Wakes as the bed shifts.
The man is whispering. Touching. Hands crawling over his body.
He moves away.
The man grabs him. Pushes his face to the pillow.
He can’t breathe. He’s panicking, heart thundering, head light.
The man pulls his pyjama pants down.
The pillow moves. He sucks in a gasp of air. His head clears.
White-hot pain rips into him. He starts to scream but his face is shoved into the pillow, smothering the noise.
The man’s weight is crushing him. He can’t breathe. He’s dying. Sobbing and gasping.
At last the pain eases.
His hair is pulled and his head wrenched back.
He can breathe again.
The man whispers, a vicious rasp: ‘Tell your mother, runt, and I’ll kill you.’
He cringes from the voice he knows so well.
His father.
Brown screams himself awake. He shudders and weeps.
He knows what he must do.
He must purge himself of the nightmare.
Again.
***
Kate sat up, wide awake, feeling no hint of fatigue.
‘Johnny, why did you access that CIA report? How did you know they’d have anything on the guy?’
Playful eyes beamed back at hers as his face creased into a crazy grin. ‘Oh, come on Kate. You think I’m always hacking the big bad ole US-of-A security systems! Hand on heart, this was a one-time only.’
‘Yeah, right!’ She could not help return his manic smile with a rather more moderate one of her own. ‘What I need to know is,’ she paused as he focused, probably realising her half-hour power-nap was actually nothing of the sort, ‘what prompted you to hack into the CIA network? How did you know they’d have a report on this?’
‘And I’m the naive one? You need to get out to the cinema a little more kiddo. Everyone,’ he stretched out the first syllable, ‘knows that there’s a CIA station officer attached to every US embassy. And everyone knows a suspicious death of a US national in a foreign land is a very big deal.’ He paused for breath, sucked in another one and continued before Kate could get a word in. ‘Such a big deal that the local CIA station officers will be on the case like flies on shit, whisking reports back to Langley in double pronto time.’
‘And?’
‘Well, you know... I hacked into their comms, sucking that baby onto this here screen,’ his finger jabbed his display, ‘so fast the Langley ciphers hardly know I’ve been and gone!’ He sat back, brushed a few crumbs off his front, folded his arms and did his level best to look like an inscrutable Buddha. ‘The orient holds no secrets from me!’
Kate’s own smile had vanished. ‘You know I can’t use this.’
Her brief period of reflection had not yielded the normal results. Instead of formulating a two or three thousand word article, her mind had floundered, full of excitement mingled with disbelief. Swooping highs and dreams of scoops tumbling into troughs of fear and doubt, lawsuits... and worse.
Johnny chirped back, ‘Okay, so you can’t do your interview with the great Mr Simm cos he rather selfishly cancelled next week’s meeting due to inadvertent death syndrome. But Miss Cheery,’ his finger wagged at her, ‘you can still scoop everyone.’
Johnny, I cannot.’
He ignored her, increasing his pace and volume, and continued, ‘Well-respected US millionaire businessman brutally murdered while on paedophile sex vacation. It’s perfect – it confirms the rumours you’d heard.’
‘We don’t really know that.’
‘Okay, okay. You’re the journo. How about alleged-paedophile-sex-vacation. That should cover it. Another couple of thousand words and big payday for big sis. Maybe no Pulitzer, but a really juicy scoop.’
Kate was unsure. Sometimes she wondered if journalism was really for her. She got by as a freelance, but she had always thought she lacked the investigative zeal that the successful hacks displayed in spades.
Her preference, her forte in fact, had been for well-researched and well-written analysis, background articles and insightful commentary. She had desperately wanted to get on the staff of a national daily since they arrived in the UK some years before, but never had the chance. She had survived by odd-jobbing, pitching for non-contentious profiles like the one she was doing for the FT on George Simm.
And now, a week away from the interview that would have secured a whole pink page under Kate O’Sullivan’s by-line, this.
Bummer.
And a scoop? Well, scoops were for journalists with hunters’ instincts.
Surely not for her.
Illegally obtaining confidential information was one thing, but being able to use it quite another. The Murdoch news empire had got itself into deep shit over hacking and she could not imagine her editor at the FT wanting any part of this.
She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes tight, and rubbed her face with the palms of her hands, trying to clear her head and quieten her jumbled mind.
‘Fancy a Bud?’ Johnny held a bottle out to her, fresh from the mini-fridge tucked under his computer desk.
She checked his bedside clock. ‘It’s not yet 4am!’
‘Yeah, but somewhere in the world it’s Bud-time.’
Kate collapsed back on the bed, bottle in hand, finally relaxing. And then, sipping the chilled beer, something clicked in her mind and her excitement gradually started to build.
Maybe, just maybe there’s a way, she thought. Why shouldn’t I go for it?
‘Johnny, I’ve got an idea...’
***
Police Major General Lee was feeling worse today, unkempt and in need of a very long shower.
He had despatched a car to collect the concierge, who had been woken and dragged from his cot still in his nightclothes.
The man was sitting in a cell on a single chair positioned in the middle of the room, vulnerable, exposed. A little patch of wet appeared around his crotch as Lee walked in.
