TBK: The Butterfly Killer

by A. P. Butler

  “We can’t stay in the apartment Elizabeth; it’s too obvious.” Lilly was right, they’d anticipated or had prior information about every move I’d made so far, I’m sure they would be watching the apartment just-in-case. “Stab in the dark time Elsbeth dear.” Ubel’s idea was sound enough, but Lilly would have a sulk if the accommodation selected wasn’t at least four stars, such is her condescension. The Mandarin Oriental, moments away from the Louvre museum was actually the third attempt, the first two locations Lilly flatly refused, claiming they were unconstitutional, only two stars and full of benefit types who would obviously be too Council to clean.

  The earliest train I could book was the 11:18 am from St Pancras, giving the three of us a few hours to plan our attack, pack and get across London. My primary concern was Raymond’s location, Evan’s phone provided the answer to that conundrum, but it also provided a few new issues too. There were three missed calls, plus a dozen or so texts from Raymond and Arthur. Opening the last text from Raymond, his question was sharp, aggressive and to the point.

  “What in the name of almighty God have you done to my fucking house?”

  Seconds later the worst possible event occurred, Raymond’s repugnant face appeared, lighting up the little screen accompanied by the sound of sinister church organ music as it rang out loudly.

  It would seem my cleansing bonfire of purity was a little more far reaching than I’d intended. “Lost signal!” Lilly’s instruction filling the air, I could always trust Lilly when a lie was required, for years I’ve mocked Lilly because of her obsession, how a great politician she’d make should she be real, she always retorts by saying she didn’t lie that well or that often.

  Pressing the green accept button, I drew a long deep breath of anticipation, held it for a second, then proceeded to answer with the worst impression of a male voice. Sounding more akin to a butch lesbian woman than a man. “Allo” was all I said, Lilly and I then attempted to convince the caller of an interrupted signal, crackling and hissing noises flowed freely, my newspaper becoming a welcome addition to our symphony of deceit for a devil’s ear.

  Ubel refusing to indulge our little ruse, suggesting we should just taunt him with obscenities of sacrilegious offence followed by a positive and polite ‘fuck off you cunt!” After a few seconds, I pressed call end, while gulping down a large mouthful of air, holding my breath.

  “Fuck me I might have a few issues, but at least I’m not a pair of lying bitches like you two!”

  Ubel’s only comment. “Text him now Elizabeth,” texting immediately at Lilly’s command; I typed in a blaze of finger. “Bad service, on train 2 c you, wiL explain, grl takN cAR of, whr R u?” No idea if my little ruse would work, or indeed anyone older than fifteen could decipher my cryptic text.

  The clock swept its perpetual hands round; the seconds lasted an eternity, I could feel myself approaching the winter years of my life. “Not sure he believed us Elizabeth.” As Lilly’s voice dissipated in my mind the ping of a new text blared out, Evan’s deafness proving too much for my shattered nerves. Jolting as if jabbed from behind, sending the little phone flying high into the air my hands flashing through space in a vain attempt to retrieve my fate. The weight of my deceit lifted with billowing cheeks, filled with relief. The little display, now laying upon my lap proudly displaying Raymond’s reply, “Le Club de garçon, Pigalle quarter - 11 pm tonight, and use bloody English Evan!”

  His response was cause for celebration and caution, we’d a location, but as Lilly pointed out, we also might be crawling inside a new web of deceit and danger. Lilly’s wise enough for her word’s to carry caution, Raymond was a man who’d evaded capture and prosecution for decades, his deception knew no boundaries, suffered no adversary.

  My trip to Paris was never intended to be a long one until my attention was broken by the faint voice of the female news report, her words tiptoed in from the little radio in the kitchen. Pressing the standby button on the remote, the LED screen of giant television in the front room burst into life. The police commissioners face filled the screen as he gave another press conference about the recent spate of killings. He looked as if the years had deserted him since his last appearance not so long ago. Their latest speculation was a possible connection between the Paris killings and London; they intended to send out some detectives to collaborate. A trinity of information flowing between the metropolitan, the Gendarmerie and Interpol, things were getting interesting.

