by Conrad Jones
“We need to find Salim Oguzhan,” Alec said. “We’ve been looking for Salim Oguzhan and his Porsche all over the country, but he was right under our noses the entire time.”
“We’ve been looking in the wrong place so far,” Will smiled.
“Where would you hide a body and a Porsche if you had killed the owner?” Alec smiled.
“Especially if you killed them a few hundred yards from the river,” Will returned the smile. They were finally getting somewhere. “I’ll call out the divers.”
“You do that,” Alec nodded. “Doctor, I need your team to go into that nightclub and search the beer cellar again when they have finished at the Oguzhan house.”
“Alec! That is a waste of time!” The doctor protested. “Any evidence we find will be contaminated by now. By the fire, the smoke, by water, by an army of firemen, and god knows who else has been in there since.”
“Humour me, Doc,” Alec smiled. “We’re looking for two very dangerous killers, but they’re sloppy. Look at the evidence they’ve left for us. The Jamaica Street scene, the hotel and now three victims left to rot in their home. I’m certain there will be something in that nightclub if we look for it. When we find them, and we will, I want as much evidence to pin them down as we can muster.”
Dr Libby frowned and removed his glasses. He chewed on the end of them thoughtfully as if he had a choice in the matter. “I will need more man-hours. We are already flat out on this case.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Use whatever you need, Doc,” Alec said. “I need the rest of these results yesterday.”
“Don’t you always, Detective?” Libby grunted.
“All in the pursuit of eradicating crime, my good Doctor,” Alec touched his head and bowed.
“You sound like Batman,” the doctor grumbled.
“That would make you Robin,” Alec turned to Will and winked.
“I could think of several other names for him,” Dr Libby said as he walked away from them.
“How long for the remaining results, Doc?” Will called after him. The forensic man turned and raised two fingers in a v-sign and waved them in the air offensively. “Two hours or so,” he smiled sarcastically.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Will shook his head.
“You deduced that all by yourself?” Alec frowned. “You should become a detective, Detective.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Patrick: The Past
Nate Bradley was aware that Patrick wanted to capture Salim Oguzhan immediately, but he wanted to take more time to plan it properly. They had agreed to plan it together, but while Patrick was watching Salim in the planning stage, he saw Louise Parker and became obsessed. He had to have her. He had to hurt her. Patrick had violent urges sometimes, and they were becoming more frequent and more difficult to control. This time around, he was desperate to get to her. There was nothing in the world he wanted more. She was on his mind night and day. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. Interrogating Salim became secondary. Louise Parker was his focus, and nothing else mattered.
It was Friday night and Patrick knew that Salim and Louise would be at the club. They arrived at around ten o’clock. He waited in the alleyway outside of Connections nightclub until Salim arrived and parked his Porsche behind it. Louise Parker was with him, and as she climbed out of the car, her skirt rode up, exposing her tanned thighs. He groaned aloud in the dark and felt himself growing hard. Her thighs were lean and muscular and her skin looked silky smooth. Patrick couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted her badly. She was beautiful and she was a slut. She would be his slut and she would do whatever he wanted. Patrick decided that he couldn’t wait for Nate Bradley to finish off his ‘pissing around’ reconnaissance. He would take Salim and Louise and kill two birds with one stone. He could question Salim and have some fun with Louise, too. Patrick couldn’t risk taking them at gunpoint. He would need to be more subtle than that, and he had the Porsche to think about, too. Patrick parked his car a few streets away and walked back to the club. Salim and Louise were talking to the bouncers outside and smoking cigarettes. She was laughing and tossing her hair back as she giggled. She was flirting with them, the slut. She had no idea how much he wanted her, but she would soon. No one had ever wanted her as much as he did, and he would show her things that no other man had ever shown her. He would show her pain and excitement beyond her wildest dreams, beyond her wildest fantasies or dark nightmares. She would know how it felt to really feel before she died.
