Her journalistic inquisitiveness took over. She wanted to know what was in the box and who had sent it. She cut the over-stretched, thick elastic band holding the box tightly closed and stepped back quickly as it snapped and waited. What she was waiting for she had no idea. Finally, taking a deep breath, she bit down on her lower lip and, closing her eyes instinctively, used a long broom handle to flip open the lid.
Nothing. She breathed out audibly and, taking small, deliberate steps to get closer to the box she lent forwards far enough to peer inside it.
On top, on a rather creased piece of cheap paper was a handwritten note in the same bad handwriting as the label. The rest of it contained nothing more than papers, re-writable DVD discs and what looked like small, micro cassettes from handheld dictator machines. A wave of relief swept through her.
Still leaning forwards she screwed up her eyes in order to focus better as she read the note.
Francesca
I know that we don’t really know each other but
I don’t know whom else to entrust this information to.
If you don’t hear from me soon please use this
Information to get me justice.
Andy
She stared at the note and then read it again turning it over to see if there was anything on the other side. Feeling more at ease now that she knew who sent the package the next question burned into her mind. Why would her estranged brother send her anything? Why would he contact her at all?
She grabbed her phone and pressed the speed dial button programmed with Andy’s mobile number. Nothing, just the recorded message telling her that he was unavailable.
She had always known about her older stepbrother. Her mother had never kept him a secret from her but she never thought she would meet him let alone track him down but it was one of the first things she had done after arriving in London.
Their first meeting did not go well. He was very cold and awkward towards her; a combination of his painfully, obvious shyness and his embarrassed ignorance at not even knowing that she existed! They had met several times since then and, gradually, he had taken more of an interest in her but had never asked about their mother always steering the conversation back to her whenever she was brought up.
She looked again at the last word on the handwritten note – justice! She did not know her stepbrother that well but he did not strike her as the sort of person that would get into trouble.
Underneath this was an equally cheap piece of paper that had the name and address of a solicitor scrawled on it in the same bad handwriting, a key and below that was a tattered blue folder, which contained sheets of paper containing typed list of names and addresses. In a thicker folder of the same colour were separate files, each file held together by a paper clip. There was a file for each name on the list. Some had only two pieces of paper while others had six or seven. Some had photos. Some did not. Some contained bank account details but all contained payment details – amounts, dates and a girl’s name! Some were marked by an asterix, some underlined while others were highlighted by a pink highlighter pen. There were loose photos of girls of all ages and some of men with no apparent connections between them. In a separate folder she found more explicit, pornographic photos with names, she assumed, of the man in the photo.
She sat in her favourite position when working from home – on the living room floor – and spread the contents of the box around her methodically sorting everything into chronological order. Most of the names meant nothing to her but some of the names and faces were well known to her and would be to the public!
When she had done sorting the paper work as best she could she watched the discs. There was nothing there to surprise her. It was just the usual. All three discs were a collage of different, mostly older, men paying to have sex with young girls, although it was questionable if some of them were old enough. They were obviously unaware of being caught on tape. Andy was certainly no video editor.
By the time she put the last tape in she was totally bored but her professional curiosity compelled her to watch.
Chapter 7
“Nick,” she spoke softly into the phone, “meet me in the office, now!” It was more of an order than a request considering he was he boss. Her excited tone told him that she had something that could not wait. He tried, unsuccessfully, to put her off until the morning.
Nick Redbourne, editor of the tabloid newspaper the Daily News, was sitting behind his big, leather-topped desk supporting his tired balding, head in his hands when she walked in.
His red, bleary eyes watched her as she approached the desk. “This had better be bloody good!” he growled. It was late at night and, after spending all day in this hellhole, it was the last place he wanted to be. She had been rather sketchy on the phone just mentioning about a scoop that would rock the nation. If it had been any of his other reporters he would have told them to wait until tomorrow. “Spill it!” Even though he wanted to sound like the tired, angry boss it was impossible to treat her like that.
Silently Francesca placed the green box file on the desk, took out a disk and put it in the DVD player. She turned her back and walked slowly to the far side of the room trying to get as far away as possible from the young girls bloodcurdling screams.
Redbourne watched in horrified silence. When the tape finished he paused before rewinding it until he found the point he wanted and paused the image. He studied the frozen face on his screen very carefully.
There was a heavy silence. Finally Redbourne cleared his throat and spoke; “Is that who I think it is?” his emotions were mingled with shock and disgust but at the same time excitement at the possibility of breaking a national scandal of immense proportions. His craggy face remained impassive, though, as he waited for her to turn and face him. He was shocked to see her watery eyes. She had a reputation of being a hard-nosed professional. It came as a surprise to see she had an emotional side.
She sniffed quietly and wiped her eyes with he tip of a perfectly manicured finger, “It looks like him,”
“Where did the films come from? Did you take them?”
