Once inside the house, Anya ordered Król to take Lizzie upstairs and tie her up in the back bedroom. Król did as instructed but disliked taking orders from the woman, especially a woman such as her who he believed to be nothing more than a high-class whore.
* * *
Lizzie was left alone in a white painted bedroom tied to the wooden headboard of a single, unmade bed. Aside from the bed there was no other furniture in the room. Just bare walls and a beige carpet. The only light came from a dorma window in the sloping ceiling that allowed her only a view of the grey London sky.
As he tied her, Król had been muttering under his breath in Polish, clearly unhappy at being the blonde-haired woman’s whipping boy and as a result had not tied Lizzie very securely. Not only was the rope that bound her loose, but the headboard was also wobbling in its mounting and she thought, with a good hard pull, it might easily pop out. So as soon as she heard Król thump down the stairs, she decided to give her theory a try.
The headboard was fixed better than she had hoped but with a few heavy tugs, being careful not to make too much noise, it eventually broke free of its mounting. Lizzie slid her bound wrists down and over the end of the post she was tethered to, freeing herself from it but leaving her still tied with her arms behind her back. However, without the bedpost to hamper her efforts she now had much more freedom of movement with which to better work on the rope.
* * *
Król strode angrily into the kitchen where Anya, sitting at the polished oak breakfast table, was applying bright green nail varnish, her long, bare legs crossed elegantly in front of her. But Król hardly looked at her, his contempt for her barely contained, as he clicked on the kettle and reached for a glass mug from the tree on the windowsill.
“You supposed to be upstairs with girl.” Anya said without looking up from her nails. But Król ignored her.
“Hey, you - ugly brute!” She barked, now staring at his back. “You supposed to be guarding girl so that she not get away like she did in Bahamas!”
“What do you know about The Bahamas?” Król sneered in better English.
“I know plenty. I know you fuck up and I know you better not do it again.” She said.
“Says who?” Snapped Król. “You?”
“Yes me,” said Anya. “I not fuck up. I success. You do as I say and girl will not escape again.”
“I don’t take orders from you. You’re not even shit on my shoe. You know nothing about giving or taking orders. All you know is how to lay on your back and sell your skinny arse to the highest bidder.” Król spat, his hackles clearly raised as he poured the scolding water into his coffee cup, spilling half of it on the worktop before aggressively tipping in a teaspoon of coffee and stirring wildly.
“Pah!” Anya laughed. “You’re pathetic, you know that? You might think I’m whore and sure, so what, I fuck rich men and they give me nice things - is it my fault I’m beautiful? But I’m also smart, not like you. When I do job I make sure it right. When I fuck a man I make sure they are satisfied, I make sure they are pleased and when they ask me to guard girl to make sure she not escape - I do that too.”
“She’s not escaped!” Król growled. “She’s tied up upstairs. Not going anywhere. I know how to do job. I do it all my life - and I don’t need whore like you getting in my way!”
“Hah! Well we see what Peter say when I tell him that, ‘cos he obviously not trust you enough to baby sit some helpless girl.” Anya’s face was victorious when she had finished speaking with a smug, self-satisfied smile upon her face which Król would have dearly loved to have punched off but at that moment both of them heard the sound of footsteps and then a desperate scrambling noise of the latch being lifted on the front door.
* * *
Lizzie worked furiously on the rope, which was poorly tied, and quickly freed herself from its bonds. Carefully she slipped off the bed and tip-toed over to the dorma window hoping that she might find a fire escape but the window was locked and beyond that there was just a sheer drop to the small enclosed courtyard below - offering no way out.
She crossed to the door and tested the handle, finding it open. Silently she slipped out along the thickly carpeted landing and then down a short flight of narrow stairs to the first floor. The house was impressive, very modern and quite spacious, the walls white and stark in the minimalist style. The landing here was fitted with the same thick beige carpet that seemed to cover both upper levels, including the room from which Lizzie had just escaped. The luxurious carpet helped disguise the sound of her foot falls as she rushed along towards the elegant curved stairway. This led to the ground floor and was much grander in design than the small set of stairs that led from attic rooms. It had spotlights embedded into the wall at foot level above every tread and rather than a balustrade there was a smoothly worked plaster wall, finishing at waist height, that had been painted white to give a sleek modern twist to the classic spiral staircase. Lizzie crouched down behind the plastered curve as she warily navigated her way down, being careful not to be seen by anyone who happened to be occupying the large open living space below.
She could hear loud, angry voices, somewhere off to the back of the house she thought - certainly in a different part of the house to the one she was entering into and a wave of courage surged through her body. As her plimsolled foot touched down on the expensive hardwood floor at the bottom of the staircase she raised her head above the parapet and risked a furtive look around. She could see no one, although the voices were louder, even more angry now and Lizzie sensed trouble was brewing but she didn’t intend to hang around long enough to witness it.
