Scion

by Murray Mcdonald

  “What’s the latest on the custody sergeant and the other officers?” asked the Chief as Smith wrapped up his description.

  “The custody sergeant, not good Sir. He’s on life support and it’s touch and go. The other officers will be fine, it’s just concussion.”

  “I’ll go to the hospital on my way home,” said the Chief. “What about the perps, how are they?”

  “Two dead, one critical, another two hospitalised and one down in the cells refusing to talk.”

  None of them could hide their shock at the devastation caused. Bryant smiled, triumphant in his vindication.

  The Chief recognised an even greater disaster than the earlier one. Two, possibly three men were killed by a serial rapist in his custody. The fact that the men had crippled and attempted to kill one of his officers would be lost in the mire as the media focussed on the brutal deaths of the men at his prisoner’s hands. He could see the same thought was hitting Kelly. He didn’t even bother to look at Harris. That day was proof that the detective’s retirement the following year was well overdue.

  “Sir, following the events described by Constable Bryant, I have to seriously question whether we have the right man for the rapes,” suggested Kelly.

  “My thoughts exactly,” replied the Chief, thankful that Kelly had made the comment first.

  Harris shook his head in disbelief. He was certain the Chief had a hard-on for the ice queen and was now more convinced than ever. He would have to let the Chief know everyone was convinced she was a lesbian. In over two years not one cop had managed to crack her.

  “Hello-o? He just killed two guys with his bare hands.”

  “Exactly,” replied Kelly. She couldn’t be bothered to explain the psychological profile of rapists and how the events in the cells matched no serial rapist in the history of policing. Before anyone else could explain, a knock on the door interrupted them.

  “Come in!” shouted the Chief.

  The door opened, a constable entered and walked toward the sergeant.

  “Sir, a brief’s just arrived to speak to his clients, the rugby guys.”

  “How the hell?” the sergeant looked around. No statement had been made, no names released nor had they allowed the prisoners access to a phone.

  “What does he know?” asked Kelly calmly.

  “He wants to speak to his six clients, immediately.”

  “Basically nothing, it must have been arranged either before or from outside,” mused Kelly.

  “But what will I tell him? He’s very pushy. He’s already taken a note of my number,” asked the constable.

  “Don’t worry, son. Sergeant?” said the Chief, instructing the sergeant to take the constable’s place.

  “I should go too,” suggested Kelly.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Chief agreed.

  “OK but Harris, you come with me. We’ll see if we can get something from his client while you stall him up here.”

  It took the Chief and Harris less than two minutes to realise they were wasting their time. The prisoner was never going to talk, certainly not to them.

  Kelly faired little better with the lawyer who had arrived to speak to his clients. On being informed that he only had four clients left and potentially only three, he wasn’t fazed. His only concern was to see that his imprisoned client was OK. Those in the hospital could wait and those who had died were beyond help. When he retrieved his mobile from his pocket and threatened to phone his friend, the Lord Chancellor and then The Sun, Kelly relented and led him down to an interview room.

  Five minutes later, the prisoner was led into the room to meet his lawyer. As the door closed, the Colonel, who had posed as the lawyer, smiled at his man.

  “Jesus Colonel!” exclaimed the mercenary. “That guy kicked the shit out of us!”

  The Colonel quizzed him for ten minutes, extracting every detail. Content he had the full story, he sat back and relaxed.

  “But you don’t know which was the guy we wanted?” he checked again.

  “Well no, both were about the same age with dark hair.”

  The Colonel thought back at the video he had watched repeatedly of the man’s head crashing to the ground.

  “Was one better looking than the other?” he asked.

  “Neither were my type, if you know what I mean, Sir,” answered the man cautiously.

  “I’m not checking if you’re a fag you fucking idiot, was one better looking?”

  “Well now that you mention it, the fighter was a bit of a pretty boy.”

  The Colonel now knew exactly which was which. He extracted a hip flask and took a swig of whisky after which he nonchalantly offered some to his man who initially refused but the Colonel insisted. The mercenary took a long swig and wiping his lips handed the flask back to the Colonel.

  “Well, I’d best be off and check on the men in hospital and don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here by tomorrow at the latest, OK?”

  “Sir, yes Sir,” replied the mercenary.

  As the Colonel left, he shook his man’s hand for the last time. He hadn’t lied about getting him out the next day. He would get out but it would be in a body bag. The hipflask was laced with poison and the mercenary would be dead by morning as would the three men still alive in hospital. Karl the German was already dealing with them. He had lost six men and all because somebody hadn’t told him the truth about the target. He was obviously highly trained and someone was going to pay. First things first though, he needed more men. He made a call.

  Chapter 11

  Kelly caught her breath as she walked into the interview room. She remembered the suspect, despite his puking, being attractive but this guy was stunning. The pale white skin, had returned to its perfectly tanned lustre. His puke-filled hair was now dark and neat and his washed out face, dark and chiselled to perfection. The only downside she thought was his clothing but even then the white t-shirt he wore struggled to hide the perfect pecs and washboard stomach. The only thing standing between him and perfection was a small cluster of moles on his left temple forming what looked like a star. Even then, she thought, that’s cute.