Patrick waited for ten minutes after the couple had entered the nightclub. Then he approached the door and paid his entrance fee into the club. He watched the couple from a distance and waited until they had drunk half a dozen cocktails before standing near them. Louise was drunk and high on cocaine. Everyone was her friend when she was in that zone and she was hugging people left, right and centre, especially the men, the slut. Patrick spoke to Salim first.
“You must be Salim,” Patrick stuck out his hand.
“Who’s asking?” Salim stopped smiling and ignored the outstretched hand.
“Barry Mills,” Patrick lied. “I worked with your uncle in the Smoke.”
“Which uncle?” Salim was suspicious.
“Checo,” Patrick said, keeping the hand outstretched. “We did a job together on Green Lane, if you know what I mean.” Patrick laughed and looked around to see who was listening. “I had to disappear sharpish.”
“Right!” Salim relaxed. “How is the old goat?” He still ignored Patrick’s hand.
“He’s okay, still ducking and diving.”
“Is he still driving that old Rolls Royce?” Salim asked.
“Rolls Royce,” Patrick looked thoughtful and Salim’s eyes narrowed. “No, he’s been driving an old Golf convertible for years. He won’t part with the thing! When did he get a roller?” Nate Bradley had researched the Turks well. Maybe he wasn’t such a waste of space after all.
“He has one parked in the garage,” Salim shook his hand. The suspicion in his eyes was gone. “How long have you worked with Checo for?”
“Over two years now,” Patrick answered. “He doesn’t know I’m up here, no one does. It’s better that way.”
“Yes, better safe than sorry,” Salim smiled. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having, thanks.”
“Who’s your new friend?” Louise Parker joined them. She looked wobbly on her feet and her speech was slurred.
“A friend of my uncle’s from London, sorry, what was your name again?”
“Barry,” Patrick held out his hand to Louise. “Barry Mills, my pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you, Brian,” Louise said without taking the handshake. She didn’t like him. Patrick sensed her distaste. He didn’t mind. She would grow to love him soon. She would do anything he asked to stop the pain. She would look into his eyes and beg him to stop the pain. They all did, eventually.
“Barry,” Patrick corrected her.
“Barry,” she frowned. She didn’t like him at all. “Can you get me a drink please, Sally.” She turned away and spoke to someone behind them. The snub would cost her dearly.
Patrick chatted to Salim when he returned with the drinks. Their research into Salim had armed him with enough names and places to sound credible. The Turk bought him another drink, and when Patrick returned the gesture, he laced their drinks with Rohypnol. Twenty minutes later, Salim was feeling unwell and Louise was passing out on her feet.
“The champagne’s gone to my head, Sally,” she mumbled her words. Salim was holding her up. “Can we go home?”
“I’ll get us a cab,” Salim slurred. His eyes looked glassy.
“Have you brought your motor?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” Salim struggled to focus. “It’s round the back.”
“Here, I’ll take you home,” Patrick held up his glass. “I’ve only had two and you won’t be the first Oguzhan I’ve driven home from a club,” he laughed. “I’ll drop you o
ff and then drive back here, shall I?”
“You sure you don’t mind?” Salim was feeling the drug slowing him down.
“Not at all,” Patrick smiled. “I can be back here in an hour and I’ll leave your keys with the landlord, how’s that?”
The couple left with Patrick. He had offered to drive the Porsche back to the Parker residence, pretending to be concerned that Salim was over the limit. Salim believed that Patrick had worked for his family and he agreed. He was in a drug-induced sleep within the first two miles of their journey. When Salim passed out, Patrick turned the Porsche around and headed for Salim’s house. He knew that Louise lived with her father, and that wouldn’t do at all. They arrived at the house in Woolton. Patrick took the keys from the car and opened the front door. The house lay in darkness. It was perfect for what he wanted to do. He wanted Louise.
