by P. J. Nash
‘Just a bit of showing off and flirting with guys. Come on you’ve got the looks and the body for it,’ Lucie had said as you smoked a cigarette on your break outside the supermarket. It was halfway through a gruelling twelve-hour shift serving grumpy customers and the bottom tweaking boss. She’d caught you at a low ebb after Vaclav had just dumped you. She’d started coming to work in new clothes bought in top brand shops on Pariska, the Oxford Street of Prague. Stuff that cost two or three months of your measly salary. So, you’d said yes. And at first, she was right.
You’d gone to an audition in a club of Wenceslas Square and taken off your clothes to a pumping dance track whilst three sleazy Russians had sat in chairs at the back smoking expensive cigars. The underwear was Victoria’s Secret, and you had felt empowered and sexy as the men’s eyes had wandered over you. Sure, there’d been a bit of groping as they breathed their horrible stink of vodka and cigar smoke over you, and you felt their bulging erections on your thigh. But the 500 Euros made you quickly forget. A good start. But like the man falling off a building who says, ‘So far, so good, so far, so good’ as he passes each floor, it’s not how you fall; it’s the landing that counts.
Repulse Bay, Hong Kong
‘You fucked up Robbie!’ spat Cyrus Bain as he leant over Robbie Simm who was handcuffed to a chair.
The underground parking garage was lit by a flickering strip light which cast Bain, Robbie and the other man known only as “Irish” in a sickly pallor. The subterranean dungeon was in stark contrast to the opulent surroundings on the other floors and the blazing sunshine outside.
‘What really fucks me off is you didn’t even use our own soldiers. You hired a couple of fucking junkie slopes! Now, Chan and his mob are going to come down on me like a ton of bricks. I can’t fight a turf war here. I wanted to keep a low profile, and you’ve fucked it!’
Robbie looked dumbfounded and said nothing.
‘But what really makes you a shit of the first order is that you’ve been skimming me on the ice going back to your chums in Blighty.’
Robbie went pale. He knew now he was a dead man.
‘All very clever I give you, pal. But a little hacker bird blew the whistle on you,’ said Bain, brandishing a computer printout detailing the doctored shipments. ‘Now eat them, you cunt!’
Bain grabbed Robbie’s head and forced the printouts into his mouth. Irish stepped in and slipped a plastic bag over Robbie’s head, securing it with masking tape. Robbie quickly began to gag, cough and suffocate. Both men stood back for a minute, listening to the spluttering. Then, Bain pulled out a pistol from his waistband and shot Robbie twice in the back of the head.
‘Take his carcass to Chan and make sure he knows that we’ve dealt with our problem,’ said Bain.
Irish nodded and began uncuffing the corpse from the chair. From the shadows, a scrawny young man emerged shaking with fear.
‘Good job done, mate,’ said Bain, handing him a thick envelope full of cash. The man muttered something unintelligible and ran from the garage.
Vysherad, Prague
Jiri was short of breath and sweating as he stopped in front of the Church of St Peter and St Paul near the ancient fortress of Vysherad. The remains of the fortress dominated the slopes above the Vltava River. The site predated Prague Castle by many years. And while it escaped the throngs of tourists and the implicit infrastructure of tat that came with it, Vysherad was the very heart of the modern Czech nation.
In the cemetery the heroes, writers and politicians who had helped being the country from the shadow of the Austro-Hungarian empire were buried. For Jiri, it was a place he came to clear his head and think about work, life and the universe. There was a particular small café close by that also did a great espresso. It was here he was headed for. The autumn weather was clear and cold but crisp. Jiri’s favourite time of the year.
A waitress saw Jiri and bought over a double espresso and a glass of water. He lit up a Davidoff and inhaled deeply. The body at the IP Pavlova metro station had been the third in three days. The young man had been tortured, mutilated, killed and left propped next to a ticket kiosk. There were no forensic clues, no witnesses and no CCTV. Just a hunk of meat that had once been human. He knew now there was a serial killer on the loose in the Golden City. She was a woman, a woman who hated men with a vengeance, for who simply killing was not enough. They had to be emasculated and displayed in public.