  Pulling herself from her adolescent thoughts, Kelly took the seat next to Harris but couldn’t help giving the suspect a very girly smile. The suspect smiled warmly in return and in that moment Kelly knew for definite they had the wrong man. It wasn’t just that the smile could get any woman into bed. Rapists don’t do it just for the sex, it’s all about power and having to prove they have it. The smile reverberated through his eyes, captivating her. The deep dark brown eyes somehow telling her she was safe with him, no harm would come while he was watching over her. His eyes broke the momentary gaze and continued their surveillance, checking everything was OK. This man didn’t need to prove anything to anybody and was most definitely not a rapist. Kelly was convinced.

  Harris watched in amazement as Kelly smiled at the suspect. In the two years he had worked with her, he had never seen her smile like that. If only she wasn’t a lesbian he thought, what a waste.

  “DCI Harris and DS Kelly interviewing the suspect known as Scott at 11.25 p.m. on Sunday 5th October 2008. For the record, the suspect has refused legal representation. Can you please confirm this for the tape.”

  “Yes,” replied Scott.

  Harris took over,

  “Can you please confirm your name in full for the record please,”

  “Scott,” replied Scott.

  “Your full name please?” he repeated irritably. It had been a very long day and all thanks to the scumbag in front of him.

  “My full name is Scott.”

  “What’s your surname?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, stop messing us about. Everybody’s got a surname,” shouted Harris. Kelly placed a hand on his arm to calm him down but he pushed it away.

  “I must be unique then,” smiled Scott.

  Harris leaned menacingly across the small table.

  �
��Do you know why you’re here? For raping five women and now murdering two men!”

  “Ridiculous,’ said Scott calmly. ‘I only arrived in the UK last night and those men were obviously trying to kill us or me in particular. So I think there’s more to it, don’t you? Should I contact a lawyer or are we going to do this civilly?” threatened Scott.

  “Why do you need a lawyer to protect you if you’re innocent?”

  “Assholes,” smiled Scott, “I need a lawyer to protect me from assholes!”

  Harris lost his temper and threw a punch at Scott. Scott had anticipated it and casually moved his head to the side and watched as the punch sailed harmlessly past, infuriating Harris further. Kelly pressed the panic button and two policemen rushed into the room and headed towards Scott.

  “Not him,” she shouted. “Him!” pointing to Harris. “Get him out of here, right now and call the Chief down here immediately!”

  Five minutes later and with calm restored, Scott sat facing Kelly and rather bizarrely the Chief Constable of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.

  “I’m sorry about my colleague, it’s been a long day,” said Kelly.

  “That’s OK,” replied Scott.

  “Now you mentioned you only arrived in the UK last night.”

  “Yes and it’s been three years since I was here before that,” explained Scott.

  “OK, if that is the case it will certainly rule you out of four of the rapes. Can you just confirm where you were in the last ten months.”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t tell you.”

  “What do you mean you can’t tell us?”

  “Exactly that. I can’t tell you.”

  The Chief stepped in.

  “Look son, we’ve past the time for games. Tell us where you’ve been in the last ten months, we’ll check it out and if everything’s OK, you’ll be in a much better position.”

  “I’m sorry but I’m not being difficult and I’m not playing games. I genuinely can’t tell you.”

  “Have you forgotten where you’ve been?”

  “No.”

  “Can someone else tell us where you’ve been?”

  “No.”

  Kelly thought of a way to get the information.

  “What about your passport, we can track where it’s been.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “But you said you entered the UK last night so you must have one?”

  “I did and I don’t.”

  The Chief sat back in frustration with the realistic possibility that Scott was an illegal immigrant claiming not to know where he was from and who by default would gain access to the UK. You can’t deport someone unless you have somewhere to deport them to.

  Kelly had the same thought but the accent was too good, definitely English. In fact almost perfect but for a slight twang of something she couldn’t quite place.

  “You’re not going to get citizenship out of this, you know. We’ll just lock you up and throw away the key until you tell us where you’re from.”

  Scott placed his hands in the air next to his head, in a mock surrender.

  “Look guys, I’m not an illegal immigrant. I’m not looking for citizenship. I’m not a rapist. It was kill or be killed and I wish I could but I can’t tell you where I’ve been. I honestly am not trying to be difficult.”

  Kelly and the Chief looked at each another and both could see that they rather bizarrely believed him. However with no concrete proof, he was their only suspect.

  Kelly moved her hand towards the tape recorder.

  “Interview terminated 11.51 p.m. Sunday 5th October 2008.” She pressed the Stop button.

  Chapter 12

  “I’ll just give you a reference number. Have you got a pen?”

  “Just a sec.,” Ashley quickly searched through the mess on the floor and found the pen and pad that once sat next to the phone.

  “The reference is Yankee, Bravo, 9, 3, Tango, X-ray. Do you want to read that back to me?”

  “YB93TX,” repeated Ashley.

