by DC Brockwell
Valerie nodded. “A transit van, I guess…”
“How many doors? Three, five?”
“How many doors? How would I know that? I’m not a van expert!”
“A three-door will open from the rear, a five-door opens from both sides and the rear. Did this man put the body in the rear or the side?” Terrence asked.
“Oh, the side. I saw it from a side angle. I think there was another man in the back of the van helping to pull the body in, but I didn’t see him clearly…”
“Does that mean you saw the first man clearly?” Nasreen asked, hope in her voice. They really needed a good solid witness testimony.
“As clearly as I could, being…” Valerie’s voice trailed off.
“Being what, Valerie?”
There was a long pause as Valerie looked into the distance, thinking. “My boyfriend didn’t want me to come in; he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Nasreen thought she knew what was troubling their witness. She’d seen it so many times before, so she tried to reassure her. “Valerie, we only want to know what you saw. We don’t care if, say, you were inebriated or high on drugs at the time, okay? I promise you’re not in any trouble.”
Valerie took a deep breath before answering. “We went clubbing that night, so I took something. And I had some drinks too. That’s why I didn’t come in before. At first I thought I’d dreamt it, until I saw the missing person profile on Facebook; that’s when I put two and two together.”
“Please tell us about this man you saw,” Nasreen pleaded.
“Okay, so I saw him dragging another man across the road as we approached the van, only from the side. But as we passed the van, the man turned and I saw his face. He was about five foot ten, maybe six foot. He had a bald head on top but dark hair on the sides, a craggy face. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans… I remember he had a mean-looking face and he was well-built, stocky. Dean said he wouldn’t mess with him.”
“Is that everything?” Terrence was busy writing everything down.
“I think so,” she replied. “Like I said, I saw a shadow in the back of the van, but I couldn’t say that I saw him – not to describe anyway. I’m sorry I took so long getting here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nasreen replied with a smile. “Thank you so much; you’ve been a big help.”
She showed Valerie out of the interview room before going back and sitting down at the table. Nasreen was excited. “That’s great news! We know what we’re looking for now.”
“I know how much this case means to you, but don’t get your hopes up, Nas.” Terrence was still sifting through his notes. “We’ve got something to go on, sure, but realistically all we have is a testimony from a wasted witness. We can’t rely too much on her story.”
“But the time and place fits, and she’s even described the suspect.”
“Hey, I’m with you, I am. All I’m saying is don’t get your hopes up.” His eyes told her what he thought.
She nodded her understanding. “We’ve got cameras all around the park, above the traffic lights. Shall we start looking for this white van?”
“Knock yourself out. I’ve got a meeting with Adams, so you make a start and I’ll join you when I’m done…”
10
Beattie was incensed. She decided enough was enough; it was time to put an end to her ungrateful bee. Freddie had been given enough chances. It was time to find another New Bee to replace this worn-out pathetic excuse for one in front of her.
As she watched him writhe on his bed like a man possessed, anger welled up in her gut. She wanted to pummel him, to pound on him. Knowing it wasn’t becoming of a lady, she instead turned to Walter. “Bring him through to the furnace room.”
As Beattie strode out of the room and past cells six to ten until she reached the furnace room door, she could hear her thankless bee protesting, fighting his chains while being wheeled after her. She signalled two of her guards who were stood by the bar to help, and they obeyed, following her.
She yanked the heavy metal door to the left, her face stern, still hearing the ungrateful bee’s fuming cries behind her. The two guards walked past her, went up to the huge furnace, opened the doors and stood back, waiting for Walter to wheel in the bed.
Beattie stood looking at the eight-foot long, six-foot wide furnace, remembering the first time she’d seen it. She remembered thinking how you could probably fit three people in there, it was so big. It had been there since before World War Two and it still worked – it was even hooked up to the gas mains and would explode into life with the push of a button.
Walter wheeled the bed in and brought it to rest in front of the furnace.
Beattie listened to the bee’s cries and pleas for leniency with no emotion – it happened every time. She didn’t feel pity for him; she felt nothing but anger and resentment at his lack of gratitude. She could have made his life so much worse here, but no, she’d given him decent customers to service and let him live a life of luxury in his three-by-three room. Thinking about it made her even angrier.
She nodded at Walter and the two guards. They proceeded to unclip the main part of the bed from the legs. The beds in each room had been specially designed for this very purpose – to be able to slide the base into the furnace at a moment’s notice.
The bee’s angry cries increased in fervour as his bed slid into the massive oven, the two guards standing back as Walter closed the doors and latched it, trapping the bee inside.
As Beattie watched the bee’s fingers grip the oven’s slats – trying to pry it open with brute force – a smile crept over her. “Not so cocky now, are you?”
The bee went berserk trying to open the door.
Then, suddenly he stopped.
It was unnerving for Beattie, who looked at Walter.
Freddie started laughing – it was crazy, maniacal laughter.
What could he possibly have to laugh at?