He and his team were right out of their depth. Soon, the European media would get wind of this, and there would be hell to pay. Tourists were the lifeblood of the city. The politicians would hang Jiri out to dry if they thought the golden goose was threatened. As the murder hunt was spread over several of the fourteen police regions in Prague, Jiri – who normally headed up only one – had been given jurisdiction over the whole city for the duration of the investigation. He needed help, and fast.
His mind drifted back to a crowded auditorium in a London hotel a few years previously. An Interpol conference. Leading the particular session on serial killers was a Dr Sandersen. Jiri clicked up the web browser on his phone and entered the doctor’s name into a search engine. He was surprised to see a slew of results about the doctor and “The Dingo case”.
‘Bloody hell!’ whispered Jiri to himself. Two cigarettes and much reading later, he drained his espresso, picked up his coat, dropped some money on the table and headed downhill for his car. He would get back home and phone Alchemy Investigations on the landline from his study.
Sheraton Hotel, Hong Kong
‘Chang chopped him into little pieces. But it was Robbie, ok, Bain’s here, and I’m taking him out. No fucking extradition, no cushy cell in Barwon, I’m going to fucking kill him!’ screamed James.
He’d returned to the hotel a few minutes earlier with flecks of blood on his suit. Now, he was busy working his way through the mini bar.
Johnson nodded in agreement. ‘We’re gonna need some more boots on the ground, though,’ he said.
‘Ok, make some calls. I don’t care what it costs,’ said James, downing his third neat Scotch. Johnson left.
James went to the balcony and filled his pipe, put a match to it and began puffing furiously. The bell on his hotel door buzzed. He jumped up and grabbed his umbrella off the table. He clicked a switch on the handle. Attached to it was an eighteen-inch sword blade. In old money, a sword stick. He opened the door quickly, the blade forward. The scrawny young man screamed and jumped back about three feet.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked James, dropping the sword to his side and scanning the corridor.
‘I … I … I’m Quercus,’ he stammered.
‘Holy fuck. I’m sorry, I lost a good friend today. You better come in. I’ll get you a drink, you look like you could use one,’ said James.
Quercus nodded. Bain sloshed a couple of large measures of Johnnie Walker into two glasses and offered one to Quercus who took a big slug.
‘So, sit down and tell me your plan,’ said James.
It had been good, at first, once you got past the ogling eyes, the lewd comments, the wondering hands and the barely concealed erections. On the plus side, you cut your hours at the supermarket, bought a decent car and even went on a holiday for the first time since a miserable week in the old Yugoslavia just before your parents divorced. Building sandcastles on your own while they drank, smoked and argued. After three months, the club was taken over by the Russians. The pay went up, but so did the expectations of the men. Hand jobs behind a thin curtain, the smell of cum mixed with smoke and alcohol. You should have left then, but the payments on the car needed keeping up, and you have a new set of friends, smart, sassy women, confident on their own. Not the milk cows you worked with at the supermarket with the bad skin, bleached out hair and hordes of brats accompanying their downtrodden loser husbands. You were better than them. Or so you had thought…
Business Centre, Sheraton Hotel, Hong Kong
‘Ahoj, Jiri! How are you?’ said Sandersen, placi
ng the phone receiver to her ear and pulling across a pad and pen across the desk. ‘A female killer? Crikey!’ she said.
Jiri filled her in on the case.
“Yes, of course, the Havilland case, yes, there might be some comparisons. Of course we don’t know the background. But there’s a strong possibility that the killer might have started in response in to some external trauma. I’d need to get the case notes and get more details ... No, I’ve never been to Prague. I tell you what. I’ll bring Lawrence over for a few days. We’ll call it a city break .... If you think we can help you, we can discuss rates, but to be fair, I’d be so keen to work on a case with a female, we can give you a hefty discount … Ok, talk soon. Bye.’ She put the phone down and scratched a few more notes on her pad. Her laptop pinged, and she opened the email. It was the case file so far. Sandersen opened some of the PDFs of the crime scene photographs.
