by AD Davies
She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Except him. Richard.”
“You hit him, so I heard. Tried to pull out his tube, throw him out of bed.” Alicia stroked the girl’s back. “You know, if you wanted him dead, you instruct the doctors here to withdraw treatment. He’ll pass quickly and quietly. He feels no pain.”
“I got thinking, and around two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep, I started drinking, and it all seemed much clearer. That he used me as an excuse, used mum too. He didn’t need to kill anyone.”
“Love and hate are two very different things. But so similar as well. Something can happen that seems so terrifying, then feels like an opportunity.” Alicia touched her own stomach. “We all do things we regret. You tried to kill your dad in a drunken rampage. Hurt a nurse. Plus that big guy over there. Sometimes, there are consequences that we can’t avoid, and we learn to cope with them. Other times the consequences hit other people, and the effect that has depends on the person. I’m sure a big strong chap like this guard here…” She glanced at him to see his reaction: a huff and a manly roll of the shoulders to show his injuries were nothing to make a big deal out of. “I doubt he will make a statement. If the nurse is sympathetic, you may get away with it. But I doubt the hospital will put up with a repeat. If they want to press charges, you will have to find a way to deal with that.”
“I understand.” To the guard she said, “I’m so sorry. I swear it won’t happen again.”
The guard’s voice was surprisingly high-pitched, a little effete. “That’s okay, I’ve had worse.”
Alicia’s phone rang. She ignored it.
She said, “I’m going to drive you home. You’re going to sleep. Then you are going to call Dr. Rasmus for an emergency session, probably best booking it for after lunchtime. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Alicia’s phone rang again, and this time she recognised the special tune assigned to DCI Murphy: the Indiana Jones theme. He must have used a landline last time.
“Excuse me, I’d better take this.” She answered with her chirpy, “Alicia Friend, how may I direct your call?”
“You need to get to the station now,” Murphy said.
“You sound like you have your knickers in the biggest twist ever. What’s going on?”
“That friend of yours, Stevenson. He’s only gone and made an arrest. And from the preliminary summary he’s gone way over our heads for the background. You will not believe the reason for bringing him in.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Interview commences oh-nine-hundred hours. Present are Detective Sergeant Robert Stevenson,” Stevenson said.
“Detective Chief Inspector Donald Murphy,” Murphy said, leaning towards the recording equipment.
“Kuno Kae representing Norman Faulkner, also present,” Kuno Kae added. “And I would like to put on record my strong objection to the manner of my client’s arrest. Not only has it resulted in severe psychological damage to him, but may have set back the clinical work of the Institute for Reformation of Men of Violence.”
Norman Faulkner rocked gently in his regular clothes. No need for a grey sweat suit this time. Hands in his lap, lips tight, eyes averted from all humans, unblinking. At Kuno’s request, they hadn’t cuffed him to the bar as they did Omar and Benjamin, but a team of four butch uniforms waited outside, pepper spray and batons at the ready.
“The key words,” Stevenson said, “are ‘men’, and ‘violence.’ A complex full of violent offenders requires certain protocols. That aside, we are here to discuss a confidential matter, and there will be severe repercussions if any of it leaks to the press. We already have a super injunction in place should anyone think about publishing the details.”
Alicia observed the discomfort racing through Murphy as he sat playing second fiddle to a junior officer. He only spent half an hour reading up on Norman Faulkner’s history, while Stevenson had a full day head start. Superintendent Paulson agreed Stevenson should lead, and made a call to Murphy’s boss to explain why he was being overridden. Frankly, Murphy should have stepped aside and let a detective inspector back Stevenson up, but that wasn’t Murphy’s style. If there were to be deeper matters to come out of this, Murphy would bear the burden on his own shoulders, not some random subordinate for the sake of political expediency.
Alicia loved Murphy some days.
“This is a matter of national security,” Murphy said. “Once arrests are made, it will be declassified, and the super injunction will be lifted. But I’m sure I do not need to tell you, Ms. Kae, that if any word of this is aired in public you will face a large fine, a hearing to determine whether you are fit to practice law, and possibly jail for contempt of court. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Kuno said stiffly.
