by J. A. Gill
Fearless when she wants to be, thought Vlad. He sipped his whiskey and wondered what to do with her.
Thirty-Five
Orel watched Papa sitting on his favourite bench near the small patch of green opposite the restaurant. The old man was doing nothing more than people watching and enjoying a warm Summer day. In a month or two a bitter north wind would arrive and the warmth of summer would be gone. Papa threw a few pieces of bread for the squirrel he'd named Oscar. Somehow Oscar seemed a fitting name for the little chap.
Orel sat down next to the old man and watched as he talked to the squirrel and threw bread. 'He recognises you, I think you have a friend,' said Orel.
'No. He only recognises that I offer free food. He's an opportunist.' Papa threw the last of the bread and the squirrel took it and then as quickly as he had arrived he was gone. 'What news?' asked Papa.
Orel looked around the park before speaking. 'I heard the meeting went well. Our German friend is happy. A shipment will arrive as usual in a few weeks,'
'Good. That's good.'
'Klaus said he hopes that you and he will catch up the next time he is in London. He says it has been far too long. He would like to thank you in person, he suggests dinner.'
'I hope you politely made my excuses?'
'Yes, I thanked him and explained you have handed all business affairs to Vlad. That you are retired and that I would pass on his kind offer.'
'Good. Thank you,' said Papa. Papa sat silently for a few minutes enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Finally, his eyes still closed he spoke. 'What else?'
Orel sighed and paused before finally answering. 'Another girl.' Orel watched the old man's hands flinch imperceptibly. 'I'm sorry,' said Orel.
'Are you positive it was him?' asked Papa.
'Yes. It happened the same way as the others.' Orel squeezed the old man's arm fondly. 'I'm sorry Papa, truly.' Orel left the old man alone. Only Papa could instigate what had to be done and so he could now only wait for Papa's word. In reality, there was no decision left to be made. It was now just a matter of when and how it should be done.
Thirty-Six
Vlad parked a few streets away and walked the short distance to the Carrington Grande Hotel. He sang softly to himself as he smoked and walked. He felt good. Anya made him happy and finally he was going to do something about Klaus the fat German. He'd heard some music on the radio in the car on the way to the hotel and he hummed the tune swimming in his head. He wasn't sure what the words were but he liked the melody.
He went round the back of the Carrington Grande where he'd arranged to be let in by a waiter who knew who Vlad was and knew not to refuse. As he rounded the corner the waiter was stood by the door smoking. He was talking to a big man who was also smoking.
Vlad instantly recognised the big man with the waiter as Hans Vogt. He was Klaus's bodyguard. At first, Vogt had a confused look on his face. A look that said he was seeing a face that was out of context. By the time Vogt registered whose face it was, then answered the question of why Vlad might be at the rear of the Carrington Grande Hotel at such an hour, it was too late. Vogt hadn't even the time to reach into his jacket for his weapon before a bullet struck his chest followed by another to his head. Boom. Boom. Down you go.
Vlad winked at the young waiter as he breezed past him into the hotel. He put a finger to his lips and ran it across his throat. The young wide-eyed waiter nodded emphatically and held out a key card.
Vlad moved quickly through the hotel. He was excited, he was buzzing now. He took the stairs two at a time and hurried along the corridor looking for the room. Seeing the room number on the door he paused to savour the moment before slipping in the key card. Click, click. Vlad was in the room and what he saw was better than he'd hoped for.
To his left a woman is sat at a table bent over a line of cocaine. She laughed excitedly, clearly off her head and thinking this is part of the evening's entertainment. Vlad closed the door behind him and shot the woman once in the back and then once in the head. She slumps forward onto the table.
A skinny young black man and Klaus are on the bed. The skinny black man is straddling Klaus with his back to the door, he turns his head to look over his shoulder. Vlad puts two bullets in the young man and watches as he collapses face first onto Klaus's chest. Then he walks over to the bed with a wide smile on his face. The fat man's arrogance has evaporated. 'Guten Aben, Klaus,' said Vlad in a low voice. 'I'm here to formally end our business association.'
