by J. A. Gill
When you arrive here you are vulnerable. Back home you are sheltered and protected by family. I recall when I first arrived here I would not have survived long and would very likely have ended up in jail had I not been taken under the wing of a successful business man. This was a man my father had arranged for me to work for. Since then I have made my fortune and send what I can back home to help the poor and sick back home.'
Vlad was a little concerned he may have overdone his performance so began to rein it in a little and get back to the point. 'I know things can be hard at first. I too worked my way up. You're a smart, strong and intelligent woman which means there are opportunities. Because of what happened to your friend I feel it is important I keep you close. I would not want you to meet a similar fate. Do you understand?'
Anya nodded. Though in reality she still wasn't sure whether he was going to kill her or beat her or both. And if he did whether he would kill her family back home as well. She picked up her wine with a trembling hand and drank it down in one.
Vlad took the glass from her and filled it again. Before handing it back he spoke softly. 'I am sorry my men were heavy handed with you when they picked you up. Your friend Monica is fine. I have checked and though she was in hospital she was there only as a precaution and was quickly back home. I was shocked when I heard what happened. I have reprimanded the men who picked you up. They were under strict instructions only to find you and ensure your safety by bringing you to me so we could talk.'
Anya felt strong again, she took a cigarette from her purse, lit it and exhaled heavily before choosing her words carefully. 'I know who you are and I know what you are, so save it for someone else. As I see it you have already decided whether or not you should kill me. I assume because I am sitting here and not dead already you don't consider me a risk and so are not going to kill me. You also know if I was going to talk to the police I would have already. You also know that as an Albanian in London I would not talk to the police because of our distrust of them. I assume then, when you say you want to keep me close you mean you want me to work for you. I also assume you're not planning on paying me for my typing skills.'
Vlad laughed and passed her the glass of wine. 'You're right, I don't have much need for typists. I will get straight to the point. I can put you in touch with some very wealthy friends of mine who would love to meet you. Instead of being an escort to average businessmen. Come work for me. I will protect you, watch over you and introduce you to the wealthy associates I know. I assure you, you will very quickly become a very rich woman.'
Anya finished her cigarette and slowly drank her wine. She then walked over to Vlad. 'I guess if you're going to be recommending me then you had better make sure your friends will be satisfied,' said Anya as she ran her fingers through his hair.
'Perhaps you are right,' said Vlad. 'Though, the longer I am around you the less I want to share you with anyone else.'
Anya wasn't sure whether Vlad had bought her sudden change of heart but for now she thought if she could keep him satisfied he would be less likely to want her dead. Men are so weak that way. She had to do this she told herself, if for no other reason than to give herself time to consider her options.
Twenty-Five
I was in Harrow, at the first floor apartment of Toby Fielding. A constable was stationed outside the apartment. She assured me someone was home and she had spoken to no one. She was sure no one had been in or out of the upstairs apartment since she'd arrived, which had been around forty five minutes earlier. After knocking and waiting a few seconds I was met at the door by Stuart Walsh. He looked on edge and his lean figure immediately became tense when I introduced myself. The apartment was expensively furnished and large art pieces were tastefully displayed. Dotted around I noted pictures of Toby and Stuart. 'What's your relationship with Toby Fielding?' I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
'We're married. We've been married just over two years, we kept our own names. Why are you are asking me that? Tell me what's happened. Has something happened to him? Is he hurt? Where is he?' Stuart began pacing.
'Please take a seat I have some bad news.'
'I'm fine. Is he hurt? He's dead isn't he? I knew something was wrong when he didn't come home last night. I went to the gallery but it was locked up. I called our friends. Nothing. It was just so unlike him not to call me if he was going to be late.'
'We discovered his body at his gallery. We're treating his death as suspicious,' I said, not wanting to go into detail. 'I know this is difficult but can you think of any reason anyone would want to harm him?' This is part of the job no police officer likes and I've visited loved ones with bad news more times than I ought to. And I can recall every single one of the families and all the reactions. People respond in different ways but all usually experiencing similar emotions at difference times, feeling shock and denial, incomprehension, distress, despair, anger, helplessness, acceptance.
Stuart Walsh had regained some composure and dabbed away tears rolling down his face. 'Toby was a gentle man. Kind. Loving. Compassionate.'
'It's possible he knew his killer,' I said. 'There was no forced entry into the gallery so perhaps his killer was client or a friend.'
'All his appointments go in his work diary at the gallery. As for our friends, I can give you a list, someone might know something.'
'I checked his diary. His last appointment was with a Mr Richard Money. Do you recognise that name?'
'No.' Walsh looked as if he wanted to say something but was holding back. 'This is going to sound stupid. But he did say he thought he was being followed. He told me he thought a man was following him. We just laughed about it. "You should be so lucky," I said at the time.'
'When was this?'
'A few weeks ago, I suppose.'
'What did this man look like?'
'He didn't say. I don't know for sure whether he actually saw anyone. I think it was more of a feeling really. We never took it seriously, now I wish we had.' Stuart Walsh got up and went to his bedroom. 'I just remembered something,' he called over his shoulder.