Salim was a dead weight and dragging him into the house was a struggle, but he managed it. He went back for Louise. Salim was tied up on the floor. Patrick scoured the garage for tape, and that was where he found the hatchet. Patrick was sweating with anticipation. Louise Parker was lying on her back on the kitchen table. She looked beautiful. He pushed up her skirt and pulled her thong to one side, and then he unzipped his jeans. She was about to become his forever when Mrs Oguzhan and two sleepy children appeared in the kitchen doorway. Patrick Lloyd was demented with anger and a red mist descended.
When they came round, Louise was strapped to a workbench in Jamaica Street and Salim was tied to a chair nearby. Next to him was his six-year-old son. Patrick raped Louise while she was still half-unconscious, and Salim’s cries for help and abusive threats about what his family would do to him turned him on more. His insane lust was satiated momentarily, and he turned his attention to extracting information from Salim. Salim was compliant because he didn’t want Louise or his son hurt. Had he known what he was about to witness, he would have tried to overpower Patrick despite the bonds which held him. Had he known the pain he would endure himself before he died, he would have taken a bullet instead any day of the week.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Gecko: The Past
Nate Bradley scribbled notes in a shorthand style he had learned in the intelligence service. It was unreadable to the average person. His notes referred to the people involved in his family’s tragedy, the murder of his wife and son. He listed the people he considered lowlife drug dealers, and he aimed to kill them all. They would pay, and they would keep on paying until they locked him up or shot him. He didn’t care who came first. The boy who had given his son ecstasy was dead, as was his supplier. Their dealer, Benjamin, was dead too. And this was where the Gecko made a crucial mistake. He allowed Patrick Lloyd into his trust.
Nate knew he was a special kind of person. His years working in extraordinary rendition had changed him inside. He had no sympathy for human emotions any longer. Killing to avenge his wife and son was simple. Taking the drugs and money from dealers and ruining their business was his mission, and it wouldn’t be finished until they were all dead. Simple. Nate knew that his mindset was not that of your average male, but Patrick Lloyd was different again. He was mad, a psychopath. Patrick killed because he enjoyed hurting people. He thrived on it. Nate knew that Patrick had tortured Benjamin to death for fun, not because he was a drug dealer. The difference between them was obvious to Nate. Nate was killing for a reason, whereas Patrick was a lunatic.
Patrick passed the information he was gleaning from Salim on to Nate, but he wouldn’t disclose where he was holding him and he didn’t mention that he had Louise Parker too. He said that it was safer if Nate didn’t know. Nate knew there was an ulterior motive, and he followed Patrick one day. Patrick led him to Jamaica Street. Hours later Patrick left the unit and Nate broke in. What he found shocked him to the core. Louise Parker was close to death. She was barely alive, and her injuries were horrendous. Patrick had removed her hand with a saw and left it on a workbench. There was no sign of Salim Oguzhan, but there was blood around a chair, which Patrick had screwed to the floor. Louise opened her eyes for a split second and Nate knew what he had to do. He slipped his right hand around her head and grabbed her chin. Twisting his body at the waist, he snapped her neck and put her out of her misery where Patrick Lloyd couldn’t hurt her again. Nate took Patrick’s roll of medical tools, scalpels and bone saws, and he put Louise’s hand into a bag. He would confront Patrick once they had completed the nightclub heist, and the hand would prevent him from talking bullshit. Nate knew his partner had made a huge mistake.