Klaus's face showed a look of utter contempt. 'Are you crazy? Who do you think you are? My agreement is with Papa, only Papa can do that, now get out of here.' Klaus brushed the young black man off him and began to sit up. 'Our arrangement is extremely profitable for all of us. So what is your problem?'
Vlad fired once at the fat man's huge stomach. 'Whoops,' said Vlad.
Klaus looked at Vlad in total disbelief. 'Are you mad? You shot me,' screamed Klaus. 'Do you know what my people will do to you? To all of you? Let's be reasonable before this gets out of hand. Call me an ambulance immediately and perhaps we can consider this a misunderstanding. Then at some point we can all sit round a table and re-negotiate our business arrangements, if that's your problem.'
Vlad fired two more shots. Once in the chest and once in the head. He walked over to a lifeless Klaus and put his ear to the dead man's mouth. 'Oops, sorry. Were you saying something? I may have missed the last part, would you like to repeat it? I'm all ears, so when you're ready. What you can't, oh, because your dead. Well that's rather rude of you, now I'll never know what you were mumbling about and I'll be left wondering for at least a nano-second, you grotesque piece of filth.'
Vlad felt a little disappointed it was all over so quickly, he would have liked to have spent some time on Klaus but he was consoled by the fact he had important plans that needed his focus. By the time he was back in his car heading home through the late night traffic he was singing again and thinking about Anya and how life hadn't felt this good for a very long time.
Thirty-Seven
Baker stroked his beard, he was proud of his beard, Mother hated it of course. Despite the beard and his wearing a fake press badge he was still reluctant to get too close. These days he hardly recognised himself when he looked in the mirror so it was unlikely the dear Inspector would remember him, that was if he had any recollection of him at all. He hoped he would remember him and that in time it would all mean something significant, he'd hate to think his was just another case which had now been locked away in a dusty filing cabinet. How their lives were interconnected was important. The Chief Inspector had been busy during the preceding years, undoubtedly dealing with a lot of cases, so if need be he'd generously remind him of their first encounter. A lot of time had passed and a lot has changed for the both of them.
Back when they first met he was unprepared and unaware the police were observing him, in retrospect that had been foolish. Today he would reacquaint himself with the man trying to catch him. 'Know Thy Enemy,' he thought to himself. Observing his adversary was something he had planned on at the outset. After all this was all new territory. All of this was constantly evolving. He'd decided that understanding Hardy would be a big part of his own success. And if he ever came to write a book explaining his side of the story and why he embarked on his reign of vengeance then knowing as much as he could about the lead detective in the investigation would definitely offer a more rounded and satisfying account. Understanding how Hardy's mind worked would make it easier to impress him and hopefully even surprise him. That would be fun.
Watching the Inspector in the dark on a busy street or with a telephoto lens from a safe distance was one thing but watching him just metres away and in broad daylight was very much another. Baker decided that today it was safer to follow Hardy to a crime scene not of his own making. A passerby had told him it was young woman. That she was probably a prostitute. Probably one of those Eastern European girls. The passerby went on to say, in some detail, how he'd
heard she was left semi-naked and dumped behind the supermarket. Apparently stabbed repeatedly by a maniac. More than likely abused "sexually" for hours as well. Baker observed how well informed the man was and was tempted to ask how he knew all he did. He thought better of it and instead nodded and thanked the man for the insights and slowly moved away.
Unlike everyone else at the crime scene, Baker wanted to learn about Inspector Hardy and not the dead girl. It was interesting to see how Hardy behaves, his mannerisms, the way he holds himself with an air of authority. He's tall and athletic. He looks young, possibly early forties. Certainly well respected, he could see that by the way he interacts with fellow officers and the forensic team. He mentally noted how Hardy approaches the victim and familiarises himself with the crime scene. How the Inspector points, records and makes notes and observations. This is so cool. Baker laughed out loud as he watched Hardy take a photo of the victim on his phone. This is so beautiful, if he's taking so much care over some dead nobody just imagine how he must feel relief to work on something extraordinary like my case. It just has to be a blessed relief for him to work on an investigation that is so far from mundane.