Excellent! thought Lee. This won’t take long.
‘Before I ask any more questions, I’d like you to think back to our meeting last night, the little chat we had at the hotel.’
As his head nodded, the man’s lower lip started to tremble.
Lee had a ferocious reputation, although the reality was rather different. The son of a senior Thai banking officer who had been posted to Hong Kong, Lee entered the police force there. He had been well trained by the British, and his methods reflected much of the best of their policing mixed with a little oriental brutality – very much a tradition with the old colony’s force.
On his return to Thailand he had rapidly risen to his current position. Rumours abounded about Lee’s methods, and his reputation – much exaggerated – was, like the best legends, based on the truth.
‘Is there anything more you wish to tell me? Something you may have forgotten?’
He strolled behind his victim, and placed a palm on his head. The man flinched and craned to look up at his interrogator, eyes bugging out with fear.
The implied threat was enough. The concierge made his choice and started talking. ‘I remember now sir. I have seen the boy before. He’s been to the hotel, four or five times I think, always with a tourist, never begging. Just quietly waiting as they get their keys.’
The man’s voice was tight and dry from fear, and Lee could smell cheap Thai rum on his breath. No doubt he had drunk himself to oblivion and collapsed unconscious on his bed before they had come for him, beating him with their truncheons, aiming hard blows to his kidneys and legs.
The concierge eased himself forward in his seat, massaging his lower back. His tongue darted out, as if searching his lips for moisture. Finding none.
Lee waited for him to continue.
‘The hotel’s policy, sir – ’
‘Tell me everything and I’ll see to it that you don’t lose your job.’
The man’s relief seeped into his voice. ‘Well, the hotel owner will not allow hookers a
nd street children into the rooms, and we must chase them away if they ever come into the foyer.’
‘I don’t care about your boss’s policies. Just tell me the truth.’ Lee strolled around to the front of the man and crouched, bringing their eyes level. ‘Go on.’
‘The American gave me a tip. A generous tip. He wanted me to look the other way, to not see the boy... To pretend not to notice is easy sir, and there was another customer waiting.’
The concierge tugged his pyjama top forward, subconsciously trying to cover the wet patch. Lee knew his groin would be clammy and uncomfortable, and his embarrassment more distressing than the pain from the beating he had endured. The man’s cheeks turned darker with shame as he noticed Lee’s gaze.
‘The boy? Who is he?’
‘I don’t know his name sir, but,’ the words spilled out in a rush, ‘I believe he is one of Fan’s. I’ve seen them together.’
Ah, at last. A lead. Fan. Of course.
‘Anything else?’
‘Believe me, I know no more. Please, may I go now sir? I have to work.’
Lee was sure the man would not arrive for his shift at the hotel today. He would probably drink himself stupid instead. He shrugged and called a constable to release the man. He yawned, his brain slow.
Then he had a burst of inspiration.
The concierge paused by the door, shoulders slumping as he turned at Lee’s barked question.
‘One last thing. The other customer. Who was it? Man or woman? Which room?’
The concierge gave a little sigh of relief. ‘No room, sir. He was just a backpacker. He asked about prices, but our suites are expensive.’ He turned to go.
‘And he left?’
‘Yes.’
There was a moment of hesitation, pounced on by Lee. ‘You’re certain?’
‘Well, I didn’t see him leave... He headed for the door as I went into our office. I had paperwork to do. I remained there until I heard the boy come screaming through the foyer.’
‘Please, sit.’ Lee’s senses were alert, something inside telling him this was important. ‘I need a description of this man. And anything else you remember.’
***
Kylie was revolted by the ridiculous sight of the old man’s hairy arse wobbling as he pumped away at her.
Her knees were touching his armpits as he grunted and sweated profusely in his search for a moment of brief ecstasy between her legs. The balding grey head was tucked next to hers as she bit hard on his ear, all the while studying the reflected image on the mirrored ceiling above.
She tried to feel nothing, as if she were having an out of body experience, an observer rather than a participant. It was how she coped.
Wobble. Wobble. Wobble. Grunt.
She grasped his flanks as he started to speed up, apparently excited at the ‘enthusiastic’ response from her. She dug her nails deep, raking his sides, studying the red wheals left by her fingers. He squealed.
Just like the animal he was.
She sighed then quickly smothered the noise with a gasp of false delight.
Thus encouraged, he pummelled on, faster and faster. Wobble-wobble-moan. She joined him, groaning and writhing, all the while observing the sweaty tangle of bodies above. He arched a little and spurted inside her. She clung to him, dug her chin into his shoulder, crooning into his ear, encouraging him, calling him her stud, her lover.
He shuddered to a stop with a final buttock tremble, rolled off her, and lay back. He closed his eyes and tucked his hands behind his head. He was totally relaxed now, off-guard. She had often wondered why women ever killed men other than at this moment, in the vulnerable afterglow of sex.
Men are so weak she thought as she studied his face. No sign now of the stress he always wore like a mask when he arrived. He was totally content, a different person from twenty minutes ago. His paunched belly and flaccid muscles, normally hidden from view, disgusted her.