The bee’s laugh grated on her nerves. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt such rage. “What the hell are you laughing at?” Her voice was bitter, angry.
The bee, however, was so busy laughing he didn’t answer. He was lying on his back, looking up at the blackened ceiling of the furnace.
She strode up to the oven as she screamed, “Tell me what’s so fucking funny!” She hated swearing. It was the anger forcing her.
“In a minute I’ll be dead, but I’ll be rid of you!” Freddie replied.
It was in that split second – the moment directly after he said “rid of you” – that Beattie realised she couldn’t go through with igniting the furnace. She had to think of what to do next, and it had to be something worse – far worse than burning him alive. He was right: it would only take a minute or two for him to die, and then it would all be over. She wanted him to suffer. But what could she do?
Then it hit her.
A smile crept over her lips again, as she turned to face the ungrateful bee. Crouching, she stared at him through the slats of the oven. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said with a smile. “You’re not going anywhere.” Standing up, Beattie turned to face Walter. “Prepare a room on C Wing…”
11
Finally, Nasreen had something concrete to go on.
She was sat at her desk looking over the notes she’d made in the interview with Valerie. Nasreen needed CCTV footage of last Wednesday morning, and from as many angles as possible. The van had to have been caught on at least one of the cameras, although she tried not to get her hopes up.
When she found the number she needed, she picked up the phone and dialled. All the CCTV cameras she needed footage from were owned by the council, so using her job title she requested the digital footage be sent to her email address. She hated wading through hours of video surveillance, but she hoped the search would yield results. She wanted to see this suspect for herself.
Without hesitation, the female council worker agreed to send Nasreen the data she’d asked for. She sai
d it would take about half an hour to collate, and send through. Nasreen thanked her and hung up.
Back in her chair, she glanced over at a photo of her daughter, Mina. The photo had been taken just one month before Ashraf – her husband – had died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage. She’d found out three months after his death that he’d known of his brain abnormality and had hidden it from her. It hurt that her partner in life felt he couldn’t confide in her about something so important, so life changing. That was three years earlier.
The photo was of Nasreen holding Mina on her daughter’s first birthday, by a professional photographer Ashraf had paid for as a surprise. It was a lovely photo of both her and her daughter smiling happily with no knowledge that a month later both their lives would be cruelly torn apart.
Nasreen looked at her own smiling face. She’d had a lot to be thankful for back then; she didn’t now. She wanted to get back to a good place, but since Ashraf’s death, nothing really had any meaning, except for Mina, and her job. Nasreen thanked Allah for her work; after the funeral she’d thrown all she had into her career. She wasn’t supposed to be a widow at thirty-three – life just wasn’t fair.
On the one hand, she didn’t want to have to think about dating yet; on the other, she wasn’t getting any younger. She was thirty-six and people had begun asking her when she was going to start dating again. The thought filled her with dread; it was bad enough before she’d met Ashraf, much less now she was a mum, and a detective.
“Any luck with the CCTV footage?”
She jolted back to reality in her chair, placing the picture back on the table. “Er, yeah, it should be coming through to my email any minute,” she replied, embarrassed that she’d been caught daydreaming. “How did it go with Adams?”
“As expected, this is our last chance on the Rose case,” Terrence replied. “We’ve had two stabbings come through Adams wants us to investigate; he thinks they’re gang-related. He wants us to attend the briefing in half an hour.”
“But what about the footage?”
“It’s okay, I’ll attend the briefing; you stay here and see what you can find. I’ll brief you after. Tomorrow we’re taking over from the blues.”
The blues was how Terrence referred to uniformed police officers. It wasn’t derogatory, just a way for him to talk about them without calling them uniforms, or bobbies. She had only been a plain-clothed officer for a year, and she’d already started talking about the blues in a less than respectful manner; it was par for the course in a hierarchical institution such as the police force.
“And if I find something, do you think he’ll let us carry on investigating this case?”
“I don’t know,” Terrence replied, somewhat perplexed. “I know he’s your friend, but you know the odds of finding him now – they’re slim to none.”
Nasreen shook her head. She wouldn’t accept that. She had to find him; the alternative wasn’t an option…
“What’s going on out there?” Danny strained, trying to see what was happening.
Kimiko walked over to the door and closed it quickly.
He thought she looked nervous.
“Nothing,” she replied, walking back to his bed. “Bee get ready.”
It didn’t sound like nothing – he’d heard a bloke screaming. When Kimiko turned her back on him, he knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of her.
Instead, he leaned back and relaxed as she looked at her watch.
“It time get you ready,” she said, beginning to prepare him.
“Morning, Danny,” came Beattie’s voice.
He hadn’t heard the door open – what with enjoying Kimiko’s attention – and when he opened his eyes Kimiko stopped, stood up straight, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Five minutes until show time,” Beattie said, walking to the side of his bed and looking down at him. “How’re you feeling today? I see he’s up and raring to go.”