  “Correct. Now if you give that reference number to the ticket desk with your passport, they’ll issue your tickets and boarding pass. Is there anything else I can help you with Miss Diaz, sorry Rosie?” The BA sales associate corrected herself. The customer had insisted she call her by her first name. She reprimanded herself. She hadn’t made it to first class bookings by ignoring customer wishes.

  “No, that’s fine, thank you. Oh sorry just one thing. Is seat 4A available?”

  “Just let me check.” After the sound of the keyboard clacking, the agent came back. “Yes, would you like me to allocate it to you?”

  “Yes please and thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Not at all Rosie, thank you for choosing British Airways. Goodbye.”

  Ashley said goodbye and hung up. She was not happy at having to use Rosie’s identity to book the flight but thought it best. As the British authorities were expecting a Rosie, she better give them one. It was imperative nothing interfered with her meeting him.

  She looked across the floor at the clothes strewn throughout the apartment. Rosie really did have some terrible clothes. It was only now that she didn’t need to wear them that she could see just how bad they were. Ashley only ever travelled trans-Atlantic first class. It was the one luxury she insisted on no matter what. That trip alone would cost almost a quarter of her annual salary. Not that that was an issue. Ashley worked because she loved what she did, it most certainly was not for the money. Her trust fund generated in less than a month more than her annual salary. Her life had been one of luxury; the finest clothes, homes, education and holidays. Her parents were members of the American aristocracy; her father a career diplomat and mother a career socialite, a lady who lunched. Both from privileged and wealthy backgrounds, their invitation to dinner and parties with the rich and powerful meant that the world was Ashley’s oyster, whatever career she chose, she could have. But it hadn’t always been like that. Ashley could remember the times before America, before her adoption and her real parents. They were hard working salt of the earth types who loved their daughter above everything else.

  Ashley tried not to think back to those days as it always upset her. Instead she remembered the day she announced she was quitting Harvard and joining the Navy. It never failed to bring a smile to her face. Her snob of a mother almost feinted, screaming in horror at the thought of her daughter becoming a…a soldier. Ashley had explained that she was joining the naval academy to train as an officer but that did little to re-assure her mother. To be fair to her father, he was just disappointed. He was not in the least embarrassed and if it weren’t for her mother, he might even have admitted he was proud of her. Ashley brought herself back to the present, all that had been a long time ago.

  She had a flight to catch and checked her watch. Not a chance she thought. Her home was forty miles away on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay, just South of the Naval Academy where she had graduated four years earlier. She desperately needed some clothes, all she had that wouldn’t label her a prostitute were the ones she was in and they didn’t exactly smack of first class. What she would have given for her own clothes, Chanel, Prada, D&G. All her lovely clothes just hanging in her wardrobe but she wouldn’t make it. Oh well, she thought to herself, nothing else for it, a bit of shopping on the way to the airport.

  ***

  From the moment he had left New York, Clark had not stopped talking on the phone. First he had called The Unit as he needed some assistance. Not a problem. Two men were at his disposal and would pick him up when he landed. Next was tracking down any info they had on the target, Rosie. Not a lot it seemed but they did know she had worked at The Palace which would be Clark’s first stop when he arrived. Just before he landed, he received a call that changed his plan entirely. Walker had updated him on the disastrous operation in England. As he talked through the implications of this, he formulated an idea and Walker, on hearing it, agreed. He hung up and dialled The Unit. He need
ed a very particular operative asap.

  As planned, the two Unit members had met him at the helipad and drove immediately to The Palace. Even though a native New Yorker, Clark had heard of The Palace but knew little of its owner Darius. However, the soldiers knew enough to paint the picture of a drug dealing pimp who’d done well. As they pulled up at the front door, Clark thought it must be the wrong building. It looked like just any other apartment block, but he was soon told that the first few floors were normal housing and the top few floors comprised The Palace. As Clark approached the lift, the two soldiers followed.

  “Where are you going?” asked Clark.

  “To watch your back,” answered one of them.

  “The day I need somebody to watch my back when dealing with a pimp, is the day I retire. Get back in the car,” he ordered.

  Clark was an average man. Everything about him was average, his height, weight, build, looks. If you had to give him a name you’d call him Mr Smith or as he frequently called himself Mr Johnson. Psychologically however he was anything but average. He was an exceptionally complex individual, with a high IQ and more than one clinical psychologist had advised his previous employers, the Central Intelligence Agency, that he needed help. However, little did the psychologists realise they were merely re-affirming the agency’s belief that he was the perfect man for the job. Intelligent, detached and with little or no empathy. The next five years would be spent as one of the agency’s most accomplished assassins. It was only after meeting William Walker III twenty five years earlier that Clark realised how lucrative his talents were.

  Clark stepped out of the elevator into The Palace’s reception area, it was like no whore house Clark had seen. He preferred his woman rough, they bitched less when he knocked them about and didn’t need compensation for lost business. This place would cost him a fortune, after a session with him they wouldn’t be able to work in there for a week. The reception area was immaculate and Clark wondered whether he was in the right place. It looked more like a high class lawyers’ reception. However, as he approached the receptionist, she dispelled that thought, sitting in nothing more than her bra, panties and suspenders.