“Please state your full name,” Stevenson said to Norman.
Norman ceased rocking, flicked his eyes up to the DS, and said, “Norman Stanley Faulkner,” then returned his attention to the desk and resumed his motion.
“Norman Stanley Faulkner,” Stevenson repeated, his hand resting upon a thick manila file, beneath which rested a second, thinner file. “Are you sure you want to open these proceedings with a lie?”
Kuno turned her head to her client, who again halted his motion. Eyes swivelled to her. Lawyers are rarely surprised by their clients, but when they are it makes for comical viewing. Kuno’s manner held ice still, but Alicia sensed every tick, every cog click in her brain.
Suddenly, Norman Faulkner appeared far more lucid. “You might not want to jump to conclusions, son.”
Mr. Smug McSmugface morphed back into existence as Stevenson flipped open the file with a flourish. “Hello, Kireyev Anatoliy. Nice to meet you.”
He presented the first file photo, a much younger man. Alicia stood on her tippy toes to see it on the table. It was clearly Norman/Kireyev in his late twenties, with hair instead of the uneven stubble mottling his head. He looked healthier in the photo, well fed, his cheek bones less pronounced.
The prisoner said, “My name is Norman Faulkner.”
“I need some time,” Kuno said.
“It’s okay, Kuno.”
Norman lay a hand on Kuno’s arm, and she whispered something to him. He whispered back, and she faced Stevenson. “Proceed. But tread carefully, Detective.”
Stevenson placed the photo on one side of the open file, leaving other items visible, including a one-sheet that looked photocopied and highly redacted; black smudges erasing at least a third of the words.
He said, “You were arrested twenty five years ago during the commission of a crime against Natalie Robinson, known on the street as ‘Kiki’. Could you clarify that arrest?”
“Do I have to?”
“You have the details,” Kuno said. “My client is trying to put his past behind him.”
Murphy reached for the file, but once Stevenson spoke he withdrew the hand.
“Mr. Ilyich called for a girl, a specific girl he said was recommended by a friend, and the madam for whom Miss Robinson worked promised to send her straight out. You, Mr. Ilyich, answered the door of number fifteen, Roseburn Avenue, London, at approximately ten-fifteen p.m. When did the torture start?”
“I’m not Mr. Ilyich,” Norman replied flatly.
“You were found when neighbours alerted the police to a scream and breaking glass. The crime scene was the aforementioned address, which was unoccupied at the time. The victim, Natalie Robinson, was located in the rear bedroom on the first floor. She was naked. Miss Robinson had been tied to a mattress, and was missing her smallest three toes on her left foot, the big toe on her right, and no attempt to stem the flow of blood was apparent. She showed multiple red welts on her legs, arms, and breasts.” Stevenson still hadn’t referred to the file. “Later examination reported the instrument used was a soldering iron. And it has also been applied internally.”
Norman Faulkner fixed on Stevenson. “I’ve made peace with my crimes. I’m a change
d man.”
“You are indeed.” Stevenson turned a page with no need to refer to the next. “Suspect was present on-scene, brandishing a bloodstained knife. He charged the two attending officers, who subdued him using a spray and handcuffs. They then attended to the victim. Later examination and testimony from the victim established the suspect, known here as Norman Faulkner, applied the soldiering iron upon the victim’s skin, and within her genitalia. She managed to break away and flee, but succeeded only in smashing a window. The suspect then recaptured her and proceeded to slice off the victim’s toes as punishment. It was at this point the officers disturbed him and made the arrest.”
Silence.
Then Kuno said, “This is all a matter of record. My client has served his time.”
“But Kireyev Anatoliy Ilyich hasn’t,” Stevenson said.
More silence.
Then Norman said, “No point in denying it. Yes, that used to be my name. I changed it. Legally. Long time before I … lost my mind a little.”
