“This is high profile.”
“He tied her, he burned her.”
He waited and watched as I took it in.
I leafed through the file. There was a lot on him.
“She is marked, not just mentally, but physically as well. Scarred. She is not the only one. There are others, all too afraid to speak.”
O’Neill specialised in the casual rape and torture of young women. The evidence had been meticulously put together, and from what I could see, this was a fairly open secret in Hollywood.
I put the papers down, my mind on Lauren and Klein’s stooges.
“OK then.”
“I have your ticket to Hollywood.”
I owed him, and so the next day I packed and boarded the first class flight to Los Angeles he had booked me. The brief was to complete by the end of the week, which suited me.
My contact over there was a guy I’d heard Martoni mention on a number of occasions: Lui Simone.
A big mover and shaker among the Los Angeles mob, he met me at the airport and took me to the penthouse apartment I’d be staying in.
It bordered Beverley Hills, and was totally private.
Simone was well–tailored, polite and dead behind the eyes.
“We have this for you, Jack,” he said as I set my bags down, handing me some papers and a mobile phone.
“I need transport.”
“Downstairs in the parking lot.”
“Can you show me where he lives? I know this needs to be done quickly.”
“Sure.”
My vehicle was a snub–nosed Lexus, and after showing me it Simone drove me to O’Neill’s address in his Cadillac. It was a meandering mansion plum in the middle of Beverley Hills. Security gates and guards surrounded the house, ruling out a home hit.
“What else do you need?” he said.
“I’m not sure yet. Time. I want to check out his work–place. Offices, or ...”
“He’s filming at the moment.”
Can you get me on set?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Any idea why the urgency? This is high profile and I need to get it right.”
“He’s going on a cruise for six months next week, the girl’s family want him dead before he leaves.”
He left me at the apartment.
The next morning he arrived with a runner’s pass to the film set. It was enough to allow me to find out what I needed.
The set was a hive of activity, noisy, neurotic, with everyone focused on the actors: the perfect place for me to hide and go about my business unnoticed.
I carried out the errands I was asked to do without anyone ever questioning me and quickly found O’Neill’s trailer.
I didn’t sight him until that afternoon when he walked on set: a tall, well–toned old man with a perma–tan glow.
He was late and we were all waiting for him.
The make–up artists danced around him, while the director barked orders at everyone else.
He was fussed over for an hour before we were ready to start filming, and then it was obvious he hadn’t learned his lines.
I could see people shaking their heads.
An actor near me walked away in disgust.
“Fucking asshole, he can’t even act anymore.”
I walked round to his trailer.
There was no one about and it was open.
It was definitely the luxury model, decked out with everything he could want: plasma screens, computers, fridges, Jacuzzi, deep sofas, the lot.
There was nothing in terms of information for me to find out on this assignment, and he kept little of his own affairs lying around.
A box of Viagra stood in the bathroom cabinet, a pair of handcuffs in a drawer in the bedroom.
He obviously had plans for a few sex sessions while filming.
I examined the trailer’s potential for the hit: if the blinds were down, as now, it would be secure, but there would be too many people coming and going during the day.
If he was there at night on his own it was a possible, but then he would almost certainly have company.
A hit could be carried out quickly in the bedroom.
There was no other location I could think of, since his house was definitely out of the question.
I left quickly before anyone noticed I was gone.
That evening I called Simone.
“I need to ask a few things.”
“I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Are there any other locations where the hit can be carried out?”
He thought for a few moments.
“It’s hard. When he’s not on set or at home, he’s very much in the public eye. Paparazzi follow him everywhere.”
“Anyone he visits?”
“Like a lady?”
“Yes.”
“No. He likes them younger. He sometimes does it in hotel rooms, but it’s unpredictable, sometimes on set.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
It told me what I suspected: it was going to have to happen in his trailer.
***
The next day I checked the security on set. There were a few loopholes.
No one had checked me out, and it wouldn’t be hard to come and go unnoticed.
This gave me an opening, but I needed to find out more about O’Neill’s habits.
On a day to day basis he pissed the other actors off, butting in on conversations, lording it over lesser talents and messing the director around.
I worked overtime to find out how often he stayed late in the company of new actresses.
As I helped prepare the set for the next day’s shoot I saw a starlet enter his trailer. She looked coked out of her head and couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
Half an hour later she emerged followed by O’Neill who languidly entered his chauffeur driven limousine and left.
The next day a young actress came in as her replacement. The starlet had gone into rehab.
When she walked on set it was obvious she was O’Neill’s type.
He made a bee–line for her.
He offered to give her a few tips in his trailer.
