Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  Miri, too, was enrapt, having not heard a full account of what had happened in such detailed terms before; her hand holding Sam’s as he spoke, unerringly with him every second of the way, forever united.

  Starting with Hare, Bulldog, Finch, he told how he had immersed himself within the skinhead community, his infiltration of the Bomber Squadron and the eventual chase through the streets of Cambridge which culminated with the deaths of Merton and McCullough in the alleyway. From there he related what had happened at the cottage deep in Pemberton Woods, about how Vas had been tortured and of Finch’s eventual demise.

  Coyle was amazed as Sam then went on to recount his experiences at the prison camp in Siberia and how he had purposely conspired to get himself incarcerated there. Describing in vivid detail the squalid conditions, terrible hardships and his long period of solitary confinement after Brendan Williams’ horrific death in the grain silo.

  Finally, even though Coyle had no prior knowledge of it, Sam recalled his years in Africa in pursuit of Darius Purcell and how, upon catching up with him, he had learned of The Fixer, Miles DeVilliers, and the pivotal role he had played in what had happened in Cambridge all those years before.

  When, finally he had done, Sam’s coffee was cold and Coyle sat eyeing him in astonished silence, utterly stunned by what he had just heard.

  Indeed, he thought on it for sometime as Sam and Miri waited anxiously for his response, both aware that after such a full and frank confession Coyle was likely to arrest Sam at any moment.

  But he did not. In fact Roper’s mind was whirring, laying out the facts of the case in his mind as they had been presented to him.

  The truth of the matter was that Sam was not actually wanted for anything and was not even suspected of committing any crime by anyone other than Roper himself.

  Furthermore, the case surrounding Claudette Sekibo’s murder was dead. The Met did not want it, the Cambridge Constabulary had long since forgotten about it and Jeff Grainy had moved onto pastures new so it was only Roper who still cared anything about it at all.

  Nonetheless, he had to ask himself if justice would truly be served if Sam Beresford was sent to prison?

  In Roper’s view, after much consideration, he believed it would not. Especially as Sam had already served more than four years of extremely hard time in Siberia which had to be the equivalent of around twenty years in a nice comfortable British prison.

  Furthermore, did he think the men who had actually murdered Claudette - raped her, tortured her and finally butchered her in such a barbarously abhorrent way - ultimately receive the justice they most surely deserved?

  After hearing Sam’s tale, Roper had to concede that they had.

  Which left him in the horns of a dilemma, knowing that at least three more people connected with Claudette’s murder were still at large, free to do the same thing again.

  And that went against everything Roper believed in.

  So rather than arrest Sam, he asked instead, “Where is this DeVilliers now - the one you refer to as The Fixer?”

  Sam turned to Miri, looking for her approval to answer the question truthfully.

  She shrugged, “Hey, no point holding back now.”

  And he was in complete agreement. “He’s in the apartment below us,” he said. “Moved in just yesterday.”

  Coyle’s eyes widened with surprise as Sam gestured to the workstation close by. “We’ve been monitoring his movements,” he continued, “there are bugs and cameras all over his penthouse so we can watch and hear what he’s doing twenty-four seven.”

  “So that’s who you were following today?” Roper asked.

  “Pardon me?” It was Sam’s turn to be surprised.

  “Today, at The Ritz - it’s where I saw you, how I knew you lived here. You were following a man who got into a chauffeur driven Bentley.”

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s Miles DeVilliers,” Sam replied, somewhat confused. “But how did you know—“

  “I didn’t. I was there for a different reason,” Coyle said, “or so I thought. Tell me, have you ever come across a man called Arthur Khan?”

  Sam thought for a moment before answering, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure, why?”

  “Cos he’s the guy your man DeVilliers was meeting with at The Ritz” Coyle said. “The guy me and my team have been investigating for the last six years.”

  Sam and Miri were stunned.

  “So you think there’s a connection?” Miri asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Coyle honestly, “but they obviously know each other and Khan is a mercenary so it’s definitely a possibility.”

  The three of them were silent for several seconds as they mulled this over until Sam spoke again at last.

  “So what are you going to do?” He asked. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Coyle regarded him for a moment and smiled. He did not know if DeVilliers would lead him to Khan or not, but the truth was it did not matter.

  Like Sam, he was badly in need of closure for the terrible things he had seen in that glade on his first day as a detective sergeant. What is more, he knew he would never fully be able to rest until the men who had committed such a heinous act were finally brought to justice - regardless of what form that justice might actually take.

  It was what he believed not as a policemen but as a human being; those who were guilty must get what they deserved.

  Upon coming to this conclusion, he said, “With all this equipment and an apartment directly above, I’m guessing you’ve already got plans for DeVilliers, am I right?”

  Sam cocked his head, suddenly curious. “We have, yes. Why?”

  “Because, if you will allow me, I would like to help.”

  Miri could not believe it but Sam merely returned Coyle’s smile.

  “I take it that means you’re not going to arrest me then, Detective Inspector?” He asked.

  “That’s exactly what it means,” came Coyle’s grinning reply. “And I think it’s about time you two called me Roper, don’t you?”

