deterrent." Did I get it about right, Fielding?'
'I think you had better leave, Mr Money?' said Fielding. 'I am not sure what is going on here or what you are all about but I think you had better leave, right now.'
Baker moved quickly to lock the door and remove the key which he held up for show, then put it in his pocket. Fielding felt paralysed with fear and could only stare at Baker while his mind raced with possibilities. After some time processing the situation he now found himself in his eyes began to fill with tears. 'Who are you? What do you want?'
Baker moved to his briefcase and opened it. 'Have a think. Have a guess. Take a wild shot. Who do you think I really am? Have you been looking over your shoulder? You should have been.'
'You're not, Richard Money?'
'Nope.'
'So you're not here to buy the painting?'
'Nope.'
'Do I know you?'
'Yep.'
Fielding looked hard at the face of the man in front of him. The answer was there somewhere. Did he want the answer? If he worked out the name, then what? Eventually from a lost vault somewhere deep inside his brain and after a lot of frantic processing a name was served up. Simon Baker?'
'Bingo! Right first time. That was fun.'
Fielding changed his approach and became chummy. 'It's you, Simon Baker, so how have you been? Ha, the beard fooled me. You're looking good, considering, well considering all that nonsense that went on. It's good to see you. So what's this all about? Some sort of prank, I suppose. Just you wait until I tell everyone I bumped into you. They won't believe me. It's so good to see you again. You had me really going there for a while. You know I thought I recognised you but you know how it is, people change. And that beard, yes, definitely the beard.'
'Save it, we weren't friends. We only ever met twice. That didn't stop you joining the pack when everyone was out for my blood though did it? Well now I'm here for yours.'
'Look I can explain. It was my editor, Guy Lyons, you know Guy. He asked me to write that article. Everyone was talking about you at the time, how you -- well you know. With what happened and the arrest, and the court case and how they said you kept you wife prisoner and passed off her work as your own. We were all taken in. Everyone was talking about it, so Guy said he only wanted an article about what was happening with you. I never believed the stories coming out about you, I just had to write an article on what I was told. Anyway, no harm done, look at you now. You're doing alright.'
'You should listen to yourself. No harm done! Guy made me do it, blah, blah, blah. Don't worry I will visit Guy as well, but all in good time. Today I am visiting you.' Baker opened his briefcase and took out a pair of eye protectors, he then put on some latex gloves. Next he held up a cordless power drill, whizzed it few times and put it back. Next he held up a Taser, then a hammer, a screw driver and a pair of pliers. 'First things first, Fielding. Today you and I are going to create a very unique piece of art. It may not be to your taste but I know I'm going to like it.'
Fielding stepped back, putting the two seater sofa between himself and Baker. Fielding began to beg. Then as Baker closed in he screamed, then he cried and then he bled. All of which was exactly what Baker had hoped for and imagined for so long.
Seventeen
I
called to check everything was okay at home. Nana was babysitting tonight while Monica taught her evening class. When she answered Nana sounded concerned. 'I'm sure it's nothing to worry about James,' she said. 'But Monica's not back yet.'
'Perhaps she went for a drink after class, with colleagues or some of the students,' I said. I was trying not to sound concerned myself and was racking my brain trying to remember whether she told me she was going out after class.
'She always calls if she is going to be late. Always,' said Nana. She went quiet for a moment and then said. 'I didn't like to try her mobile like some worried old woman but I wish I had. I think you should, will you call her for me?'
Monica's mobile went straight to voice mail. I left her a message and called Nana back at home. Nana sounded very anxious now so I made a suggestion that I thought might calm her nerves. 'I didn't get an answer on Monica's mobile, so what I'll do is head over to the school to see if she's still there. She's probably just talking to friends, you know how she likes to talk. If she's not there I'll go to the King's Head pub just down the road from the school. That's where they usually go if they are have a drink afterward.'