“No. They were delivered to me. Everything that’s in the box.” She strangely omitted, though, the fact that the anonymous sender was her stepbrother although she did not know why.
Redbourne picked up the folder containing the names and addresses and glanced through them. He sat back thinking hard. If they were genuine they were worth a fortune. But were they genuine?
“We need to authenticate these. Everything! How much information is in the box?”
“Everything I need and more. Names, accounts, places. Everything.” Her voice sounded small the confidence he would usually expect to hear from her was missing.
His brow creased slightly as he watched her. He was confused. This was in conflict with the reputation of the hard-hitting tough reporter that he knew and respected. He did not need to be a genius to see that there was a dark secret from her past that had brought this on.
The first rule of investigative journalism was never to get involved – either emotionally or personally. It was obvious this story was affecting her already but why? He did not think that it was the right time to pry. He knew that she was tough and had handled herself very well in some pretty sticky situations back in her hometown of New York. The question that he had to ask himself now both, as her boss and friend was would she be able to take this one all the way. Instinct told him that this was going to be a rough one. He could already feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as he thought about the repercussions.
“Look,” he picked his words carefully knowing her reputation and pride, “if you don’t want to run with this one I can pass it on.” For a minute her eyes stayed blank as she stared at him as though considering his offer.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll handle it,” she replied slowly. She breathed in deeply, “Do you think?” she asked the rhetorical question quickly, “do you think she’s okay? Alive, I mean?”
; Redbourne looked up at her from his seat. “I don’t know. That bastard gave her one hell of a beating. Hey, we don’t even know if this is for real yet. Let’s first authenticate the information and then we’ll worry about that after. It could be just a scam to disgrace another public figure.” He was trying to put another side to the sick video he had just watched but deep down in his gut he knew this was for real. A huge part of him hoped that this was just acting but a part of him wanted this to be the real thing. There were some well-known public figures on that list. “You okay?” his voice dropped as he showed his concern.
“Yes, fine!” she did not sound okay to him, “I’ll get on this straight away.”
******
Francesca had studied the list over and over and run each of the names through whatever databases that she could but came up with a blank on all of them except the one face she was aware of but there was a particular name that caught her curiosity. Mr. T. Newlen had an East London address and there were several photos of him, some of just him but mostly showing him with young girls. There were no large amounts of money connected to it. In fact, it was the exact opposite as there were no monetary transactions at all considering the frequency with which this person used various girls.
Punching the address into her trusty satnav she made her way through the darkening streets not sure what she would do when she got there.
Stakeouts seemed to take up a large part of Inspector Davenport’s time. Tonight, bored out of his mind, he was once again spending his evening sitting alone outside the modest Victorian terraced house of a Mr. Terrence Newlen.
Newlen`s details were given as the UK contact for E5 Holdings and, by utilizing his access to the Yards powerful computer databases, had found out his home address which, he remembered, had come up before in a previous Thanos investigation!
He pulled up across from Newlen`s house just before eight-thirty and waited, his flask and sandwiches on the seat beside him. He past his time people watching mentally analysing those who walked past him and noted the smart BMW that drove slowly past as the driver, obviously looked for an address, pulled into a parking space further along the road.
By ten o’clock he felt as though he had been sitting here for hours although, in reality, it had only been less than two hours. Massaging the back of his neck firmly, tilting his head back and rolling it from side to side to relieve the stiffness he saw the
man leave the house. Even though he had never seen Newlen before logic told him that he had to be him. He got into an aging Toyota and quickly pulled away.
As Morton slowly edged his car from the kerb the smart BMW carelessly pulled out in front of him. It did not take long before he realised that he was not the only one interested in Mr. Newlen tonight. I wonder who you are? He wondered to himself and at his first opportunity made a note of the car details.
The journey did not take long and soon, feeling smugly pleased with himself, he found himself outside Thanos` house. A place he had sat outside many times.
Whilst waiting for Newlen to reappear he concentrated on the driver of the BMW. He could not be sure but from the silhouette cast by the dim street lighting it looked like a woman. A pissed off wife, maybe? he thought.
Newlen spent less than thirty minutes with Thanos and left. The driver of the BMW had obviously lost interest in him and Ernie followed the BMW until it disappeared behind the electric gates of the expensive complex and called it a night. On the drive home he tried to force his numb mind to concentrate on tonight’s new developments. He was not the only one to be taking an interest in Thanos it seemed or was the BMW interested in Newlen. No, it could not be him, he thought, the BMW driver had followed Newlen to Thanos and not followed him back home. So who was the driver of the beemer and what was their interest in Thanos?
