The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  ‘How?’ The Glasgow use of the word slips out unbidden. It’s a long time since I lived there, but it’s where my roots are.

  ‘To take a life is a big step. To do so deliberately is a bigger one. To pre-plan to kill, and persuade others to help, shows a huge ego. The driving force behind this attack is an extremely dangerous person. I suspect they enjoyed what they did. Not in any sexual way, just as a means to an end. They’ll be fanatical in their beliefs like religious zealots. I believe they’ll see the murders as just.’

  As I’m digesting what he’s said, he catches me with a broadside.

  ‘I trust you’re not serious about Taylor?’

  I don’t answer him. I can’t without confirming I’m dating his receptionist and putting her job in jeopardy.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not trying to trick you. I overheard her talking to a friend about you.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘If I’m honest I didn’t expect it to last this long.’

  He’s been honest with me, so I give him the truth. ‘I don’t plan how long I’ll be with someone. It’s just when women start looking for commitment from me, or for the relationship to progress, I find myself drawing back. Things peter out and we part company.’

  ‘Then all I can say is let her down gently.’

  As I make for the door he offers a final word of caution. ‘These people you’re hunting are dangerous, amoral killers. Like it or not, your accent marks you out as a foreigner. Stay safe.’

  19

  The van takes a sharp turn causing Gazala to slide into the boots of one of her captors. He straightens his leg, pushing her back into the centre of the floor.

  Try as she might, Gazala can’t keep the fear from her eyes. Now the initial shock of being abducted has worn off, and her efforts to fight back or escape have proved futile, she has realised she is going wherever the men are taking her.

  The gag in her mouth prevents her from begging for her life. The only part of her body she can use is her eyes.

  She can see the three men guarding her. Two are older and the third is around her age. One of the older ones looks as if he’s been beaten up, the other has a bald head.

  Figuring that the younger man offers her the best chance of some sympathy, Gazala tries to give him a beseeching look.

  The bald man beside him is the one who reacts first. ‘Look, boy, she’s giving you the eye. Reckon she wants you.’

  ‘She can want. I ain’t puttin’ my dick in no chink slut.’ The youth’s disgust at the suggestion fills the back of the van with enough contempt to start a fight with the stench of sweat.

  ‘You dumbass. She ain’t no chink. She’s brown not yellow.’

  ‘Yeah? What is she then?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Korean maybe, or somewhere like that. She’ll be one of them Muslim bitches though.’ The bald man scratches at his ear, a lecherous grin splitting his face. ‘So you wouldn’t, huh?’

  ‘No way. Dunno what I’d catch from screwing a Muslim.’

  Gazala bites down on her gag. Even though she’s Hindu, not Muslim, she knows these men are prejudiced against her. Telling them her true religion will achieve nothing apart from increasing the number of potential rapists.

  The man with the battered face speaks for the first time. ‘You might think different if you could see what I can see. It might be the wrong colour but I’m sure it’ll work mighty fine.’

  Gazala turns her head and sees the man has knelt on the van’s floor and is looking up her skirt.

  She forces her knees over and manages to roll onto her side.

  ‘Don’t matter what you can see, I ain’t interested.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missin’, boy. That warm pussy will squirm like a snake. Do you see her eyes? She’s a fighter. Fighters make some good lovin’.’

  ‘You do her then. I ain’t puttin’ my dick in no Muslim bitch.’

  ‘You sure? We’ll hold her down for you.’

  ‘No way.’

  Their callous words bounce off Gazala as she realises a new truth. She expects to be raped. Without being conceited, she knows she’s pretty and has a decent figure. That they plan to rape her is a terrible thing for her to know.

  It is the youth’s disgust which makes the synapses in her brain make the necessary connections. He doesn’t want to rape her. He’s disgusted by the idea. Not the rape itself, but the contact with her.

  While they’re talking about raping her, they’re not actually touching her yet. When they hauled her into the van, held her down and bound her, there was no sexual molestation.

