The Girl Must Die: A Suspense Thriller With a Supernatural Twist

by Peter Repton

  ‘What I mean is that in all religions in the past they all appointed a high priest. Usually alongside a king or queen or maybe an emperor, in my faith the Holy Roman Catholic Church, we have our Pope. The universal belief is that if people are evil, the Devil will come and take their souls and then they will go to hell. But, if we are good, then the Angels will take us to heaven. In the Kempston scenario, the Earth itself is going to become own living Hell with all this fire and devastation. All faiths claim that the righteous will go to a special place we refer to heaven. So why has he made no mention of that I wonder,’ Bob was nodding his head, adding.

  ‘In Islam, we call it Paradise. Many faiths do indeed warn of being cast down into a hell with fire and brimstone. That is one of the questions I have for Kempston. But, I still prefer to think of his dark energy as souls releasing, maybe because it sits better with my accepted beliefs.’

  ‘I prefer that too. I still believe goodness will prevail. After all, if we are all wiped out what is the point of our existence in the first place. I trust in God,’ Lisa said and Staples gave her a broad grin; he really liked Lisa Cuban. Their flight got called, so they all bustled toward the indicated boarding gate.

  Back in Lincoln prison, Jack Ford had called a meeting. He was still brooding about the media frenzy created following Robert’s release of David’s testimony. Roberts was still missing. Jack’s main priority now was just to locate Lucy Higgins. Kempston was currently in a virtual coma, so he could not say where he held her captive. Ford mandated they all knock off work until the next morning, to catch up on much-needed sleep. They would be able to function with clear heads when they reconvened for a further briefing at 9 am. With food and sleep and a few whiskies in mind Ford set off for his home, he had hardly seen his wife Mary since this all started.

  ‘Happy bloody retirement my arse,’ Jack moaned.

  47

  Ford did not sleep well despite four large glasses of whisky. His lovely wife Mary also seemed to be giving him the cold shoulder. When he did finally drop off, he fell into a nightmare about headless corpses and the young women he was unable to save. The next morning they all met again in the incident room as before. Ford, Wilson and Fisher the chain-smoking psychiatrist, but no Roberts. They were discussing the case for quite a while, drinking coffee when PC Danny Quill stuck his spotty head into the room.

  ‘I am very sorry to interrupt you Chief Inspector but there has been a video posted on YouTube. I think that you should see it, it’s about…’ Quill got cut off by Ford interjecting.

  ‘I know about the damned video you bloody imbecile. So do all the fucking media that have been hounding me for the last twenty-four hours. Ever since that ginger bastard, Roberts decided to show it to the whole wide bloody world,’ he gasped for breath after his outburst. Quill did not appear flustered by it, continuing unabashed.

  ‘Not that one sir, this video concerns Lucy Higgins the missing girl, you ought to see it. Most of the world has.’

  Danny held a piece of paper in his hand with the website link to it, pointing to the computer on Ford's desk.

  Jack wiggled the mouse around to bring the screen to life, went to YouTube, typing the words in as the rest of the team crowded round. The video showed a darkened room lit only by a few flickering candles. The camera panned around to a large inverted crucifix stood upon an upturned beer crate, and the three-foot high cross was illuminated by half a dozen red candles burning on top of the crate. The camera paused on the odd display for around four or five seconds then it panned around to a dark figure standing next to a gleaming motorbike. The figure was in the deep shadows. But the candlelight showed the bike's fuel tank clearly with Satan’s Servants painted on it in gold, the S in Satan depicted by a red snarling serpent.

  The figure moved closer to the camera, into the flickering candlelight, he wore a scruffy leather jacket with leather tassels hanging down off the sleeves. On top of this was a denim jacket with both the arms ripped off; dirty blue jeans and big black motorcycle boots completed his outfit. The slender figure leant down right into the lens. The first thing that they all noticed was the menacing blackness of his eyes. Sammy’s long greasy hair was held back in a ponytail, he had pockmarked pale skin and a thin, cruel slit of a mouth. Then he suddenly smiled a radiant smile that in itself was shocking in its intensity, showing most of his bad teeth.

  ‘Soon it will be show time here folks,’ Sammy said imitating the tone of a circus ringmaster. He gestured by raising his left arm, pointing straight towards something unseen.