“I’m fine,” he replied with a smile, more from Kimiko’s tongue action than as part of his plan. Either way, he was determined to charm his kidnapper. “I had a lot of time to think last night; you won’t have any trouble from me.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I understand the adjustment takes time. But I promise, if you do a good job you’ll be well rewarded.”
“It appears you have me in a bit of a bind,” he joked, jingling his wrist chains, “so it’s in my best interest to work with you here.”
He saw her smile at his joke, always a good sign of rapport building. He needed her to believe him. If he went along with what she wanted, he might be out of these chains soon. Then he could work on getting out of this room and look for a way out. “So, if I’m good and perform well, how long until I get out of these chains?”
“We’ll see. Soon, hopefully,” she replied with a smile. “Most New Bees are out of their chains within ten days, but if you’re as good as you say you will be, it could be even sooner.”
“That’s great news,” he said, smiling inwardly.
“Two minutes to go,” she said, glancing at her watch.
“Anything I should know about my first client?”
“She’s really nice, but don’t talk to her, it puts her off. She’s very much an ‘in and out’ client. If you talk to her, she’ll mark you down; she’s done it before and I want – no, expect – you to get top marks.”
“No chit-chat, got it.”
“Oh, and Danny, if you get in trouble – if ‘he’ falls asleep – remember to think sexy thoughts, okay?”
“Got it,” he said, clinking his wrist chains. “I would do a double thumbs up, but…”
He saw her smile again as she walked over to the door. Before she left, she turned to Kimiko and said, “Finish prepping him, please; he’s falling asleep.”
Kimiko did as she was instructed.
When there was a knock on the door, she glided over to it, opened it and greeted the woman with a bow, and then she turned to him and smiled, a good luck smile.
Danny took a deep breath.
It was time for his first official performance; he had a lot riding on it.
His first client was a woman in her early fifties. She had long brown hair hanging past her shoulders, brown eyes, and was of average looks. He couldn’t tell what her body was like under the white robe she was wearing.
She untied the belt of her robe, opened the gown, and let it drop to the floor.
The woman approached his bed, climbed on, and walked on her knees until she was hovering over him…
Beattie was in her office with Walter. She’d been delighted by Danny’s attitude, however she wasn’t entirely convinced; it normally took bees longer than one night to adjust. She’d seen so many bees come and go that she was naturally suspicious of them all. So, she would monitor his performance. If he was genuine, he would be a big asset to the business.
Whatever happened with Danny, she still had to make sure Freddie suffered; that was what her meeting with Walter was about.
“The room’s ready, the boys know what to do,” he said.
Beattie nodded. “So, every three hours then. Just make sure he regrets calling me a bitch and spitting in my face.” She actually hated him calling her that more than she minded him spitting at her.
“Oh, he’ll regret it. You have my word on that.”
“And your word means a lot to me.” She squeezed his shoulder.
If there was one person she trusted, it was Walter. He’d been with them from the beginning, and he had also been involved in the nastier side of the business, something she couldn’t have done without him.
Walter was from Bavaria originally. He’d moved to the UK as a teenager with his parents and two brothers. He’d been a handful as a teenager, which resulted in the inevitable run-ins with the law; he’d been arrested for assault when he was seventeen, and in his late teens he’d been arrested for burglary and then separately for affray. He’d spent a year inside for the burglary, althoug
h charges were never raised against him with regards to the assault or affray arrests. Ever since then he’d been clean.
She and Alan had allowed Walter to recruit five guards, who all lived up on the third floor of the house. Walter had recruited two friends from Slovakia, Kachmar and Filip, and three from Croatia, Borislav, Slavomir and Tomislav. All five of the recruited guards were first-generation immigrants who’d decided to move to the UK to earn money for their families still living over in their respective countries.
It was the job of these six guards to keep the bees and support staff in line; they had to chain the support staff up every evening so they didn’t run off in the middle of the night; they had to check they did their jobs properly and they had to watch the bees between customers to make sure they didn’t chat amongst themselves while showering and using the toilets. They performed their duties well.
Beattie had every confidence in her security team, even when they were two men down; every now and then Walter and Filip had to leave the farm to go and pick up a New Bee. It didn’t happen very often – when it did, it meant the remaining guards had to pull together and pick up the slack when they were gone.
She always felt uneasy on these infrequent occasions, often expecting an escape attempt, yet in the sixteen years the business had been operating they’d only had one escape, and the bee hadn’t made it out of the barn before Borislav had pounced on him. In the name of punishment, she’d ordered her guards to beat him to within an inch of his life.
The bee spent a week recovering before she’d forced him back to work, and he’d gone on to earn her money for another two years. In the end, when he’d outrun his usefulness, she’d accepted a hefty sum for a colleague of her father’s to have some fun with him. Back then the violence had turned her stomach. She hadn’t liked the look of the tools her father’s colleague had taken in with him to the room on C Wing. The screams of that afternoon still haunted her.
“Hi, Beattie, I just wanted to thank you,” came a voice from the doorway. “That was just what I needed.”