Remembering her way from when Król carried her in, Lizzie rushed across the main room, her rubber soles squeaking rather too loudly on the polished wooden floor, and into the hallway where she saw, with relief, the wide front door. She dived towards it and, with shaking, flustered hands, released the safety chain. After that she reached for the latch but it was locked. There was a catch that slid up and down to release it and Lizzie fumbled with it, trying to work as quickly as possible, desperately trying to escape before being discovered.
But it was too late, just as she released the latch and the first strip of glorious daylight shone through the widening crack in the opening door a rough hand seized her by the hair and dragged her backwards.
Lizzie span round and slashed Król across the cheek with her nails leaving three bloody claw marks but he was impervious to the pain as he raised his fist and before Lizzie had time to even brace herself, brought it swiftly down painting her world black.
* * *
Król threw Lizzie to the ground like a discarded rag doll and her limp body slid to a halt on the shiny oak floor.
“Idiot!” Anya shouted. “You stupid fucking idiot! What did I tell you eh? You got no fucking brain you big, ugly brute!”
“Shut up, whore!” Król snarled. “Just shut up.”
“No.” Anya snapped, “I not shut up. I not keep quiet. You got one job to do and you don’t even do that. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
Król had well and truly had enough of this skinny blonde gold-digger with the big mouth and small tits. She was making his head ache with her constant belittling and whining. The worst of it was, that he knew she was right. He had not done a good job, he had not been careful. He should have made certain that she was securely tied, that there was no way she could escape but instead of that he had let Anya get into his head. Orders from Bearing and Khan were one thing, they were his employers, men he respected but orders from a Bulgarian whore that was entirely another.
Król felt his rage rising, building uncontrollably, knowing that he was about to blow. He had to step away, get away from Anya before he did something even more stupid, but she just would not stop talking.
“You sloppy. Useless. You wait until I tell Peter - I make sure he not pay you for yet another fuck up job!” She y
elled, her face contorted with triumphant gratification.
Król turned his back, desperately trying to block out her incessant jabbering. “Shut up!” He yelled before sucking in deep gulps of air in a useless bid to cool his temper. But it was no good, Anya refused to keep quiet, clearly enjoying Król’s anguish. “No, I not shut up - you have to make me - if you man enough, which I seriously doubt!”
Anya felt excited somehow by the barely controlled violence of the man before her. With Peter, the violence, the beatings although real enough, were all part of an agreed game in which each knew the rules and boundaries. But Król was raw strength, a big, angry mountain of rage, wild and untamed - about as far from Peter Bearing’s little sex games as she could possibly go and she found the thought of that tantalising. Arousing even. As Anya berated Król, belittled him, she knew with growing anticipation and excitement that at any moment he was likely to explode.
Suddenly she knew that she wanted him urgently inside her, to feel his hard body as he forced himself brutally upon her, ripping at her flesh, clawing at her breasts, making her suffer, deservedly punishing her for all her demeaning barbs.
“Come on you big, hairy brute - show me what big, hard man you are!” She goaded, purposely trying to provoke him. “Prove to me how big and tough you are - shut me up if you dare!”
“Be quiet, bitch, I mean it!” Król shouted, his self control at its absolute limit. “Just shut up!”
“Make me.” Anya taunted wantonly.
That was it. Król snapped. He span around and charged towards her, grabbing her tightly by the throat with his outstretched hand, the thick veins in his muscular, tattooed forearms pulsating with venomous rage. In that one swift movement he lifted her easily off the floor and slammed her forcefully up against the clean white wall behind her. But as the back of her head connected hard with the wall, Anya let out a small gasp of pleasure.
As Król held her firmly, he snatched a handful of one of her small perfect breasts and squeezed it viscously. Anya gasped again, a shudder of delight and eager anticipation rattling through her body as she wrapped her legs around his and drew him closer to her. “That’s it, you big, ugly brute,” she said, “You want to fuck me now don’t you, yes?” As she said it she reached down and grabbed his crotch expecting to find him hard and eager. But instead he was soft and flacid and as she looked up into his murderous eyes, a sliver of cold fear crawled into her belly, knowing with dreadful certainty that she had badly misjudged the situation. Her legs dropped, freeing him from the circle she had entrapped him in, but she could not touch the floor and they dangled helplessly as he held her.
Meanwhile, Król had released his grip on her breast and whilst still pinning her by the throat had reached into his pocket and pulled out something Anya had not expected.
“You want to be fucked, whore?” He sneered, with spittle on his lips and white foaming saliva at the corners of his mouth, “Well now you are.”
Anya’s eyes flew wide apart as Król pushed the lovingly polished tip of his razor sharp butterfly knife between her top two ribs. The full length of its thin shiny blade slicing through flesh, muscle and sinew until it reached the base of her dying heart.
Anya only fought briefly as she felt the terrible pain, realising much too late what was actually happening, but the fight went out of her quickly, like the light in her eyes as she slumped dead in his vice-like grip.
* * *
Król knew instantly that he had made a huge error and as he lowered Anya’s lifeless body gently to the ground he turned his head and saw Lizzie staring up at him from where she lay, terror struck by what she had just witnessed. She had roused just at the moment Król stabbed Anya and had been transfixed by horror, unable to tear her eyes away and fearing desperately for her own life at the hands of this murdering madman who was now staring back at her.