  Neither organisation wanting to assist the other, all rather claim the glory for themselves, the information would flow like treacle at best. “Couldn’t find a prisoner in a fucking prison that lot.” Ubel’s opinion, ever the pessimist, but reading between the lines of recent statements, the words and phrasing used, they didn’t have a clue about the what or the who. The why even more eluding to them than tolerance to Islam.

  They may not have much of a clue, but this unwanted attention was going to warrant a longer stay in Paris, my travel history was starting to look……interesting at best, I’m sure it wouldn’t take long for a prying eye to question my arrangements. Extending my stay at the Oriental from two days to two weeks just to give better scope for a plausible alibi. Lilly suggested getting some work done on the Paris apartment as a distraction, providing even greater depth to our new cover story, explaining my return to Paris so quickly; unfortunately, my business activities are not, as yet recognised as legitimate.

  -2-

  Aspinal of London now carried my clothes as I thanked the taxi driver before entering the International rail terminal. The carriage on the Eurostar was busy, lots of business men and women filling almost every seat, laptops out escorted by the tip-tap of finger and key. The sound of a modern office encompassing me, my every sense overwhelmed by the career of modern life. Opposite me an odd couple sat, he looked like a policeman, wearing that look they all have when asked to wear plain clothes, none ever seeming to pull it off with any level of convincingness. Looking awkward, unsettled, as if the uniform protected him where civilian clothing didn’t. The woman next to him was keen-eyed, the moment I sat down her eyes commenced their investigation, scanning over me, trying to unlock my narrative, to read my story.

  She’d a penetrating gaze, always asking questions with her eyes, picking away at any stray snippets of information she could find. Shoulder length wiry blond hair, parted in the middle, big droopy jowls on a round face with a cherry shaped nose to finish. “It’s fucking Doogal from the magic roundabout!” Shouted Ubel, his comment the reason an instant smile flurished to my lips, my pupil’s exploded, as irises hid shyly away. Trying to bite down the laughter, only for it to race out as a cough instead, fooling no-one. Immediately I averted my gaze, trying to hide my embarrassment behind closed eyes, but the damage was done, my hilarity all too apparent.

  Train still very much in the station and Ubel’s outburst was drawing unwanted attention from the wrong kind, the woman understood my amusement immediately. Her gaze now locked upon me, the gaze you only get from a police detective, they all have the same gaze, you can spot them a mile away. Only two types of people have that gaze, felons and forces. Most people never look that hard at anything, they never really see, they might look at someone or something, but they don’t see it. Forces personnel are trained to see things others don’t; the police are no different.

  Their biggest asset, but also their greatest weakness, career criminals such as I look for this gaze in everyone, the last thing you ever want to do is liberate the organs of a copper, they stick together, hurt one, the whole tribe come looking. No swifter justice than a copper scorned, except an MP, then the whole world comes to an end, as they group together condemning with personal political intent never far behind, and they say justice is the great equaliser.

  Actually, I admire the police; they make my job and life a lot more interesting, they also keep the benefit boys out of the profession. Tracksuits, modified cars and baseball caps not gaining a foothold within the harvesting community. T
oday there’s still a great sense of pride within the profession, and council kids know nothing of pride, less it be a 60 inch plasma TV, a suit tailored by Adidas or a selfie with a bed full of stolen goods after a Saturday night’s looting spree with your ‘bro’ showing solidarity to a fallen foe.

  “French commissioner wants to meet us this evening ma’am.” The low ranking officer sitting beside blurted out, apparently no comprehension of the term ‘undercover.’ Her acknowledgment achieved without breaking her gaze upon me or saying a word to him. “Maybe she’s connecting the dots, Elizabeth,” Lilly whispered quietly into my ear. “You don’t need to whisper Lilly; they can’t hear you,” my internal reply. “We need to make her think you’re just a silly young girl Elizabeth.” Lilly’s ploy perfect as ever, sliding my phone from pocket, I proceed to make an imaginary call to a fictitious best friend. Chatting aimlessly about clothes, boys and general benign drivel teenagers talk about, throwing in ‘like’ after every two or three words.