A few moments later Walsh returned. He handed me a card. 'We got this through the letterbox, a few months ago. Toby said we should destroy it but I decided to keep it. It's nothing, I'm sure, I've had hate mail before. Growing up it was obvious I was gay so I've had to deal with all kinds of abuse. For Toby it was different, this was the first time he'd received anything of this kind. You know, he left his wife and children for me. He sees his children again now but ...' Walsh broke off mid sentence and broke down again. 'Toby's children,' he said.
'There's a detective with them right now, they're being looked after.' I opened the card and read it to myself. "So glad to see you're happy. You don't deserve to be. I'll make sure you suffer. Keep looking over your shoulder. One day I'll be there and it'll be the last thing you see."
'When did you get this?'
'Six months ago, maybe.'
'Did you report it?'
'Really? And what exactly would you have done?' said Walsh bitterly.
In reality Walsh was probably right and now wasn't the time. Walsh curled up on his armchair while he waited for his family to arrive. I looked around the apartment for anything that might give me an insight into what had driven someone to so brutally murder Toby Fielding. Could his murder have been random? Was it a hate crime? Or as with most murders was it someone he knew, a family member perhaps? Why was the murderer so filled with hate?
Twenty-Six
Baker shut his study door with his foot and placed a selection of crackers and cheeses and a bottle of red wine and glass down on his desk. His mother could no longer manage the stairs and the whole upstairs was his.
Baker powered up his laptop and began flicking through pictures and video. He was pleased, the colours looked vivid and most of the pictures were sharp. His phone had picked up the sound well, better than he had hoped. Phone and laptop synced he began uploading the images. While they uploaded he signed into the
member's site, this was going to be good. By now other members must have thought he was either all talk or dead or arrested. They were going to be surprised when he not only signed in again after so long but also had something to contribute.
Images loaded onto his laptop he opened Photoshop and began editing the pictures. Brightening, sharpening and tweaking the contrast and saturation until he was satisfied.
Baker talked to himself as he worked. Faye, you look so beautiful. I think I'll soften you a little. There. Perfect. Of all my work you are by far the best. Toby was just a bloody mess, no finesse. You on the other hand, exquisite. They are going to love you.
He got up and ran a finger over his books. He pulled out a copy of The Great Gatsby. With a scalpel, he cut round a USB stick and tested it. It fitted perfectly. He then transferred the images and video to the USB and put the stick in the space he'd cut at the back of the book. He then put the book into a jiffy bag and addressed it with a marker pen. He checked twice he had the address correct. Next, he took the tin from his rucksack and took out the Saint Christopher necklace which he slipped inside the envelope. Finally, he wrote two quick notes. The first read:
A gift as promised.
I call this 'Ophelia'. All went pretty much to plan. Thank you once again, for your help and advice.
Kind regards, S.B.
P.S. Next already scheduled.
Baker slipped the notes in with the book and placed the jiffy bag next to the door ready for posting.
For the next few hours he chatted online with fellow members. It was good to catch up. He waited as long as he could before posting a few images and then finally a short video. He ate crackers and cheese and sipped wine while he waited for feedback. He didn't need to wait long, within just a few minutes the comments began pouring in. He felt a real sense of pride and accomplishment as he began receiving praise.
@dracs: Congrats.
@singlewhitefemale: Well done buddy
@thegentleman: You one stone killer now
@hannibal: Nu u hd it in u. Smkn
@thementor: Congratulations and Welcome. I will upgrade your account once I verify.
@crucified: Awesome. Bet you're feeling better now. Congrats my friend.
@cody666: Nice. She's hot.
@hannibal: @cody666 u thnk nythng tht mvs is hot
@cody666: FU @hannibal. Least I've got a pair
@hannibal: Wht?
@saucyhorse: Well done. Bet you have a real taste for it now.
@thinkhappythoughts: top work. See you in hell, ha ha
@hannibal: Scrw u @cody666
@admin: @hannibal, @cody666, please remain courteous and professional or your will be asked to leave and blocked from membership.
@hannibal: I aplgs
@cody666: Sorry.
@cody666: That dick @hannibal started it
@miamimurders: Well done you. Go get em.
@thecrow: very well done
@priest: Welcome to the elite
The praise kept coming and certain members, the usual suspects, scrapped it out like wild dogs. Baker finished off the wine and yawned and stretched. He was still aching but all in all it had been a pretty perfect day and tonight he would sleep like a baby. Before going to bed Baker went to his rucksack and took out the tin of photographs. He looked around the room and then placed the tin on his bookshelf. Finally Baker opened a desk drawer and pulled out his list. He crossed through Faye's name and put a tick next to the name beneath hers.
Twenty-Seven
When the phone rings in the early hours there is a better than average chance someone is dead. Seems there had been a tip off. Someone was keen to show off their work. That's rare, but it does happen. I wrote down the details before I was even fully awake. I felt dazed, the body count just jumped again. I was on my way to a bungalow an hour or so outside London. A little off my usual patch but the gallery murder and bungalow murder must be linked in some way if the tip off call was delivered in the same way.