I sat with a coffee while he chatted to her some metres away.
“I’ve met many actresses in my time, but you’ve really got something special.”
“Really? Do you really think so, Mr O’Neill?”
“I do.”
“Oh, wait till I tell my mom, she has all your films. She’s so excited I’ve got this part.”
“Forget your mom, you need to concentrate on your career. I can tell you’re gonna be a real big hit.”
“Really?”
“And when you do, take my advice, be careful what you say and to who.”
“Yes. My mom’s always saying that.”
“This business is all about reputation and trust, scratch my back, I scratch yours. If you come over to my trailer later, I could take you through your role.”
“Would you do that for me? That’s fantastic, Mr O’Neill.”
“Say about eight,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’ll be quieter then.”
“Oh yes. I’ll bring my lines.”
“See you there.”
He breezed off and barked at someone, reappearing an hour late to fluff more lines.
Time was running out on this hit, and the guy was really making my skin crawl.
***
I knew I had to make this one good and get out before he disappeared on his cruise.
Over lunch I phoned Simone.
“Yes, Jack? How can I help?”
“I need a couple of downers, something strong and dissolvable.”
“When?”
“By five. Delivered here.”
“I’ll get it couriered to you.”
***
I worked through the day, keeping an eye on O’Neill and checking for any changes in his arrangement.
At about four I walked into one of the wings and found him w
ith another actress. He had her pinned against the wall. She was struggling as he pressed up against her.
“You’re hurting my arm, let go.”
“If you snitch, I’ll ruin your career.”
“Let me go.”
“Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”
“You can’t treat me like that.”
“I can do what I want. There are plenty more like you.”
He relaxed his grip and laughed, leaving fingerprints in her arm.
She stood there rubbing her arm as he walked away.
At five, a bike turned up. I collected the parcel from the rider and went to the toilets to check the contents, enough GBH to get an elephant gang–raped, and fitting. He already had a reputation that was an open secret in Hollywood, the press would make it look like one of his little sessions backfired on him and make a fortune out of peddling the mountain of filth his career sat on.
O’Neill was in the habit of shouting for refreshments at regular intervals throughout the day and at six he said loudly, “Where’s the coffee?”
“I’ll get that for you Mr O’Neill,” I said.
“Bring it to my trailer.”
He didn’t even look at me and just walked away.
I went back and slipped the two pills into his cup, waited a few minutes and took it through.
I knocked and waited.
He came to the door in a bathrobe.
“Oh,” he said, taking it from me and shutting the door.
I went to look for the actress he was planning to see.
It was almost seven when I found her rehearsing her lines.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Message from Mr O’Neill. He’s not feeling well and sends his apologies.”
“Oh, he can’t make our meeting?”
“No. He says maybe tomorrow.”
“Oh well. Tell him I hope he gets better.”
“I will.”
The set was clearing for the day and by eight there were only a few people around.
When I got to his trailer it was deserted.
I knocked and waited for a few minutes.
No response.
Then, opening the door carefully, I went inside, locking it.
It was dark and he wasn’t in the living room.
The door through to the bedroom was closed.
Over on the counter lay the empty cup.
I slowly turned the handle and saw him slouched on the bed in his robe, one leg hanging off the end.
He was out.
I put on my gloves and walked over to him.
He was still breathing when I put my hands around his throat.
Quickly and in one turn I twisted and broke his neck.
He struggled for a brief second just before it snapped, opening his bleary eyes and starting to dribble. His mouth hung open in some mute expression of confused horror as I squeezed.
It took a few minutes while he thrashed about, but I held him hard until all motion ceased.
I then checked for a pulse.
Removing the photos Simone had given me, I left them strewn about his trailer.
Outside, there was no one about.
***
Back at the apartment I called Simone.
“Job’s done.”
“Good. How did you do you it?”
“Strangulation.”
“And the pictures?”
“The press’ll have ‘em by the morning.”
“I’ll arrange your flight.”
He booked me onto the twelve o’clock back to London.
He drove me to the airport and saw me to the check–in.
As I waited to board, my mobile went.
It was Martoni.
“Another good job, Jack.”
“We never discussed terms on this one.”
“Say quarter of a million?”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll wire it through to your account by the end of the week.”
On the plane I opened the LA Times.
The leading article read:
“Martin O’Neill found dead in trailer.”
Back in London as I unpacked, my phone went.
It was Lauren.
“Hello stranger,” she said.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
There was indecision in her voice.
“I’ve just got back to town. Can I meet you tomorrow?”
We had a candlelit meal with no mention of spooks or Spengler. The interlude I’d engineered was working.
For the moment.