  The detective’s inquisition evaporated as the fifth or sixth ‘like’ floated across the table towards her, the convincer however, was the obligatory ‘whatever’ said in true urban council style, my attitude only matched by my internal embarrassment. “Well done Elizabeth, no-one would suspect a DIBB.” Lilly’s own, rather unique term for any young woman who speaks with such a vernacular, simply meaning. Disgusting, Illegitimate, Benefit, Breeder. Ubel, much less poetic, simply referring to my impersonation as a: “Welfare wanker.” The rest of my journey was uneventful, Ubel spitting abuse at the detective as well as others, Lilly planning the new Parisian kitchen, while I concentrated on planning my attack. The female detective, only occasionally looking back at me, she was suspicious, but not enough to cause me any immediate concern.

  -3-

  The Taxi driver from the Gare du Nord to my hotel, was as obnoxious as any religious leader, hurling abuse at anyone who dared to use the Parisian road system or have a different ideology to his. Racing down the boulevard at ridiculous speed, slamming the breaks on as we screeched to a halt outside the front entrance to the hotel. The only statement to its existence, a majestic bronze oriental fan hanging high above the door. His dislike to my comment suggesting he would have been a better driver if stillborn, was most evident as he raced off almost knocking me over, causing Aspinal and I to spin helplessly into a pile.

  The concierge of the Mandarin Oriental was a welcome sight, a sheer delight to deal with, upon witnessing my arrival he briskly came to my assistance, whisking me through check-in, arranging for my belongings to be taken to my suite, and all in impeccable English. My fluency in French obtained many years ago now, but my accent has always been a give-away, most Frenchmen hear my voice and assume I’m going to swoon with divided legs, should they offer a simple sensual ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle.’

  “Merci Monsieur,” my polite reply for his assistance and chivalry, his smile an acknowledgement of gratitude towards my lack of ignorance. The couture suite’s a stunning sight, as you would expect from such an establishment. The view over Paris is breath-taking, the moment my gaze feasted upon the visual decadence of a Parisian cityscape on a clear winter’s day, I fall in love with her once again. History and passion exuding from every brick and grey slate, lead lined mansard roof. The architecture a poignant reminder of a more decadent time, its beauty and inspiration still a joy to behold, a warming sensation of familiarity grows, as I dine upon the majestic vista in front of me.

  It’s only quarter to two in the afternoon as I approach the concierge once again; I required a few select items for this evening's performance. A good concierge should be aware of every little shop and supplier in Paris worth knowing, so I asked him to assist with my shopping list. He took the list with smiling hand, reviewed it, looked at me, his smile never fading as he said. “It will take a few moments to organise mademoiselle, why do you not enjoy lunch, I will organise everything for you.” Thanking him once again I took his advice, my stomach was aching, and Ubel was growing ever restless, food his only anaesthetic, like a man-child he would sleep once fed. Turing towards the direction of his outstretched arm I wandered, as he strode confidently off towards the back office, to make his enquiries.

  With a sense of ease and relaxation I walked towards the front desk from the cutlery clatter of dining room behind, the concierge welcomed me over holding out a perfectly folded slip of plain paper, the faint aroma of lavender drifting up from upon it. Inside a list of suppliers, addresses, contacts and costs. “A taxi awaits you mademoiselle, the driver more courteous than the last.” His informing words introduced themselves to me as graciously as any good knight would a lady. “Enjoy your party shopping mademoiselle.” His comment, the only conclusion from the items within the list, I’d left a few more sinister items off, whilst adding a few I didn’t need, but all provided the perfect alibi for a young child’s birthday party.

  “Thank you, my little nephew will be very happy; he loves fireworks.”

  Smiling innocently, thanking him once again, my hands cupping his tightly, rewarding him I offered a delicate yet provocative kiss to cheek, followed by a seductively slow wink. His loyalty I required, a little flirting with the pretence of sex with a beautiful young woman always worked. He was a man far too sophisticated to indulge in such fantasies, but my offer arousing nostalgic memories of yesteryear, his appreciation most evident.