  Her biggest concern is that their faces aren’t covered and their tattooed forearms are on display. Even the most dim-witted abductor would know to hide their face, and recognisable features like tattoos, from their victims.

  This can mean only one thing. They don’t care about her being able to identify them because they plan to kill her.

  A thought crash-lands in her head; a vague memory of a news item half-heard over family chatter.

  Something about a family being murdered. Something about crosses and fire.

  The bad news synapse fires again.

  The murdered family were black.

  Their bodies were found on charred crosses.

  Only racists would do such a thing.

  She’s been snatched by a group who despise her for what they perceive to be her religion.

  The man driving the van had looked at her as if she was the lowest of the low. He’d been checking her out as a victim not a conquest.

  Religious and racial hatred often walk hand in hand.

  Her brain shuts down as complete terror envelops her. She’d renew her struggles to break free of her bonds if her body wasn’t suffering such extreme shakes. Her teeth are sawing at the gag as her head thrashes about.

  Her final indignity is her bladder emptying itself.

  The drawl of the bald man rises above the thuds of her body on the van’s aluminium floor. ‘Looky here, boys. Our girl is getting all wet thinking about us.’

  ‘Dirty Muslim bitch. She’s filth and deserves to die.’ The youth’s heavy work boot swings out and catches Gazala’s chin knocking her out.

  20

  I switch off my phone and think about my conversation with Alfonse. He has computing skills far beyond the average person and can track, trace and find out information which is inaccessible to ninety-nine percent of the population. There are very few databases he can’t hack his way into when the notion takes him. Ideally he should be in Washington or New York working for a three letter agency, but he’s never been drawn to that kind of life.

  I’ve asked him to find Jefferson for me. I have the address from Elizabeth, but it’s several years old and a three hour drive away. Once he’s confirmed an address, I can go and speak to him. Another thing I’ve asked him to do is to look into the Fournier’s finances and through their computers. It’s a long shot, but we have to consider every possible avenue of investigation.

  The main thing I want him to look at though, is the Deep Web. That area of the internet where sites don’t try to be found. Rather they stay undercover. This is the area where the worst of the internet lies. The sites featuring Islamic activists beheading their captives; suicide forums; the worst kinds of extreme porn and a hundred and one other illegal services. If you need anything from fake ID to a contract killer, the Deep Web is the place you can buy it.

  The brief I gave Alfonse is very specific for someone looking in a hidden place, for something that doesn’t want to be found, but if anyone can find it, he can.

  I’m about to turn onto Main when my phone informs me of a message from Mother. As usual she’s typed in block capitals. Whenever Sharon and I explain that block capitals are akin to shouting, she just nods and tells us we always did respond better to shouts.

  MEET ME AT SHERRI’S. 30 MINS

  I send one back saying I’m too busy. Her reply comes back within seconds.

  IF YOU DON’T COME I WILL REDECOR
ATE THE TREE WITH YOUR BABY PHOTOS.

  Knowing her, it’s not an idle threat. What I thought was a lunch invitation is really her summoning me. There are only two reasons for the summons. One is a set-up with the daughter or niece of one of her friends. The other is that she’s heard about the investigation I’m working on and wants to berate me for risking my life chasing killers. I hope it’s the first one.

  As I’m walking into Sherri’s another possibility strikes me. Perhaps she knows who the mysterious stranger asking about me is, and is going to tell me about him.

  Sherri’s is a fifties diner which has preserved its original décor, rather than a modern place fitted out to look like one. It’s ruled by the iron fist and soft heart of Sherri’s daughter and is the kind of place where you get reprimanded for not cleaning your plate. I eat here on a regular basis.

  Mother is sitting in one of the leather seated booths at the back of the diner. She’s alone and wears an expression that would frighten a gargoyle.

  I slide in beside her and offer a peck to her cheek.