  “Roper?” Queried Sam, having never heard such an unusual name before.

  “Don’t ask,” he replied, “Just blame my mother.”

  “Well then, Roper,” Sam laughed, “Welcome aboard.” Then he added mischievously, “Tell me, how are you with heights?”

  At which point Coyle’s smile promptly disappeared.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It was well after one in the morning when Miles DeVilliers finally went to bed after working on his laptop for most of the evening and drinking the best part of a bottle of what looked to be an extremely pleasant Chardonnay.

  Slipping off his silk neon blue robe to reveal a pair of satin pink pyjamas, DeVilliers then crossed to an ornate Louis XV style dressing table and removed his straw-coloured toupee.

  After placing the hair-piece down on a mannequin head he began a rather extensive pampering ritual involving various moisturisers and creams before finally climbing into his vast four-poster bed and settling down to sleep in its luxurious black satin sheets.

  With the Chardonnay having a soporific effect, it was not long before he was snoring loudly.

  Once their boss had retired, Robert and Leon were also free to turn in for the night and each went off to their respective bedrooms and shut themselves in.

  Robert flicked through a gay porn magazine for a few minutes before settling down, whereas Leon watched T.V. for over an hour until he eventually turned it off and did likewise.

  However, by 2.30am, the penthouse below was in complete darkness and each of its three occupants were sleeping soundly.

  All of this had been watched on the three monitors in the apartment above by a rather disparate group of people.

  There was Sam and Miri wh
o were now working alongside the policeman Roper Coyle, whilst he, in turn, found himself beside two of Russia’s most feared underworld enforcers, Mikhail and Pyotr Voronin.

  However, they were all there for one specific purpose and once they were convinced that DeVilliers’ two minders were completely asleep, Sam pressed the combination of buttons on the keyboard, as shown to him by Spartak a couple of weeks earlier, that would finally set their plan into motion.

  The sequence of keyboard commands remotely activated the gas canisters hidden under each of the bodyguards’ beds, thus releasing a harmless sleeping agent, supplied courtesy of Vladimir, that would ensure against Robert or Leon disturbing accidentally. In fact, they would probably doze peacefully through a nuclear explosion.

  Yet the dosage, which was in essence a highly concentrated version of chloroform, was very precise and because of its close proximity to those they were targeting, it would not effect the rest of the apartment. It helped, of course, that both the minders slept with their doors closed, although that was not essential to the effectiveness of the gas.

  Nonetheless, Pyotr assured Sam that they would not be in any danger of succumbing to it when they entered the penthouse for a second time.

  So, dressed all in black and with Robert and Leon suitably nullified, they abseiled down the outside of the building once more.

  Roper had declined Sam’s offer of accompanying them, preferring to stay with Miri and watch what was happening on the monitors above whilst Mikhail took charge of the ropes and kept a firm hand on his brother and Sam’s descent.

  As such, with the conditions thankfully perfect for a night time jaunt down London’s newest sky scraper, Pyotr and Sam touched down silently on DeVilliers balcony a little before three in the morning.

  It was now time to go to work.

  ***

  Miles DeVilliers was in the middle of a wonderful dream involving himself and several well-oiled, very generously endowed young men, when he was violently awoken from his slumber by a pair of rough hands which seized him by the satin lapels of his pyjamas and pulled him forcefully from his bed.

  “Hey! How did you get in here? What are you doing?” He yelled, but the intruder gave no answer.

  He was still half asleep as the man dressed in black then physically dragged him out of his luxuriously appointed bedroom and down the wide, elegant hallway.

  “Robert! Leon - help me!” DeVilliers screamed. “Help me, I’m being attacked!” But neither of his bodyguards could hear him.

  He tried to fight off his aggressor as he was hauled across the vast living space of his brand new penthouse but his pathetic efforts were completely ineffective.

  “Robert, Leon!” He cried again, desperate for his two strapping minders to run to his assistance. But again it was to no avail.

  “They can’t hear you,” said a gruff voice close to his ear. “So scream all you want, no one’s gonna save you.”

  DeVilliers let out a wail of terror as he was pulled outside onto the balcony and pinned against the rail as the darkly dressed man with angry blue eyes pressed his face just an inch from his.

  “Do you know who I am, asshole?” Growled his assailant.

  Fear was surging through DeVilliers’ body as another man, also dressed in black, swiftly tightened a rope around his wrists, then another around his ankles so that he could not move.

  “N-No, I d-don’t,” he stuttered, utterly terrified. “Really, I don’t. Whoever you are - whatever you think I’ve done - I’m innocent, I swear it!”

  “Oh, you’re guilty alright, there’s no question of that,” spat the man.

  “No, please, you must have the wrong person,” begged DeVilliers, “I’m simply an honest businessman!“

  “Liar!” Came the angry response. “Now I asked you a goddamn question - do you know who I am? Take your time, take a real good look.”

  DeVilliers stared into the man’s face, as ordered, properly looking at it, to see if he did, indeed, recognise the person before him, aware that it was obviously a matter of great importance.