‘Bloody hell, it’s like a slaughterhouse!’ exclaimed James. He was standing in the doorway, looking over Sandersen’s shoulder.
‘Straight from Prague. A female killer has killed some British blokes who were on a stag do,’ said Sandersen.
‘Serves the bastards right. What’s wrong with a skinful down the Dog and Duck? Why travel across Europe to spend all your time in a boozer with a stupid fucking T-shirt on? I hate all that pseudo tribal shit,’ said James.
‘Sweet Jesus, you’re a callous bastard sometimes.’ said Sandersen. ‘These guys were tortured and had their cocks chopped off and put in their mouths.’
‘Ow, y’ fighter!” said James wincing.
‘Anyway, the upshot is we’re off to Prague for a few days. And if you don’t stop being a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll have you chained to a lamppost in Wenceslas Square as bait, complete with a woman’s dress and L plates,’ said Sandersen.
‘Okay, I get the message, Oberfuckingruppenfuhrer!’ he replied.
‘So, what have you been up to?’ she asked.
‘Posting Collins back to his wife. Arranging the pay-out for her and plotting how to get revenge on Bain.’
‘So more macho bullshit about bullets in heads, then?’ she replied.
‘Oh no, something much more subtle,’ he said with a smirk.
‘Do tell,’ she said, leaning back in the office chair.
‘I’m going to steal all his money,’ he said, fixing her with a smile.
‘And how you have the nous to do that? You can just about read and reply to an email,’ she said sarcastically.
‘I’m not going to do it, Quecus is.’
‘Quercus, who, the what? I tell you what. I don’t want to know,’ she laughed.
Sidliste Barrandov Tramstop, Prague
Honza Lorenc thought he had a new proposition in sight. She was in her twenties, well dressed, but not in designer labels. Just what he wanted. The skill was to engage them in some mildly flirtatious conversation, bring out the cash. Then camera. "Cash gets cunt" was his mantra. Honza was the sole cameraman, stud and producer of Bohemian Babes, a highly profitable website featuring young Czech women having sex with him in public or semi-public places. It was shot POV “gonzo” style. That is, taken on a handheld cam, from his point of view, with his dialogue and all the noises of the city with no tacky music.
He had been a voyeur since he'd first seen a semi-naked woman getting undressed in the window of the panelak when he was fourteen or fifteen. He'd quickly established a healthy trade in selling Polaroid snaps of women to the lads at school. Eventually, he became known as the “Panelak Peeper”. Panelaks were the Czech name for the ubiquitous tower blocks made of concrete panels that made up much of the Prague suburbs. His red-letter day came when his mum finally threw his philandering father out. He left behind a collection of stills and video cameras which gave young Honza a shot at the big time. The arrival of the internet meant he could easily recruit girls and, most importantly, distribute to his fans. Apart from Czech Streets, he had the biggest Prague porn site on the web.
Usually, he mocked up the meeting with a girl from Latvia or Slovakia. But his eagle-eyed fans were quick to see through these pastiches. So, every so often, he had to prowl the suburbs. The city centre was too crowded, and a host of complaints by women who'd been harassed had seen the cops send out their own honey traps of undercover women. But he wasn't born yesterday. The suburbs were better, less cops and no CCTV cameras.
He was just about to exit from the side of the tobacco kiosk he was hiding in the shadow of, when a tram clanged down from Poliklinika Barrandov. It was a newish Skoda one, fairly quiet. He'd been caught once before as one flashed by while a waitress from a bar was sucking him off. That had played well with the site fans, but a prowling patrol car had nearly caught them. Running down the street, holding his jeans around his waist, was not something he wanted to repeat.
The tram stopped, and a couple got off. His potential prey got on, and the tram left. Honza turned his attention to the couple who were kissing passionately. He fished his phone out and started filming them. They came right near him, leaning against the side of the tobacco kiosk. She undid his trousers and knelt down. Honza felt the familiar surge of arousal, one that he first experienced all those years ago when the housewife had taken off her bra. The woman's head bobbed up and down rhythmically. Honza zoomed in. The man groaned with pleasure. Then, Honza saw the knife in her hand.