  She turns her head away. Not good.

  Her eyes flash with anger and worry as she looks at me. ‘You’re investigating those murders, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am. I can’t let Alfonse down. He needs me.’

  ‘The police are paid to chase killers. You’re not.’

  I can’t prevent the scorn in my voice. ‘Oh c’mon. You know how useless they are. You’re not seriously saying I should leave Alfonse to investigate it himself, are you?’

  ‘I’m saying you shouldn’t go risking your life again. You were lucky once, you might not be so lucky a second time.’ There’s a fierce intensity to her expression and tone. ‘Promise me you won’t risk your life again. It’s bad enough not being a granny without having to bury my one chance of grandkids.’

  There it is again. Even when she’s worried about my safety she manages to bring children into the conversation. The desire for grandchildren fuels everything she says to me. With my sister unable to conceive, I am Mother’s only chance and she’s forever on my back about settling down and starting a family.

  ‘Nobody’s getting buried. I’m helping Alfonse identify the people who killed the Fourniers and that’s all. As soon as we have a suspect we’ll hand the information over to Chief Watson and step back.’

  Her snort draws the attention of other diners. ‘Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Remember the last time you said that to me? You damn near got yoursel’ killed.’

  She has me there. I have no defence, so I don’t offer one. Instead, I wave away her concerns.

  ‘This is different. He ended up hunting me.’

  ‘You carrying that gun I gave you?’

  During the search for a serial killer, she gave me a gun to protect myself when I ignored her entreaties to drop the case. It’s now under the spare in the trunk of my car. Guns scare me. I don’t know how to use them and, as such, I’ll be a greater threat to myself, and those I’m trying to protect, than my intended targets. Besides, pulling a weapon of any kind escalates the situation.

  ‘I’m involved in the investigation, not the hunt. Taking down a bunch of racist killers is a job for law enforcement officers with a SWAT team at their disposal. I’m a doorman at a bar – not a vigilante or an avenging angel.’

  ‘You’ve got MacDonald blood in your veins.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Plus a nose for trouble and a stubborn streak that’s got you into more than your fair share of fights.’

  ‘I’m telling you, don’t worry. One fight to the death is more than enough for me. It’s not an experience I plan on repeating.’

  I stand and leave before she can reply. That last outburst was perhaps a little harsh considering how I’ve dodged her questions on the issue, but at the same time it may well give her the reassurance she craves.

  What I haven’t told her, or anyone else, is how I can’t sleep due to reliving the moment.

  Were there a Catholic church in Casperton, I dare say I’d end up in a confessional booth. A Glasgow upbringing isn’t something you can escape.

  Considering Mother’s concerns, I’m glad I didn’t quiz her on who might be asking around town for me. She’s worried enough as it is without me adding to her burden.

  When I have a spare moment I’ll call my sister. She’s the one who keeps in regular contact with the family back in Glasgow. If it’s anything to do with the family, she’ll know.

  21

  Chief Watson is at his desk when I stride into his office. The desk is neat with only a large sketchpad, telephone and framed photo on it. As ever, the sketchpad is littered with scribbles and notes in his scrawl. I know from experience they are placed in no kind of order. He just writes wherever his pen lands. It wouldn’t work for me, but everyone has their own methods and he’s the only law enforcer within fifty miles who I trust to run a proper investigation.

  ‘You got anything, Boulder?’

  His tone is full of stress and it’s only a matter of time before he starts kneading his temples.

  I fill him in on what Alfonse and I have learned and give him a moment to digest it.

  ‘You reckon it’s this Jefferson?’ He scratches his chin. ‘It doesn’t seem likely to me.’

  ‘Nor me. I’m still gonna check him out though.’

  ‘I like the idea about the Augiers. They seem much better candidates for this kind of thing.’

  ‘Are you thinking it’s Klan related?’