Król was motionless, almost in a trance, for a second as his mind clicked slowly into action, thinking about his next very important steps. When they were clear in his mind he once again moved into action, raising a finger to his lips he said to Lizzie, “Ssh, girlie. You see nothing here. It’ll be our little secret. The only people to know will be you and me, yes?”
Lizzie made no reaction as Król continued. “You keep quiet, you stay alive, understand?”
Lizzie nodded slowly, her attention shifting from Król’s bearded, rough face to the large pool of blood that was spreading out on the hard wooden floor beneath Anya’s body.
“It’s okay, girlie,” Król said, almost kindly. “It’s only blood, it not hurt you. And neither will I unless you give me reason - so do not give me reason, okay?”
Again Lizzie nodded.
“Good,” said Król, “Now let’s take you back upstairs where I tie you up tight, like I should have done before. The whore was right. I was sloppy, but not anymore.”
With Lizzie once again secured, this time in such a way that she could not possibly hope to escape, Król came back downstairs and began clearing up the mess he had made.
He was grateful that he had killed Anya downstairs on the wooden flooring and not upstairs on the pale beige carpet as the blood could easily be mopped up without leaving a trace. Firstly though, he had to dispose of the body before Arthur Khan came home and saw it laying there.
Quickly, Król wrapped Anya’s corpse in several large plastic bin bags then sealed the finished parcel securely with a whole roll of brown packing tape that he had found under Arthur’s sink.
The sun was setting as Król then carried the wrapped body back out to the Range Rover and stowed it in the boot under the parcel shelf. No one would look there tonight. Tomorrow, Król would drive out to the countryside, find a large forest and bury the former Miss Bulgaria in a deep, dark hole where no one would ever find her.
Bearing would, of course, ask questions but Król would just maintain that he had never seen Anya and that she had never turned up at Arthur’s house. No one would ever know and Peter Bearing would have no choice but to assume that his girlfriend had moved on to someone even richer.
For now though, Fabian Król intended to go back into Khan’s beautiful mews house, find a mop and clean like he had never cleaned before. By the time Arthur arrived home there would be no trace of blood or Anya’s very existence anywhere.
* * *
Lizzie was bruised, battered and scared. From the crash of the Maserati to where she was now, it had been one hell of an afternoon and she was still reeling from the effects, her head throbbed and her body ached but there was to be no respite as she was tightly bound at the wrists and ankles with a wide strip of packing tape stuck firmly over her mouth. This time, she was not going anywhere.
Her escape attempt had failed miserably, having ended with the horrendous murder of that beautiful young woman by the man Lizzie now knew as Fabian Król. The same man who had murdered her foster brother, Aaron.
The murder of the girl and the look of pure insanity in Król’s eyes afterwards had shocked her to the very core and she knew she was lucky to still be alive.
However, Lizzie realised the futility of her situation, knowing that there was nothing she could do now but wait and hope to be rescued before Król decided to kill her too.
But above all else, she prayed that Jake was safe.
Chapter 43
Jake was frantic. After escaping from Król in the taxi he had asked to be dropped off at the bottom of Regent Street. From there, he had slowly made his way back on foot to Baker Street, constantly keeping his wits about him, ever aware that Król and his accomplice might still be loitering about. But he had to find Lizzie, desperately hoping that she had evaded capture. The last time he saw her she was heading down Allsop Place with Król’s passenger in the Range Rover giving chase on foot.
Jake arrived back at Baker Street to find the scene of the crash swarming with police. The brewery truck had been parked at the
side of the road and the crumpled Maserati was being hoisted on to a tow truck. The pavement was thick with onlookers - people, Jake realised, who may have witnessed the accident and who had possibly seen him running away from the scene.
Quickly, he darted into a souvenir shop and purchased a baseball cap which had the ‘Baker Street Underground’ logo embroidered on it and a pair of cheap, black wrap around shades. He also bought a grey ‘Carnaby Street’ sweatshirt to complete the tourist ensemble which, as soon as he left the shop, he swiftly put on, hopefully disguising himself from anyone who may have seen him earlier.
Jake then worked his way into the thick of the gathered crowd and stood watch for a moment as policemen in hi-vis jackets diverted traffic and several detectives talked to possible witnesses - one of them being a very shocked looking brewery truck driver.
Jake pulled the peak of his cap down, disguising his face further, before asking a woman standing next to him, “What’s going on?”
The woman barely glanced at him, her focus fixed on what was happening in front of her. “Dunno, for sure,” she said in an Australian twang. “Some girl’s been kidnapped, or so the cops are saying.”
Jake’s heart sank. “There was a big crash,” the woman continued, “Seems that fancy white sports car over there hit that truck. They’re saying the driver scarpered and left his girlfriend to be kidnapped by two blokes who were after them. Sounds like a pretty nice type of fella, don’t he?” The woman said sarcastically, at last glancing round to see to whom it was she was addressing, but Jake was gone. Lizzie had been taken and the guilt he felt for leaving her was eating him alive.
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