Baker felt justified in the care he was taking to ensure his scenes were an honest portrayal of what he wanted the Inspector to see. Seeing him today he knew that Hardy's investigation would give his case some real gravitas when the truth finally came out. They would both certainly be remembered and what he was doing would be considered historic. He himself may divide public opinion but a large number would understand and know what he did was understandable under the circumstances.
Perhaps in time Hardy too would realise that the investigation into the Gallery Killer was a gift and that both he and Baker were forever bound by it. Not unlike Inspector Reid and Jack the Ripper, Bundy and Detective Keppel. Clearly those killers were different, there seemed no obvious purpose, he on the other hand had clear motivation. Wrongly convicted men deserve justice.
The spell was broken when a shiny black 4x4 pulled up in front of him completely blocking his view. Some rich bitch. Annoyed, Baker tapped on the window and waved his arms angrily to indicate the driver should move along. A tinted window slowly lowered to reveal the driver. Baker immediately regretted his decision. This wasn't some rich bitch, instead a nasty looking man stared unblinkingly at him. Tattoos on his hands and up his neck. The man smiled and revealed his bad teeth. Then a second window lowered at the back of the vehicle. This man had similar tattoos and this man's eyes looked black, black like a shark's eyes. Baker could see the man was going to say something. Please don't speak, please don't speak, just move along.
'Hey, little man, what are you looking at?' said shark eyed man.
Baker hesitated. He sounds and looks like Russian mafia. Trust me to tap on the wrong window. 'Nothing,' said Baker apologetically. 'I think someone has been killed. A woman.'
'That is so sad.' Shark eyes man rubbed his cheek with a gun. 'Perhaps, that dead person, they perhaps tapped on the wrong window. When you don't know whose inside it is a very dangerous thing to do. Inside it could be a lamb or it could be a wolf who will gobble you up. You just never know until it is too late. Run along little man or you might get eaten alive.'
Baker turned and started walking. Behind him he could hear the men laughing as the vehicle accelerated away. He felt sick. Now his day was spoiled. He could feel the anger rising up and coursing through his chest. It felt like it might explode. It needs release, damn it and damn them. His anger had been simmering and now this confrontation had caused it to boil over. He thrust his hands into his pockets and clenched his fists. Someone needed to pay, now, immediately. He ran down the list in his mind. He picked a name at random and at once felt some relief. He looked back across the street at the Inspector and saw he was on the phone. He pressed on through the busy London streets. There was work to be done.
Thirty-Eight
I arrived at the autopsy of Toby Fielding more than a little late and Hamilton was finishing up. She had finished with the body and to some degree I was relieved. I found Hamilton engrossed in writing her final reports for the day. I liked Heidi and had worked with her for years. I remembered her as a student and now she was one of Scotland Yard's finest forensic pathologists. She'd been given the nickname, Death Detective, which I know annoyed her as being ghoulish. She was all about the science, the care for the deceased and uncovering the truth of why they had ended up in front of her. In that way, we had something in common. I apologised for missing the appointment as I approached, if she was bothered she didn't say anything. We're all under pressure and know priorities can change in an instant, so we know when to give one another some slack.
'I ran the toxicology first thing to get a head start,' said Hamilton without looking up. 'It came back clean. Toby Fielding wasn't drugged. If he had have been it might have been a blessing in some ways. Poor boy.'
I knew Heidi Hamilton well enough to know that was a starter and she was about to deliver the main course. Hamilton turned my way. 'You look like hell,' she said. 'When did you last sleep?'
I shrugged and for some reason felt the need to straighten my tie.