He had hoped the body would remain undiscovered until after the heist, but the police found the body before Patrick could move it. Nate could not believe Patrick had been so careless. His obsession with hurting people was clouding his judgment. Although they had discovered the body, the police were keeping quiet about the details of the murder until they were ready. It didn’t matter how hard they suppressed it, the Parker murder would hit the press soon. Nate knew the police had found the body and he was amazed they had managed to keep it quiet so far. It would lead the police to Salim Oguzhan, and they would eventually connect it to the robbery at the nightclub. Patrick was a liability, a threat to his mission. He had to remove Patrick from the equation and then demolish Leon Tanner and the Oguzhan cartel. Nate Bradley packed up his gear and headed to the car. First stop was Patrick Lloyd’s home.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kisha
Kisha shivered as she drove through the derelict streets of Kensington. Once families had sought after the houses for their size and desirable location close to the city centre, but now developers had boarded up the majority, ready for demolition. It was a playground for local teenage graffiti artists and vandals. In the seventies and eighties greedy property owners had begun buying up the rundown houses and had turned them into bedsits. They rented the bedrooms to unemployed people and made fortunes from the social services. Tenants were easy to find, and Giro cheques never bounced. It was a recipe for disaster as communities of unemployed people turned into crime hotspots, red light districts and drug havens. After decades of decline, the city had put compulsory purchase orders on everything and a massive regeneration scheme had been planned.
That was before the recession had hit and the money had run out. Now the houses stood empty, stripped of electric wiring and copper water pipes by drug addicts who cashed in the metals for scrap. There were a small number of determined homeowners in the area, clinging on to their bricks and mortar. Some of them wouldn’t move until the bulldozers came through the front wall.
Kisha listened to the Sat-Nav as she weaved her vehicle between shopping trolleys, burnt out cars and house-bricks. The voice announced that she had arrived at her destination, but as she looked around, she had the impression that the Sat-Nav was mistaken once again. On a day off the week before, the device had directed her along a public footpath, which she had followed until the track was so narrow the vehicle could go no further. She had had to reverse for nearly a mile before she had been able to turn her car around. Kisha sighed and shook her head in dismay. She brought the car to a halt and checked both sides of the street for any sign of habitation. The houses were boarded up and fire-damaged. The terrace on the left was scorched black around the windows and doors, and the roof had collapsed into one building. Kisha swore beneath her breath and drove on slowly. She couldn’t see the numbers because the doors were covered in metal hoardings. She was about to give up when she spotted a house fifty yards down the street which looked lived in. The front of the house was dark red and the ancient paint was cracked and peeling. Faded curtains hung behind filthy nets and dirty windows, blocking the light and obscuring her view inside. The front door had broken glass panels, which the occupier had replaced with pieces of hardboard.
“What a little palace,” Kisha muttered to herself as she pulled the car to a stop. “I really hope you’re not in.” There had been many times in her career when she had had to endure filth and clutter while interview
ing a witness or suspect, but she never got used to it. Just the look of the house and the dereliction around it made her skin crawl. There were some places where the thought of accepting a cup of tea from the occupant made her feel physically sick. She checked her list and walked to the front door. Picking a panel carefully, she rapped the wood with her knuckles, hoping it wouldn’t fall out. There was no reply. She looked through the letterbox and was surprised at how tidy it looked. A long hallway led to a fitted kitchen. Laminate wood covered the floors. It looked clean and freshly moped. The smell of bleach and furniture polish reached her. Kisha knocked again and then peered into the front window, trying to penetrate the grime. As she covered her eyes with her hand to remove the glare from the glass, the front door opened.
“Can you see anything through them?” A man’s voice made her jump. She blushed with embarrassment. “There hasn’t been a window cleaner down this street for years, and I can’t be bothered to do it myself. It’s not as if the neighbours are going to talk about me, is it?” He smiled disarmingly. She noticed his teeth were false, repaired badly at some point in the past.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” Kisha stammered. She returned his smile despite her predicament. “I am looking for Patrick Floyd?”
“There is no Patrick Floyd here, sorry.” He winked and smiled again. His eyes flicked over her body from head to toe, digesting her vital statistics in milliseconds. He liked what he saw. She was very sexy indeed. Kisha felt uncomfortable under his gaze and her distaste registered on her face. “Do you know where he moved to, or when he moved?” Kisha stopped smiling and showed him her warrant card. His face changed for a second, his eyes showing fear, but only for a moment. Then he smiled again.
“I am Patrick,” he winked and shrugged.
“I haven’t got time to mess around,” Kisha frowned. “Are you Patrick Floyd?”