  His attacker was good-looking, maybe early thirties, with beguiling blue eyes and under different circumstances he would consider him incredibly attractive, if not a little too old for his tastes.

  However, try as he might, there was nothing about the man DeVilliers recognised.

  “No, sorry,” he whimpered, “I don’t know you - really I don’t.”

  “Maybe if I tell you my name - perhaps that might help?”

  “I-I don’t know, er, maybe,” stammered DeVilliers.

  Then, with utter horror, it struck him; his stomach lurching with dread, as the name of a man he had long feared suddenly flashed across his mind.

  Indeed, he no longer needed to be told for he knew instinctively the man he was looking at was the same one responsible for the deaths of at least four other men; the one who had been systematically hunting them down for the last eleven years.

  Yet, before he could fully process this very disturbing realisation, he heard the words to confirm it.

  “My name is Sam Beresford,” Sam snarled, “You killed my girlfriend and now you are going to pay for it.”

  “No - no! It wasn’t me,” blubbered DeVilliers, “I had nothing to do with it - I wasn’t even there I swear it!”

  “Maybe not, but you’re as guilty as the rest of them. Without your participation she would still surely be alive - which to me makes you equally accountable.”

  “Please - I beg you, you’ve got to believe me - I was just instructed to hire a person to put a team together - I had no idea—“

  “What person?” Sam interrupted. “James Locke - is that who you mean? Is that who you hired?”

  “I can’t. Please, it’s more than my life’s worth.”

  “Tell me!” Sam demanded.

  “If I do he’ll kill me!”

  “If you don’t I will kill you - now tell me!”

  “I can’t,” DeVilliers, simpered. “I really can’t - honestly. You’ve got to—“

  But Sam had heard more than enough. Using all of his strength, he lifted DeVilliers up and hoisted him over the balcony rail.

  “No! No! Please don’t!” He wailed, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

  “If you can’t tell me,” shrugged Sam, “Then I’ve got no more use for you.”

  And with that, he pushed The Fixer over the ledge into the dark abyss beyond.

  ***

  Roper and Miri stared in sheer horror as they watched DeVilliers plunge over the railings to his certain death.

  Mikhail, however, just looked on, beaming with brotherly pride - for that’s what Sam was to him now in everything but blood.

  He had also once been his student and what the Russian had just witnessed proved beyond all doubt that his pupil had most definitely become a master.

  “Jesus!” Roper exclaimed, “Has he just killed him?”

  “Oh mon Dieu - it cannot be!” Miri yelled at the monitor, unable to believe what she was seeing. Had Sam really just murdered Miles DeVilliers in cold blood? Surely it must be some terrible mistake.

  But Mikhail knew. He had taught Sam well and he, himself, would have done exactly the same thing.

  However, he was the only one who had noticed what Pyotr had done with the other end of the rope.

  ***

  DeVilliers felt a rush of wind through the downy fuzz of his balding pate as he plummeted through the air, emitting the high-pitched scream of a teenage girl; his satin pyjamas flapping in the updraught as he dropped like a fat, round stone.

  As he fell, he could see Sam’s grinning face staring down on him with malicious delight, getting ever smaller with the distance stretching out between them.

  This was the end. He was going to die; surely to be splattered like a ripe tomato on the pavement below after rac
ing fifty-seven floors to the ground.

  Yet as he shrieked with terror in the darkness, he suddenly felt an excruciating pain as the inertia of his speeding body was instantly brought to devastating halt; the sheer velocity at which he had been travelling causing the ligaments of his hip joints to tear with the massive change in momentum.

  With DeVilliers’ fall ending with a savage jolt, he swung backwards and slammed hard into the tall glass windows almost two floors below his penthouse; his body dancing like a crazed marionette as he dangled helplessly upside down from the rope attached to the balcony rail on the fifty-seventh floor.

  When finally he came to rest, his bladder voided involuntarily with utter relief; hot urine soaking his pink pyjamas and dribbling down the length of his hanging body, warming it in the cold night air.

  Yet all Miles DeVilliers could do was cry like a baby, immensely grateful to still be alive as Sam and Pyotr slowly began to haul all two-hundred and eighty pounds of him back up to where he had been standing just a few moments before.

  ***

  Three minutes later, DeVilliers was sitting in his piss soaked pyjamas in an elaborately ornate renaissance armchair in the centre of his grandly ostentatious living room. He was still bound at the wrists and ankles, tears streaming down his puffy red face.

  Sam sat directly opposite him, less than two feet away, whilst Pyotr lay with his feet up on an equally ornate chaise lounge at the side of the large room, happy for his friend to take the lead.

  “So, you now know who I am,” began Sam, looking his man directly in the eyes. “I take it that you are also well aware of what I am capable of - know the things that I have done?”

  DeVilliers nodded, fear written all over his pudgy face, his hip joints and ankles throbbing terribly as a result of his dramatic fall.

  “Then you must also believe me when I say that I will have no hesitation to kill you should you not tell me what I need to know,” Sam continued. “That little demonstration just a moment ago was only a dress rehearsal. Next time there will be no rope to save you. Do you understand?”