  ‘Making a starring appearance tonight it is going to be…’ he paused. Then shot his eyes to the left and was totally silent for a full five seconds. Those five seconds felt like five minutes as the suspense became tangible in the room.

  ‘Lucy!’ he yelled as the camera wheeled. Two motorcycle headlights blazed on revealing a most distressing sight. There trapped in the blinding glare was Lucy Higgins. The red headed waitress was spread-eagled upside down on a wooden framework. Lucy was naked apart from a rag that covered her genitals. There were nails driven through both her palms. Her arms were both fixed to a wooden plank. Both her feet nailed up as well, with her legs wide apart, to two stout upright timbers set three feet apart. It was a carbon copy of Sarah Kempston’s murder scene in the boatyard. But, this place appeared to be a barn.

  The bright headlights were illuminating bales of hay stacked high to rafters behind Lucy. The poor girl looked terrified and her eyes were wide open and she had a strip of grey duct tape covering her mouth. The shock of it made Andrew Wilson gasp out loud. Nobody in the office moved or said a word. Nobody even noticed Paul Roberts enter through the door behind them. Paul was thinking long and hard after running away, but his conscience had got the better of him, so he had returned to face the music.

  ‘I guess you all know what is going to happen next, don’t you,’ the black eyed monster leered into the camera as he walked over to Lucy. He held up his right hand holding a four-foot length of latex tubing. With his left, he fingered the sharp, gleaming wide bore dialysis needle then attached it via a snap connector.

  ‘We are all going to have a really bleeding good time,’ he laughed out loud at his horrible joke then in the background chuckling was also heard from the unseen cameraman.

  ‘The fun will start tonight at midnight, and then it will be Sammy time!’ The screen went dark, and Wilson leapt to his feet screaming in rage. For some bizarre reason, he started throwing things around. The first was his wallet that he took from his pocket, throwing it out of the door, then the ashtray that Barrie Fisher was filling up and finally the coffee cup in front of him that he threw and smashed against the wall.

  ‘I have to find and kill that bastard Sammy. I am going to save Lucy Higgins.’ The doorway where moments before Paul Roberts stood in was now empty. Jack Ford was the next to talk; and all eyes fell upon him. Jack speaking in a harsh voice, Jack faced Barrie Smith. The forensic psychiatrist was busy lighting another cigarette.

  ‘Sammy does exist then. I thought you insisted it was just an alter ego or a multiple personality disorder. That Kempston was our fucking man,’ Ford shook his head before continuing.

  ‘But he can’t be our man can he as he’s here in a fucking cell and that maniac Sammy has Lucy Higgins. We have nothing,’ he said. Then looking back at Wilson’s rage contorted face he demanded.

  ‘So tell me what is exactly is fucking wrong with you. Why has this Higgins woman got you all so riled up? I also want to know what that shit you said about your wife was all about. I mean it Wilson, you are not leaving here until you have spilt the beans, all the rest of you get out now,’ he shouted. They all fled leaving him alone with Wilson.

  Ford opened the briefcase propped up next to his desk that contained his case notes. But it also included two full bottles of Bell’s scotch whisky. He motioned to Wilson to take a seat, taking one opposite him, and pouring them both a slug of neat whisky into the two remaining dirty coffee cups. Jack Ford
then stated in a firm but controlled voice.

  ‘Right then, let’s have it warts and all. You are my best copper; there has to be a good reason why you feel that you have to kill this Sammy monster. I know you have killed before so tell me all about that too, leaving nothing out mind. We have two bottles to get through so take it nice and slow Andrew.’ For the next two hours as both men got drunk, Andrew told his story.

  48

  Before the start of his police career, Andrew was serving as a lance corporal in the British Army. He was stationed near to Munich in Germany. NATO forces remained in Western Europe to counter the Soviet threat for many years.

  During Desert Storm in 2003 Wilson’s unit got deployed to Basra. The Iraqis defended the city with bravery. Wilson, who considered himself a warrior, marvelled at the bravery of these defenders of their homeland. While many fled the city, others remained fighting a grim battle to the death, refusing to yield to the invaders. Following the eventual fall of Basra, Andrew was clearing up the bodies left amongst destroyed Iraqi tanks and trucks. They were blocking all main routes in to the city.