'Toby Fielding was tortured at length and died from blood loss. Whoever, did this to him wanted to inflict maximum suffering.' Hamilton opened pictures on her monitor. She pointed to areas of his body on the screen as she spoke. Marks on the wrists, ankles and multiple marks on the body. 'Toby Fielding was Tasered. He had his feet bound with a cable tie and his hands bound behind his back, again with cable ties. Then your murderer used a varied selection of instruments to inflict suffering and pain by burning, cutting, puncturing, stabbing and drilling. So far I've counted at least thirteen different instruments used which include different size screw drivers, a scalpel, three different knives including a kitchen and serrated edged knife, an electrical drill. He also had multiple rib fractures and broken bones which were most likely sustained from repeated hammer blows. You get the idea, I'll list them in the report when I finish analysing them. In short it looks like you found yourself another hardcore stone cold killer, I really don't know how you manage it.'
'I'm just lucky that way I guess.' Neither of us smiled. 'Cause of death?'
'At this point I would say traumatic pneumothorax, his lung collapsed, from one of the puncture wounds. But there was so much trauma and blood loss that any number of factors contributed.'
This guy really went to town, he must feel a lot of anger to do all this. Perhaps the murderer was after answers? Or enjoys torturing for kicks. Or maybe this was staged to look like a maniac had gone to town on the victim, perhaps it was a red herring. Working back to back homicide cases I had my work cut out. I had moments where I felt at breaking point, no matter how much I tried to distance myself I eventually came back to doubting my ability to deliver answers. When investigations are so high profile and under such scrutiny there's a tangible pressure to give everyone answers or to at least look like an investigation is progressing.
Thirty-Nine
Matt Swift woke with a jolt. His head was swimming. He looked around trying to piece together where he was and what was going on. Adrenaline flooded his body as an intense fear came over him which quickly cleared his head. He was in his bedroom. He had been stripped of his clothes and tied to the bed. He could hear someone moving in one of the other rooms. It might be Karen, he thought desperately. He looked at the clock on the side table. Sunday. No, she's still away. He could hear humming. It's a man? The kettle clicked on and Swift heard the tinkle as a spoon went into a cup. He pulled at the ropes. The bed creaked. The humming stopped. He heard footsteps. A bearded man in glasses appeared at the door. 'What's going on? Who are you?' yelled Swift.
'Hello sleeping beauty. We'll get to why I am here in good time, Matthew. Now, I'm making tea, I would offer you one but I see you're a bit tied up at the moment. Oh, dear, let me cover that.' The bearded man took a shirt from the wardrobe and threw it over Swift's private parts. 'There that's better. I don
't want to see all that right before I drink my tea. Now you were saying?'
'What is this? Who are you?'
'Me? Oh, I'm one of your sensational tabloid stories come back to haunt you. I'm here to tell you that you do have a responsibility to get your facts right. A front page scoop destroyed my life. No amount of apologising can alter that. I've been visiting some of those who destroyed my life, you may have read about some of them in your newspapers. Now, I don't want to go over the detail of what happened during my encounter but between you and me let's just say by the end they were pretty cut up about it all. Gosh, another pun. Sorry, one moment, it sounds like the kettle has finished boiling. Excuse me for a little while, I always like to use boiling water on the tea bag.' The bearded man left and went back to the kitchen. A few seconds later he reappeared and grabbed a briefcase from a chair just inside the bedroom door. With a smile he said, 'This? Just a few tools for our little adventure together. Don't worry I cleaned off the blood and muscle tissue from last time, we don't want germs do we? Right won't be long, just going to drink my tea. Then we can get on with organising the horror show for when your darling Karen returns from her conference on Monday night.' The bearded man shut the bedroom door.
Swift closed his eyes. He focused on staying calm. Don't panic. He tensed his muscles and began to pull on the ropes. He pulled on all of them together and then each one in turn and then finally focusing on just one. He wrapped his hand around the rope tied to his right wrist and pulled with everything he had. The post began to move. He pulled again and again in short bursts.