He had told her he was quite famous, not that she had ever heard of him. Not a good moment for a photo-call. She sniggered at the thought, and quickly gave his penis a little tug to convince him it was his manhood that was the source of her joy. God forbid he should think she was laughing at him.
Life had never been good to Kylie but she loved her luxurious apartment. She had been here several months and was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep it.
I’m in good shape, the best I’ve been, she thought. Even as she lay there her mind’s eye compared how she had looked when he had first taken her in, brought her here. Scrawny, unkempt, dirty. His ‘urchin’ he had called her, fucking her there and then on that very bed, even before she had cleaned herself, the street grime and filth staining the sheets. He had not hurt her, he wasn’t a big man, a little less than average is what he told her.
Not that it mattered.
What did matter was this lovely flat, the food, the huge TV and the pills she popped each day, especially now the fat American would not let her have anything too heavy. No more needles for her.
And the Bitch, her mother. She would puke if she could see Kylie now. Jealous cow was always trying to ruin things.
Fuck her. She shoved the thoughts away and continued inspecting her body.
Breasts. Not too big, almost fully rounded, though they had been like that for years. She experienced a brief twinge of worry as she wondered if they would find another girl, a younger girl, to replace her. Just like her predecessor, who had grown too big, too womanly.
She brushed her hand over her crotch. No tell tale there, not that she ever had much. She was ever careful to keep it bald though, just how they liked it. A moment of doubt assailed her as she wondered if they would ever find out how old she really was, and whether that would be enough for them to dump her. She bundled the thought aside.
The bed bounced as he got up.
‘I have to go Kylie.’ He bent forward and pecked her forehead. ‘See you Friday. Be good.’
He may have been gross but he was still the nicest. Some of the others did hurt her.
The door closed softly as she switched on the TV, zapping the remote until she found a cartoon.
She popped a pill and her mind switched back to neutral.
Which for Kylie, who had never known true happiness, was about as good as it got.
***
Her ‘lover’ was feeling rather less than neutral as he tramped along Oxford Street. He was raging at himself, judge and prosecutor battling inside his head.
Not guilty your honour.
Scurrying down the steps of Oxford Circus tube, he was simultaneously trying to keep his head squeezed into his shoulders, trilby tugged low over his eyes while scrutinising all passers-by, not wanting to be seen, recognised so close to his guilty secret.
He found a seat at the far end of the platform, out of the way. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. Guilt tinged adrenalin his drug of choice.
He just could not stop himself. He had never been able to stop himself.
As he waited for the train the trial in his mind continued.
Prosecutor: A pervert m’lud.
Not guilty your honour.
They feed her drugs.
We feed her, full stop. She was starving. Already a junkie when I rescued her.
You took advantage of a young and vulnerable girl.
No. I helped her. She’d probably be dead without me.
A child abuser. You’re sick. You’re sixty-four years old. She was just FIFTEEN when you took her.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
His mind thundered, drowning out the sound of the train arriving. He was oblivious, and sat, head in his hands, tears dripping through his fingers. Self-pity and self-disgust were his only companions as the platform emptied. The minutes passed and he managed to pull himself together enough to mount the next train.
No one noticed him. A dozen people in the carriage and not a glance in his direction.
Thank God for London.
His face lost in anonymous crowds.
A couple of dark skinned old ladies sat opposite him, chatting excitedly about the show they had seen, the latest musical spectacular. Life goes on, he thought, as he nodded politely to them. Not a flicker of recognition. Good.
He picked up a discarded evening paper lying on the seat beside him, something to distract himself. To stop the guilt crowding back into his mind.
As the train rattled him the few stops to his home station, Sir Jeremy Green QC, habitual child abuser, began to distance himself from his pathetic other self.
The Prosecutor was silenced. Only the Judge remained.
Sir Jeremy was back to himself.
Nothing could harm him. He had managed to keep his dirty little secrets buried deep, where no one could dig them up. He had friends in high office.
Christ, he thought, I am in high office.
He had worked hard to get all he deserved. And after all, everyone has their little peccadilloes, their vices, their skeleton filled closets. Their dirty stinking linen, never to be washed in public.
His little homilies continued, building his confidence and re-assuring himself. It was always the same. The anticipation, the joy and the brief, brief moments of rapture. And then the guilt trip home.
Normally, he would climb out at Victoria station. Normally, he would stroll the few hundred yards to his magnificent home. Normally, twice weekly, his Mr Hyde moments over, the respectable Dr Jekyll returned.
But tonight things were different.
So different that he almost missed his station.
The two West Indian ladies had been jabbering, re-living scenes from the show they had just seen. The older of the two, stopped chatting mid-sentence, frowning with concern as she noticed Sir Jeremy’s expression.
‘Are you okay mister?’
He was sweating badly and his face contorted with pain as his chest crushed him. Palsied hands vibrated the newspaper clutched in his lap as his eyes struggled to read the print.
The business section.
‘Mister, you want an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.’ The two ladies stood and fussed over him.
‘Dolores, it’s our stop, let’s get him off here. See him okay.’
It had taken just one paragraph of fifty words or so. And Sir Jeremy’s over-wrought mind had begun to collapse as his life of lies started to unravel.
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 42