When I arrived I was introduced to Thames Valley Serious Crime Officers who had the situation and had their investigation well under way. Press were just setting up and were looking to find out whether this was newsworthy. I spotted some familiar faces. A cameraman from ITV was there and as soon as he spotted me I knew word would spread this was a murder investigation and a big deal.
I entered the house and was introduced to Detective Inspector Stowell. Our paths had crossed a few times and we'd discussed cases and suspects over the phone on several occasions but never really got to know each other. Considering the circumstances, he seemed in a buoyant mood and was keen to share what he knew so far. 'Housekeeper's name is Mrs Anne Partridge. Around 6 a.m. she found the body of her employer's daughter. She arrived to prepare the house for the return of Mr and Mrs Wells, they're returning from a week in Portugal. Has worked for the family for about nine years, she was pretty hysterical when we got here.
Dead woman's name is Faye Wells, she's thirty three. Lives here with her parents. This is the home of the parents. Parents are Diane and Terry Wells. Mr Wells was a builder who made a fortune renovating and selling properties. Mrs Wells was a science teacher for thirty years. Both retired now. Lucky them. Mr and Mrs Wells have a place in Portugal, they go there regularly, usually at least once a month. Nice. Faye stayed behind, which she often does according to the housekeeper, that gives them all some space once in a while. Waiting to speak to Mr and Mrs Wells to find out whether Faye couldn't afford to moved out of the family home or whether she lives here for another reason, like a relationship break-up.
Mrs Partridge always topped up the fridge and generally made sure they had a few essentials before they arrived back. She let herself in to the house as usual and did her thing. She presumed Faye was still in bed, so carried on with a quick tidy up and check of the rooms and that's when she found Faye Wells dead in the bath. At first, she thought Faye had fallen asleep in the bath, then when she couldn't wake her she called an ambulance. Paramedics could see straight away death was suspicious from the neck marks. Paramedics called us. Now you know as much as I do.'
'When are the parent's due back?'
'I had them picked up. They're on their way from the airport right now. Should here within the hour.'
'So do you mind?'
'Not at all. I'd be interested to see what you think. Go right ahead, she's through there.' We walked through to the bathroom and forensics were examining the woman and taking samples.
'Bit crowded in here detectives,' said a voice I recognised. 'Thought I heard your voice Hardy. Guess you're here for the same reason as me. Possibly the same killer as the victim at the gallery?'
'Guess so, Heidi. It's good to see you.'
'So you two know each other? I was wondering why we needed Scotland Yard forensics here. And this is part of a bigger investigation? Your investigation? Well that's just great. Don't I feel like the tea boy?' said Stowell. From the look on his face, Stowell hadn't received that all important memo.
'Listen, it's early. We don't know all the facts yet. This incident could be linked or it could be isolated, it's too early to say. All we know right now is that we received an anonymous tip off similar to one we received about a body found in a London gallery.'
'We know this was not suicide. We know this was no accident. We know she was strangled with some sort of cord,' said Hamilton, trying to shift the subject back to the here and now. 'We also know she's been dead around twenty four hours. We know she was killed in the bedroom and dragged through to here and put in the bath. We know she fought back. We also know the killer staged the scene.'
Stowell handed me a rose petal. 'These were scattered in the bath with her.'
I stepped carefully into the bathroom to take a closer look. Such a brutal way to go, she must have been so scared. 'Was that over there when you got here?' I pointed to the shower curtain folded and placed on the wash basket.
'Yes. We haven't moved anything yet,' said Hamilton.
'Sc
arf?'
'The scarf was added post mortem. Most likely added once she was in the bath.'
I looked at Stowell but said it for either of them. 'Any sign of a break in?'
'Still working on it,' said Stowell.
Hamilton shook her head and shrugged. 'I've been in here. Not heard. I do forensic pathology I leave all the non-scientific work to you and your friends -- no offence.'
Stowell looked offended. 'You'll get used to her,' I said. 'She thinks because she has a microscope at home she's the only one who does any real detective work around here.'
'Well it's true, isn't it? You boys just drink tea and chat all day,' she looked at my face which was still a little bruised from a recent incident. She winked at me. 'Some of you also like to pick fights with bullies.'
'Let's leave the death detective to her work,' I said to Stowell. 'We'll check out the rest of the house.' She might not admit it but Hamilton used her black humour when she was upset, she likes to pretend she's invincible. I'd worked that out a long time ago and I could sense she was clearly feeling it today. I made a mental note to call her later to see how she was doing. I'd see if she needed some company, perhaps finally go for that drink I'd been promising her, be a supportive ear for her. She's been there enough times for me in the past, it was least I could do.
I worked my way through the house. Slowly and methodically. I heard the parents arrive. I stayed away from them for the time being. Left it to Stowell. I would speak to them later. I didn't need to be there when they heard the news no parent ever wants to hear. I was more use to them doing what I was doing.
Twenty-Eight
Faye's parents had given DI Stowell the name of Faye's best friend. Tara Bishop and Faye had been friends in school and were still close. Tara's flat was on my way back to London so I suggested to Stowell I pay her a visit on my way back.