  “Monsieur, would you happen to know of a reputable contractor, I require a new kitchen for my apartment.” His reply as charming and helpful as ever. “Certainly Mademoiselle! I will make a list immediately.” His gaze almost as visible as my flirt, I could feel him indulging in my bottom, so I give extra femininity to my stride as I walked through the doors into the bustle of Parisian City life. My alibi beginning to build depth and complexity, his loyalty aroused. All I required now was a little reconnaissance of the club’s location, then collect my toys for this evening’s engagement.

  -4-

  Le Club de Garçon was a seedy little sex club in the back streets of the Pigalle quarter, just off the main boulevard. A place steeped in history, echoes of artisans from a century ago still present in the atmosphere, its erotic charms still abound. Lots of tiny alleys and passages, escape routes at every turn, legions of bourgeoisie mixed with tourist to evaporate into should I require. The clubs location couldn’t be better; its reputation ensured anonymity, red lights with every possible service offered, the sort of area nobody sees or remembers anything. Frequented mainly by tourists and men due to its inhabitant's occupations.

  Should I find myself in any trouble this evening with the necessity to disappear quickly, I’d quite easily find a group of oversexed young men, letting them believe I was the answer to their sexual fantasies. It never ceases to amaze how men instinctively go into protection mode for a pretty unknown female; a few tears offered as a convincer, protection obtained. All I had to do now was collect the last few item’s from my list.

  -5-

  The adolescent night's sky is clear, but frigid cold as I step outside the warmth and protection of the hotel, Antarctic winds bite at me, persuading me to huddle down into my coat. Forced to leave the hotel early this evening so as to keep up the charade of my previous deception. Immediately I made way to a local bar where I could while away a few hours while seeking sanctuary from the bitter cold. The hours meandered slowly by as I made small talk to a myriad of frustrated men, and one lesbian man-woman, her hair and personality more masculine than apparelling, a case of penis envy evident for all to see.

  Up the stairs I walked, out of the Pigalle metro station, beneath the beautiful verdigris art deco arch, proudly holding two large rouge globe lights either side. Stepping into a sea of couples and young men all enjoying the sights and sounds of a most extraordinary spectacle of erotica. Accompanied by a constant rippling brook of frustrated middle aged men, desperate to feel the comforts of a young beauty, before heading home to their less appealing wives. Wives who no doubt were just as enthusiastic of t
heir husband's amorous adventures if only to save themselves from their servitude of dis-pleasurable stagnated advances from a man no longer the passionate knight of yesteryear.

  The side entrance to the club was quiet, but for a single, lone goliath of a man standing in front of the door, his interest in me dissipated as quickly as gender became apparent. Le Club de Garçon was a privately owned, adult cinema, unfortunately now frequented by the more repugnant side of life as I was about to discover. Without looking up, the goliath pushed open the door with one gigantic hand, scrolled down the screen of his phone with the other, his gaze never lifted from his mobile life. The corridor was narrow and dark, leading to a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which a little metal and glass kiosk awaited. The deeper I descended into Gomorrah, the stronger the odour of sweat and bodily fluids filled my senses. Sitting inside the kiosk like a packaged human product of perversity was an exceptionally attractive young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen.

  He waved me through, no doubt thinking I was a prostitute on call to entertain one of the many sordid requests from its patrons. A huge screen dominated the venue, little-secluded booths for two or three scattered all around. The occupants of which could not be seen by any other booth, the perfect environment for many an illicit activity. The sound of angry pornography overpowering the array of gasps and shrieks of pleasure and pain emanating from many a booth. The lone topless barman used international sign language to obtain my request. Ordering a double bourbon, I sipped at its warmth as my eyes wandered around the theatre looking for my target, my prey. My attire and I stood out like a shark in the shallows, I needed to blend in, the barman pointed me towards the cloakroom, suggesting that less was more.