Repulse Bay, Hong Kong
Cyrus Bain yawned and stretched as he sat back from the restaurant. He tried to enjoy the fine food and wine, while his brain digested a constant barrage of figures from his financial adviser on the other side of the table. He might be an unreconstructed yuppie with bad taste, but he got you a six percent return per annum, no questions. They had been discussing the movement of Bain's offshore accounts from Hong Kong to elsewhere. The accounts wonk had suggested the Seychelles. Bain agreed.
‘I press the button, and off it goes,’ said the financial adviser, looking up from his laptop.
‘I'm going out for a cigar. I want my money there by the time I come back in,’ said Bain. The finance guy sat back and poured himself a glass of red. But something in the ether went wrong. Bain came back in some time later.
‘All good?’
‘Yeah, I'll just check. Er…we seem to have a problem.’
The adviser’s composure wilted, and he vigorously tapped the machine.
Bain went across to a table that held another laptop and clicked the screen. ‘My money's gone, you bastard!’
Bain grabbed the man by the lapels of his Armani suit jacket, pulled him through the open glass door and pitched him over the balcony. A few seconds later, there was a wet thump and the sound of rending metal, closely followed by the noise of car alarms and people’s screams. Bain lit another cigar, and scrolled through the contact book of his phone. He saw Quercus and hit dial.
Sidliste Barrandov Tramstop, Prague
‘Well, at last we got a fresh one,’ smirked Jezek, stepping out from under the crime tape, his glass always full. ‘
‘Yeah, but this’ll blow the lid off the whole thing. Four corpses in the same month. Mayor Karban is going to go apeshit,’ said Jiri, fumbling for his cigarettes. ‘Plus, the vultures are gathering,’ he added, pointing to the lights of the camera crew who had just disembarked from a large van covered in aerials and satellite dishes.
‘So, how do we catch this bitch?’ asked Jezek, lighting Jiri’s cigarette, then his own.
‘Well, she’s obviously messed up, somehow. I reckon we need to get inside her head,’ Jezek snorted.
‘Inside a woman’s head, a fucking dangerous place to be.’ Jiri took a pensive drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
‘Well, I think we’re the wrong dudes for that mission. But I’ve been talking to someone.’ Jezek smirked. ‘Oh, I know… The Australian blonde from the Interpol conference.’
Jiri threw his cigarette butt down on the pavement and ground it out with his shoe. ‘Yes, Jessie Sandersen, brains and beauty. She’s been working on some yo
ung woman who went on a killing spree with her dad. He’s dead, but she’s in a mental hospital.’
‘Keeping it in the family, eh?’ quipped Jezek.
‘There seem to be a lot of similarities with this case,’ Jiri added.
‘Great. I just renewed my passport, Sunshine, here we come!’ shouted Jezek.
‘Not so fast, Tonto. She’s coming here.’
‘Aw, fuck,’ replied Jezek.
‘No sun, but you’ll still see what a great ass she has,’ Jiri smirked.
Business Centre, Sheraton Hotel, Hong Kong
‘You bloody belter!’ screamed James, as he saw the balance on the computer screen pop up to read five million pounds. He slapped Quercus on the shoulder. The man looked up and smiled, looking for affirmation like a dog craving affection.
‘Well, you’re a rich man now. What you are going to do with the money?’ he asked.
‘Well, you take your ten per cent, and I’m going to play chess with the rest,’
‘Chess?’
‘Yeah, I’m going to draw that bastard Bain out into the open. He’s a snake that hides in the bushes. If you get a snake hiding in the bushes, you don’t follow it in where it will sting you. You burn the fucking bushes down and, hey presto, out comes Mr Snake ready to be trodden on.’
‘Okay, but keep me out of it,’ replied Quercus, perturbed by the sight of the overexcited James.
‘No problems, Bain’s a dead man once I’ve finished with him. So you don’t have to worry about that bastard.’