He, too, decided to wait to the morning before going after the answers
******
Francesca woke violently in the night in a cold sweat. Her legs kicking out as she tried to free herself from the quilt entangled around them. It was the same recurring nightmare with the same kaleidoscope of leering faces looking down on her as a feeling of helplessness swept over her. As she struggled to release her legs she fell from the bed and landed with a thud. As soon as she hit the floor she shuffled away from the bed on the palms of her hands and feet in an almost comical, crab-like motion and stared petrified at the bed expecting someone to come after her. She was breathing fast, panting almost and sweating profusely with rivulets running down from her temples. Forcing herself to breathe slowly she went into the kitchen for a glass of cold water before returning to bed for a restless nights sleep.
Ernie Davenport stared at the name and address showing on his computer screen. It was not what he had expected. It showed the flash beemer from the previous night belonging to a reporter. One Francesca Bianchi. An American reporter living and working in London for the last three years. He knew of her. She had a reputation of being an aggressive go-getter, one of the newer breeds of reporter who believed that, no matter who you were the population at large deserved to know and to hell with your privacy. To her, no one had the right to anonymity – especially if there was a juicy story involved.
His brain ticked over slowly as he weighed up the pros and cons of her involvement with Thanos. On the one hand the adverse publicity would serve his cause but, on the other hand, she did not know whom she was dealing with and this could be extremely dangerous for her. Thanos was not a man who liked to have his personal life investigated.
Chapter 8
Shaun Grimshawe sat in his car parked about a hundreds yards away from the betting shop waiting impatiently. He was hoping to pull this off as yet another chance meeting. He drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel his narrow, hard eyes roamed the street feasting on the sight of the women who walked by especially those in short skirts and the shorter the better, young or old he had no preference.
He was on a high at the moment. A rush not drug or alcohol induced but by witnessing first hand the death of a man. All day long as he ran his errands for Thanos he had replayed over and over again in his mind the final, fatal moments wondering what it must have felt like to deliver the deathblow. Violence had always fascinated him. As a young man growing up he had very few friends and spent most of his free time watching violent films and was enthralled by gangster movies. Early in his school days he had gained a reputation as a bully, something he was extremely proud about and, partly because of his size, he was always that much bigger than most of the other boys, enjoyed living up to the role of the school bully. On leaving school his life had pretty much followed in the same manner getting involved in petty crime, mainly house and car burglaries, before the more serious crimes of assault added to his repertoire.
It was while in his late teens during a house burglary that he committed his first violent rape. Violence and sex turned out to be a powerful and dangerous drug for him and very soon any female who found herself alone in his company would find out just how sadistic he was especially if they spurned his advances!
At just gone six he saw her as she left work and headed for the bus stop. She was dressed just as he liked; her long slender, well-tanned legs on show beneath her very short skirt. Kirsty Coben was, as far as Shaun Grimshawe was concerned, the most perfect woman in the world; quite tall, dark haired, very beautiful and had a body that every red-blooded male wanted.
And that was where it went wrong for Grimshawe. They had gone to school together and she had always been Miss Popular with everyone, teachers included, and was never short of a boyfriend. She never had time for him and if it was not for the fact that he was the school bully would probably not even had noticed him. But now he was convinced that things between them would change. He had a good job, good money even though he could never really tell people what he done he just told the same story to anyone that asked that he was a chauffeur. Good money, sharp suits and a flash car he was sure that he would win her over.
He waited
for her to reach the bus stop before starting the engine and pulling out. Flooring the accelerator the big, powerful car easily and quickly picked up speed over the short distance before he broke hard stopping almost to an inch from where she was standing.
Kirsty heard the car at the same time as seeing it. Before it had even stopped the tinted front passenger window silently slid down and the face of Shaun Grimshawe leered out at her.
“Alright girl, wan` a lift? She felt a knot tighten in her stomach as soon as she heard his voice. He had always spoken quickly. At first it was because of his social insecurities but later as he got older it became a force of habit.
“No thanks, I’ll get the bus,” she knew this would not deter him.
“C’mon jump in, I'll give you a ride home!” he patted the back of the passenger seat in a friendly manner.
“It’s okay. I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” she smiled at him dreading the thought of getting into a car alone with him after some of the stories that she had heard of about him.
The door was suddenly pushed open, “C’mon, get in. I’m not gonna bite y` know!” Kirsty looked around her desperately hoping that someone would come to her rescue and give her the excuse she needed. “Jump in, c’mon. I’m parked on a bloody bus stop `ere. Can’t afford to get a ticket in my job y`know!”
Kirsty thought hard but short of telling him to go away, bad manners were not in her make-up, she saw no other option but to accept his offer. Besides, she told herself, it’s bright daylight and he’s only taking me round the corner really and so, reluctantly, she climbed in.
Grimshawe`s eyes were drawn like magnets to her tanned legs as her short skirt rode up even higher on her thighs as she got into the car. He breathed in the heady fragrance of her perfume as he imagined himself running his hand along the soft skin of her inner thighs.
The Qadesh Club Page 5