“A little,” Stevenson said. “After your arrest three more prostitutes came forward.” He pulled out several witness statements, all redacted. “More burning. None with their toes removed though. That was something of an escalation.”
Alicia processed the information so far. More detail but other than the name change, nothing that altered her perception of Norman. A deeply-disturbed individual whose misogynistic psychosis would probably have led to him killing in the future. But if he possessed the skills needed to pull off the three, soon-to-be-four acts of terror, he didn’t need to hide amid men pretending to be searching for a cure to their troubles.
“Again,” Kuno said. “My client has served his time.”
“But this file is heavily redacted. This one…” Stevenson slipped the second manila file from under the first. “This one isn’t. And thanks to the passage of time, it’s been declassified.”
Kuno held out her hand, expecting Stevenson to relinquish it. “Now, please.”
DCI Murphy then asked if the pair wanted time to confer in private before questioning continued. Kuno said yes, but Norman said no. So they went on, Stevenson from memory, with Kuno reading the relevant passages.
“Kireyev Anatoliy Ilyich was a Russian spy known as ‘Tolya’,” Stevenson said. “The women he targeted flagged up a big flashing red light with the intelligence services because Kiki was also known to them. As a call girl who serviced some of the most powerful men in our establishment. A former home secretary. Two serving admirals. A colonel. From the same stable, these girls worked the circuit of powerful men, and when powerful men get drunk and wish to impress the ladies getting intimate with them, what do they do?”
Norman stared. Shrugged.
Kuno said, “Are you asking my client for insights into the mind of hypothetical men who use prostitutes?”
“They talk,” Stevenson said. “So when a spy wants to learn what they talked about, snatching one of those working girls, interrogating her until she spills the names of her fellow whores, then working through them … it’s going to make certain people nervous.”
Alicia imagined hitting Stevenson in the face with a mallet, like a cartoon mouse stopping a cat from barrelling headlong into something that could jeopardise everything.
“I was not a spy,” Norman said. “Just a Russian living in London who wanted to blend in.”
“Coincidence, then,” Stevenson replied, “that you just happened to take the name and birth parents of a child who died aged four, but born the same year as you? Coincidence that you share his middle name, too, and that that this boy’s middle name is for his own grandfather called Stanley? A story you told your interrogators from MI5 when trying to cement your identity.”
Kuno closed the file and slid it across the desk, where Murphy firmly placed a hand over it.
The lawyer said, “None of this featured in Mr. Faulkner’s trial. How can we believe it to be true?”
“It’s true,” Stevenson said. “Like I said, it’s been declassified. Still covered by the super injunction for now, but it’ll come out soon enough. Back then, around that time, a film came out depicting the Profumo affair. Where virtually the same scenario played out. Prostitutes, powerful men with a lot of secrets, those secrets out in the world. It may have been where Tolya pinched the idea from.”
Norman could not suppress a smile as he stared at the file under Murphy’s hand.
Stevenson said, “Watch the targets, see who they associate with, the clubs, the girls in and out.”
Norman nodded but said nothing.
“For the benefit of the tape,” Stevenson said, “the suspect currently known as Norman Faulkner is nodding. Is that a confession?”
“It is not,” Kuno said. “My client has been left exhausted and confused by these questioning tactics. I request a fifteen minute break—”
“It’s not a confession,” Norman said. He grinned wide, meeting Stevenson’s gaze, stretching his stubbled face, gravestone teeth patching the interior of his mouth. “None of it is true. It can’t be true. Because if you think about it, if I was pumping those girls for information, and didn’t get any, would I have carried on? No, it was fun to me.”
It was fun as well as business.
But Alicia could not express that from here. She was not part of this interview, and interrupting may inhibit the flow.
Stevenson said, “I didn’t say you failed to get the information. But you did put the fear of God into them. Reprisals against their families? Two of the four had children. Wouldn’t have been hard to silence them.”