XX
Stella Sharp had been in business a long time before she decided to start her own cult.
Attractive and ruthless, she got sick of only having enough money to go to the South of France twice a year, and only driving a new Mercedes every twelve months.
She’d ditched her husband of ten years and run off with an athlete called Maurice Flame, who she subsequently dumped before working out that she had a gift for making people believe in what she told them.
She had been serially unfaithful to her husband throughout their marriage and he’d never guessed.
When it came to court, she took the lion’s share, convincing everyone she was a victim in the marriage, despite the revelations about her infidelities. When her husband tried to make contact several desperate months later, she hired two guys to beat the shit out of him. He later killed himself.
Having studied the New Age, she decided there was good money to be made from it and opened a shop selling New Age Products before beginning a series of lectures, which soon became popular seminars.
By the time I was assigned to her, the Nova Fellowship was several years old, and to all accounts making several million a year.
I’d been called by a wealthy family relative of one of the cult’s devotees.
Thomas Williams was a senior executive with Shell Oil who had worked hard all his life to support an alcoholic wife and two kids. His daughter had married and settled down, while his son Mark, who had a serious drug habit, sponged off him and eventually drifted into the wave spread by the now cruising Nova Fellowship.
I met him in a boardroom at the Shell Offices in London.
He came across as an honest guy who had been stressed for too many years and wore a permanently worried expression. There was pain behind the eyes.
“This is slightly unusual,” I said, sitting down.
“I know. Coffee?”
I nodded.
“I received the papers you sent me, but they’re not enough to go on. I need contacts and an explanation.”
He sat down heavily.
“Where do I start? Two years ago, my son started talking about Stella Sharp. At first I thought she was some girlfriend, then I realised she was running this organisation.”
“Cult.”
“Yes. He was being dragged into it on a daily basis, and I could see it, but could do nothing. I spoke to various organisations about these groups, and they advised me not to try to persuade him to stay away from them, since that could drive him further into their arms, but to reassure him that I would always be there, and would always accept him. That way if he wanted to leave, it would make it easier.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“The problem is, he doesn’t.”
“Want to leave?”
“Or if he does, he can’t.”
“Bottom line, you want me to take Sharp out.”
He looked down at the carpet.
“She is doing things which ought to put her behind bars. Except, the influence and control she exerts over vulnerable people is extraordinary. I have never met the woman, but I’ve seen the films. She’s got some ability to convince people that I’ve seen in top salespeople, but there’s something else, something she exudes that takes it onto the next level.”
“She’s running a cult. She’s probably very good at it. But at the end of the day your son
is exercising his choice to stay there.”
I was feeling uneasy about this, wondering if the father wasn’t on some ego trip of his own. Also, I’d never taken out a woman before, and it felt like alien territory.
He put his hand up.
“I want you to watch a film. I’ve already sent someone in there, a detective named Tom Clarke who spent a month undercover and narrowly escaped being beaten up when they discovered he was covertly filming them. Just watch this. Then you can make your mind up.”
“All right.”
I’d Googled the Nova Fellowship and sat through the usual shit about re–birthing and discovering your inner self, nothing too sinister, nothing out of the ordinary. There were thousands of sites out there saying the same thing in a different language. And there were thousands of suckers wanting to believe it. Whatever rocked your boat.
He put the DVD in the player.
I had no idea what I was about to see.
“This is footage,” he said, “Of one of the male groups she conducts. My son is not in this group, but from what I have found out, she separates men and women, controls their sexual habits, and uses this to indoctrinate them with her mind control. If you watch this you will see why I am concerned for my son.”
He turned it on.
A group of men stood naked in a room with wall to wall candles. They had cuts and bruises all over their bodies, which were malnourished.
A woman I recognised as Sharp stood at one end with another woman at the other. They both wore robes.
Sharp started giving out orders.
“Kneel,” she said.
The men knelt.
“Scum stand.”
They stood.
She walked over to each one.
“I own you,” she said. “You are nothing. Look at you. Do you desire me? You cannot have me.”
The other woman approached from behind.
She handed Sharp a stick. It was a heavy piece of wood with a sharpened end.
“I own your sex,” she said. “Don’t look at me, you are beneath me.”
She started beating them.
The blows were hard, severe. The cuts that were already there opened up, while new ones blistered on their skin. She beat them across the face, crotch, backs of their legs, arms. When she was finished the stick was dripping with blood.
She went over to each of them.
“This is part of your renewal. You have to die in the old way to reach the true woman. Your masculinity has to be broken. Then I can rebuild you. Do you want to be men?” “
Portrait Of An Assassin - Richard Godwin Page 9