  His patrol, comprising of four men, was not aware that some of Saddam’s scared soldiers were deserters. Slipping away from the retreating forces during the air attacks that had bombed these terrified young men for days on end. These young Iraqis were taking refuge in a nearby cluster of shattered buildings.

  The first sign of the enemy soldier’s presence was when a sudden burst of gunfire cut down two of his compatriots walking a few paces in front of him. Jerking about like crazy puppets as the heavy calibre bullets struck them, they both fell to the ground in a flurry of dust and blood.

  Andrew and the other surviving soldier, he knew him just as “Smithy”, hit the deck as a second burst of firing churned up the ground just in front of them. Smithy rolled over three or four times to his left, coming up under the cover of a burnt-out Iraqi tank. Andrew shot a glance in Smithy’s direction. He noticed a pair of sightless eyes staring right back at him out of the driver’s viewing slot in a wrecked armoured vehicle just behind Smithy. As if in a dream, Andrew watched as Smithy then unclipped a grenade from his khaki webbed army belt, rose from the floor taking three steps towards the open window. Gun smoke was clearly indicating where the sudden, devastating attack originated. Smithy threw the grenade with the accuracy of a fast bowler.

  The very second the grenade flew from his fingertips, Smithy’s chest erupted in a series of crimson plumes. Heavy calibre bullets shattered most of his ribs, shredding his flesh. Seconds later, the concussion of the grenade he’d thrown compressed the air. Andrew’s ears popped as the blast hit him. When his senses returned, he realised that Smithy’s sacrifice did the trick and the enemy guns were now silent.

  Andrew, running to where his valiant colleague was lying in a frothy pool of his life’s blood, heard a rustling sound to his right. Andrew spun around fast while at the same time raising his rifle. He saw a dark-faced man. This man with curly black hair and a full beard, was dressed in the tattered remnants of a military uniform and he came staggering out of the building that Smithy targeted with his powerful attack.

  The man looked dazed and confused, seeing Andrew pointing his rifle at his chest, he quickly raised his hands high above his head. The Iraqi soldier smiled a great big white smile that did not correspond with the fear he displayed in his big brown eyes.

  He pleaded with Andrew ‘Marhaba Sediq, do not shoot!’ Andrew’s deep green eyes hardened and the skin around them crinkled. He squinted at the lone, now defenceless Arab, down the long barrel of his rifle in the harsh midday sun. Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw a horde of buzzing black flies settling already to feed upon the perforated corpse of Smithy. His friend whose quick thinking and gallantry seconds before had saved his life.

  Looking right into the stricken young Iraqi soldiers’ eyes, Andrew raised his rifle two inches, squeezing the trigger, and hitting the man in the forehead just above his right eye, and blowing away half his head in a cloud of red mist.

  Andrew strode up to the enemy he’d just killed, looking down at the man, he shouted aloud.

  ‘Hello, my friend? ... Do not shoot? …You cheeky little bastard! You kill three of my mate’s, then think you can just walk out of there with your fucking hands up just as if nothing has happened! If you wanted to surrender, you have a funny way of doing it you fucking piece of shit,’ Andrew kicked the remains of this dead man’s head hard with his left foot.

  A senior officer, leading another group of soldiers up the same road was watching Wilson’s actions. The Major had heard the gunfire and the explosion of the grenade. The Major arrived just in time to see the Iraqi walk out with his hands up and saw Andrew shoot him. Andrew got reported on a charge of murder by the officer. But the charges later got dropped. The army top brass agreed there was an extreme provocation. Another dead Iraqi added to a list of many hundreds of thousands would not make much difference.

  Andrew then returned to Germany after a year, getting married to his beautiful German wife, Inga. She was a pretty, slim redhead who he had met at the Munich beer festival two years previous. Andrew swore he would marry her if he got out of Iraq alive. Andrew got relocated back to Aldershot in England. His wife Inga was now eight months pregnant and expecting their first child. Just three weeks later she gave birth to a beautiful green-eyed baby girl, the image of her father, who they named Andrea after him. Andrew felt his life was complete.