  The chief fixes me with a scorn-laden stare. ‘Of course I am. What else can it be? Those rednecks sound like they’re the type to get mixed up in that kinda thing.’

  ‘Perhaps they are; perhaps they’re not.’ I shrug. ‘I know they’re not the finest part of society, but I’m not sure they’re that bad.’

  ‘If not them, then who?’

  ‘That’s the big question. As horrible as it seems, it’d be better if the Fourniers were targeted because of a grudge rather than the colour of their skin. I’ve got Alfonse going through their computers and their finances.’

  ‘I wish I could share your enthusiasm for it being anything other than a hate crime. The nature of their deaths screams Klan activity to me. Nobody else would do such a thing. Can you imagine how they suffered?’ He doesn’t pause long enough for me to answer. ‘Those poor, poor people. Tell me something, Boulder. If that’s not a hate crime, then what is it?’

  ‘I think you’re right that it’s a hate crime. I just don’t want to jump to any conclusions before there’s evidence to back up the theory. If I wanted to shift the blame for a murder I’d committed, this seems like a pretty good way.’

  ‘You’re saying the method was chosen as a distraction to the investigation?’ His knuckles begin to knead his temples. ‘If it’s not hard enough looking for unknown Klan members, now we also have to identify a group who’re impersonating them.’

  I don’t bother to answer his question. It’s three parts rhetorical and we’ve already been over this ground. Instead I tell him about the things I’ve asked Alfonse to look into.

  He nods in agreement as he listens.

  ‘Can he really search in those places?’

  Being mindful of who I’m speaking to, I hesitate before answering. The chief waves a hand and tells me not to worry about him going after Alfonse.

  ‘Alfonse can get into all kinds of places. If anyone can pinpoint things on the Deep Web, it’s him. Haven’t you got your tech guys looking at their stuff?’

  He follows my change of subject. ‘Yeah, but they’re not what you call quick. Or efficient. Tell you the truth, Boulder, I only ever understand one word in three when they send me a report.’

  I keep the smile off my face but it isn’t easy. Chief Watson is of a generation where computer usage is a necessary evil. He’ll have limited skills with those programs he needs to use. Internet browsing and email will be familiar to him as will whatever software the police uses.

  The science behind computers will se
em like witchcraft to him. How things actually work, and the technical terms used, may as well be Sanskrit for all his understanding of it.

  ‘What about the pathologist? Have you got any results from the autopsies yet?’

  ‘I have. They were alive when they were nailed to the crosses and alive when they were set alight.’ He pauses to let me ponder his words. It’s not a pleasant experience.

  ‘What about the toxicology reports?’

  I’m stretching here. Hoping they were sedated before their murders. The chief shakes his head, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘Still awaiting results.’

  I leave it a couple of minutes before speaking. The silence in the office is almost ethereal in its quality. Sure, the noises and chatter of the police station rattle on in the background, but I feel as if I’ve been transported elsewhere. From the look on his face, the chief is in a similar place.

  ‘Have you any ideas on the dump site?’

  Do you mean why it was chosen?’

  ‘I do. It seems odd to me.’

  ‘Not to me. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Those poor folks could scream their heads off and there wouldn’t be a single person to hear them.’

  I fix him with a stare. ‘That’s my point. Klan activity is usually more overt. Burning crosses used as warnings. Gangs of people at hangings. You saw the track up to the dump site. Didn’t look like a whole lot of people hiked up there.’

  ‘What are you saying, Boulder?’

  His use of my name is a warning so I pick my words with care. ‘If those hunters or hikers hadn’t found the Fourniers they could have been there for weeks – or months. It was a horrific act carried out in secrecy. The Klan are no longer about being secretive; they have marches, websites and even spokespeople. The Klan want people to know about their activity. To be scared by it. Their goal is to have only white Christian men in positions of power. They consider themselves to be knights. They use terms like Imperial Wizard to describe their big kahunas. Their websites preach non-violence and show dates and times of future meets.’