“But if I burned any useful intelligence outta the little whores, do you really think I’d be here now? I knew MI5 took an interest in me. Wasn’t sure why. Because I just tortured them. I got my kicks. I memorised it, wanked myself raw until the memory faded, then went out again. Nothing more to it. Because if there was, if I held information in here…” He tapped his head. “If I had it, they’d want it safe. They’d want me dead. If I had anything to hold over them, I never would have made it to IROMOV, never sorted my sick brain out, and I’d always be in danger.”
“This,” Stevenson said thumbing out a Post-It marked page, “is authorisation from a senior MI5 section chief to send in an undercover field operative to befriend the suspected spy known as ‘Tolya’, in which the undercover operative gained his trust, posed as a Russian handler, incarcerated for that specific reason. The operation resulted in successfully learning that no intelligence obtained by Tolya was transmitted to his original handlers, or staff back in Russia.”
Norman licked his lips, relaxed back into the chair, shook his head. “If I’d been some big shit Russian spy, don’t you think I’d have come up with a better way to pull information? Hookers like money more than they like soldering irons up their fannies. It’s easier, it’s cleaner, it’s—”
“Nowhere near as much fun.” Alicia stood in the doorway, unable to listen to any more from her position.
Murphy said, “For the benefit of the tape Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend has entered the room.” A firm glance at Stevenson. “She will be joining us for the rest of the interview.”
Murphy gave up his chair, and pulled a spare one over as Alicia sat.
She said, “What exactly gives you the right to do this?”
“Liked it.” Norman shrugged again. Like a Pavlovian response, the “casual” act, conveyed that her words didn’t bother him, whilst simultaneously betraying that they did. “I’m better now.”
“Were you afraid during your sessions with these girls?”
“I used a different place every time, I gagged them, so no, not much danger. A thrill, but not fear.”
“They’d have needed courage, especially Natalie Robinson, when she nearly got away.”
“If you say so.”
“And yet, you still did it, and Natalie still showed true courage. Unlike you, strongman, digging secrets to report back to your paymasters in the Soviet Union—”
&n
bsp; “Soviet Union was gone,” Stevenson said.
Alicia leaned as far forward as her stomach would allow, arms on the table, reaching halfway. Not even a glance at Stevenson. “Norman, you mentioned the money that prostitutes love so much. And that’s what really made me pop in here and say hi in person. Because that’s what a political motivation would require. And that’s what you’re all about, isn’t it? You hate the elite, the Western ways of doing things, but you’re not welcome back home. Because they know don’t they? About the money?”
Norman, for the first time, let his eyes sag, and his mouth tighten. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your instruction wasn’t torture, was it? That was your own idea. Because you stayed so long, a sleeper, establishing the identity, Norman Faulkner, that was no easy thing. Twenty-five years ago, that’s the end of the 20th Century. Identity fraud was a big thing. You started your identity years before that, and you would have needed funds. You spent the money, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I notice you’re not denying the presence of money.”
“Of course I am. There was no money.”
“There was. A lot of it. And Norman Faulkner liked money. Whores like money and Norman Faulkner likes money. And he spent the money that Tolya was supposed to use to bribe politicians, other contacts, or indeed prostitutes. He never thought the Soviet Union, or Russia, whoever they were at the time, would remember him. So he spent it.”
“No.” He looked at Kuno.
The lawyer opened her mouth, but nothing came out for three whole seconds, so Alicia continued.
“Norman, Norman, Norman. You spent the money. You tried to bribe the first girl with whatever pitiful amount was left over after you blew it all on nice things. What was it? Drugs, other prostitutes, fine dining? Doesn’t matter. But it wasn’t enough. These weren’t your average street walkers. They were high-class call girls. They earned five grand a night, so whatever pissy amount you were pushing their way was chump change. Why would they betray their meal tickets for a couple of roubles and a spacibo very muchly?” An aside to Stevenson: “For the benefit of the tape, I learned the little Russian through my Interpol friends.” Back to Norman. “So you tried a different approach. And when that worked a treat, you went back and did it again. Three more times before you were caught.”