  He was still on a high when only five weeks later he received a call at the army base from the local police. There was a tragic accident. Inga took the baby out for a stroll in her new pram, as it was a pleasant sunny day in Aldershot. She attempted to cross the road but looked the wrong way as she stepped off the pavement. Inga had never got used to the traffic driving on the opposite side of the road to what it did in her native Germany. A speeding white delivery van, driven by a youth talking on his mobile phone hit her, killing both Inga and the young Andrea outright.

  Andrew was devastated. He believed that his whole world was now at an end. He had just lost everything he cherished. After seeking refuge in drink, the Army was sympathetic to his situation, but soon discharged him from service. Andrew’s life now seemed destined to continue in a downward spiral. After eighteen months of nursing a bottle of whisky from morning till night he bumped into one of his old mates Eddie Springer, down at the local pub. Eddie was a Sergeant who he once served with over in Germany. Springer told him he was about to leave for the Middle East to take up a Security Officers position in Saudi Arabia. Several British companies were recruiting ex-armed forces personnel for security positions at their bases out in the Gulf and Eddie was flying out in two weeks’ time. Springer asked Andrew if he was interested, as the pay was superb. The job was sure to be a good crack and might give him a new focus.

  Andrew thought about this long and hard over the next few days, before eventually deciding to go. Believing it would get him off the drink before it killed him, as alcohol in Saudi Arabia is not allowed. Springer gave him a good contact and character reference, so Andrew was soon accepted.

  Andrew was sent out to Dhahran in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia, right on the coast. He got his passport back from the Saudi embassy in London, complete with an entry visa a few days before he left.

  British Airways only flew from Heathrow to the Saudi capital city of Riyadh. So Andrew flew to Paris and then to Dhahran airport with Air France. It was a six-hour flight from Paris. He was indulging himself in a few last drinks on the plane to make the journey more pleasant.

  Sitting next to an Arab lady and her child on the plane, Andrew watched as she flicked through the airline's in-flight magazine. She came to a page which showed all the countries that Air France flew to in the Middle East. The magazine also displayed their national flags next to these countries. The Arab lady, muttering something unintelligible in Arabic took a black marker pen from her bag, obliterating all the references to Israel and blacking out their
flag The Star of David. Confused by her behaviour, Andrew asked her why she had done this. She looked him in the eye from under her veil saying.

  ‘Because that place does not exist,’ she refused to even acknowledge the name of the country. A further surprise came later as the cabin staff announced that the plane was now about to enter Saudi airspace. All alcoholic drinks got locked away in sealed compartments. Together with the in-flight magazines as the big plane prepared for inspection on landing.

  It landed without incident two hours later and a big commotion greeted him at the check in area on arrival. An Air India flight had just disembarked well over three hundred migrant workers. They were all standing in long rows in front of him. While he owned a smart new suitcase, the Indians carried tatty looking cardboard boxes tied up with string and carrier bags. It took ages, almost two hours, for this lot to filter through. The Customs Inspectors checked every item of luggage for contraband alcohol or illegal drugs. Andrew knew the death penalty applied for bringing any drugs into the kingdom. Andrew learned from Eddie Springer the death penalty, usually by decapitation with a sword, applied in almost every conviction for murder or rape.

  ‘It solves the problem of re-offenders a treat,’ Eddie had remarked at the time. Waiting in the arrivals hall was a small Indian driver with a large moustache. He was holding up the name Andrew Wilson. Andrew made his way over to the man and introduced himself. The Indian greeted him with a charming smile and said.

  ‘My name is Ravi, Mister Andrew, and I am very, very pleased to be of service to you!’ Andrew had forgot how friendly these people were. Most of them came out to the Middle East on three-year contracts from India, Pakistan, and the Philippines. During this time they did not see their families or loved ones and many lived in atrocious conditions. But they all seemed so content, as by their national standards they were living like kings. Their salaries were a pittance to what a westerner doing the same job got paid. But it still equated to a fortune to them compared with the wages back home. These very poor migrant workers usually committed most of the crime in Saudi Arabia. They got punished by public floggings and executions. Ravi, his driver, seemed ecstatic that he was only waiting for Andrew for three hours.