Deadly Illusions

by Robert Brown

  “And here’s me thinking you were a missionary-only type of guy,” said Tyler.

  “Hey, I’m 40 years old,” said Cael. “I’ve been around the block.”

  “I’m 41 and I’ve never seen this shit before,” said Tyler.

  “That’s what marriage will do to you.”

  Tyler shot Cael a withering look.

  “Can we get forensics here?” asked Cael. “I need to know a few things about this bench. How many types of DNA are on it? How recently has it been used? I’ve got a few ideas about what might be going on.”

  “Care to share?” asked Tyler.

  “Not yet. However, this might not be what we think it is at all.”

  “Call me old fashioned but this has all the hallmarks of a prostitute’s lair,” said Tyler.

  “She has a boyfriend, right?” asked Cael.

  “Apparently so, according to the tech guys at HQ.”

  “Good. We need to pay him a visit.”

  “I dread to think of what kind of guy is okay with his girlfriend tying other men to sex benches.”

  Cael pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand, so he wouldn’t leave any of his DNA on potential evidence. He reached out to one of the padlocks on the corner of the surgical table and pulled down on it.

  To everyone’s surprise, the padlock immediately came loose. No key was necessary.

  “What the hell?” asked Tyler. “I’d get a refund on those padlocks if I was her.”

  Cael did the same to all four locks surrounding the table. Each of them came loose with minimal force.

  “I don’t think Stephanie Brady was restraining men on here at all. I think we’ve got this all wrong,” said Cael.

  “No?” asked Tyler. “What then?”

  “I think she was restraining herself.”

  8

  “How does gambling fit into all this?”

  “I’m not even sure it does but let’s find out,” said Cael.

  The pair were travelling to a gambling hotspot in the back streets of Camden. In the past, the place had been responsible for a number of deaths relating to people’s debts. High-stakes gambling was a vicious circle that preyed on the desperate, the rich and the adrenaline-seeking. It was a long shot to believe that Stephanie Brady would be any of these.

  “Can you really see a 23-year-old being a successful gambler?” asked Tyler. “Successful enough to afford a Gloucester Road apartment and all manner of revealing outfits?”

  “Can you see a 23-year-old being a successful anything?” Cael asked.

  “You know what I mean. It looks to me like she was just an easy target.”

  Tyler’s beliefs did indeed hold weight. Sex workers were easy targets for serial killers because of the anonymity their profession afforded. Most transactions were done via untraceable communication, and judging by the equipment discovered in Stephanie Brady’s apartment, she may have been involved in more extreme sexual pursuits.

  “Tech are tracking down her boyfriend as we speak,” Tyler said, “and I’ve told them to look for any information about her involvement in escort services or prostitution.”

  “Done. What’s this place called again?” asked Cael.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t have a name.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “A lot of cases have brought me here. One-off murders and the like. They’re pretty open-and-shut cases but because Omar has more money than Jesus we’ve never been able to apprehend him.”

  “Omar?”

  “He runs the place. It’s basically an illegal casino disguised as a bar.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Tyler parked their unmarked police BMW in a colorless back street that resembled something from the Victorian era. On either side of them were padlocked black doors with no markings. The pair walked to the end of the lane. Tyler knocked on the door.

  After a minute of silence, a young, skinny, blonde-haired man opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Officer Tyler Easton of the London Metropolitan Police. This is Detective Cael Adler. May we come in?”

  The gentleman looked back into the den, unsure of how to respond.

  “Now isn’t a good time,” the man finally said.

  “I don’t really care. A young girl has been murdered and we believe it may be related to you fine pillars of the community.”

  “Look, just show us to Omar, you skinny runt. Then you can get back to snorting crack.”

  “Omar,” the man shouted back without taking his eyes off the detectives, “there’s some men here for you.”

  From the darkness, a voice shouted back. “Tell them to eat shit. I’m busy.”

  “We’re coming in,” said Cael, barging past the blonde gentleman. A scent of grime and mustiness washed over them. It was like walking into a room that had been abandoned for decades.

  Sitting at a table surrounded by four other gentlemen was Omar Sabir. He was in his 50s, stocky and with a face almost entirely covered by bushy hair.

  “Tyler,” he said with feigned enthusiasm. “To what do I owe this unwelcome surprise?”

  “I need to speak with you about a recent murder.”

  “Please, you and your boyfriend take a seat.”

  At the table, four men were playing traditional blackjack. At the center of the table was about £2000 in stacked bills. Their game had stopped so that they could focus on the detectives. They resumed when Cael and Tyler took a seat at Omar’s bar at the other end of the room.

  Omar joined them after excusing himself from the table. He walked behind the bar.

  “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” said Tyler.

  “Jack Daniels and Coke, if you’re offering,” said Cael.

  Tyler stared at him.

  Cael mimed a shrug. “What?” he asked.

  “Coming right up,” said Omar. “So, what can I do for you two?”

  Tyler slid a photograph of Stephanie Brady across to him. “Recognize her?” he asked.

  Omar studied the picture while he prepared Cael’s drink. “No. But I wish I did. She looks like a feisty one.”

  “Don’t mess around with us.”

  “No. I don’t recognize her. Never seen her in my life.”

  “Omar, we’ve had this exact conversation before and it usually turns out that you do know these people. So let’s save ourselves some time and cut to the end part, shall we?”

  “I hate to disappoint you but I genuinely don’t know that girl. I’d be lucky to have a girl like her show up here. As you can tell, my clientele aren’t exactly the most beautiful people.” Omar nodded toward the gentlemen playing blackjack. He passed Cael a whiskey and Coke in a tumbler.

  “Well, do you recognize this?” asked Cael. He pulled out the Jack of Hearts playing card that had been found alongside Stephanie’s body. He slid it along the bar to Omar.

  “And I thought it was just my dishonest clients who sneaked their own playing cards in here,” said Omar.

  Cael and Tyler didn’t respond.

  “Of course I recognize it. It’s a Jack. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Jack but not just any Jack, right?”

  “It looks completely normal to me.”

  Cael flipped over the card so it was face down on the bar. “How about now?” he asked.

  Omar leaned in closer to the card. He studied the detail on the back.

  “Oh, I see. No, this isn’t a normal playing card at all.”

  “And why not?” asked Cael.

  “These patterns. They’re not symmetrical. This is a marked card.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think I allow marked cards in here? Don’t be ridiculous. Our games are as fair as they come. We use only standard Bicycle cards in here. No limited-edition cards, no dog-eared cards, no marked cards. I can tell a gaffed deck a mile off. If someone brought this shit in here, I’d know about it.”

  Stran
gely, this wasn’t the response Cael or Tyler wanted. If Omar wasn’t aware that the card was gimmicked, it would mean the perpetrator may have used the marked cards to give them an unfair advantage when gambling. No legal casino would allow someone to bring their own decks, though it was quite common in underground gambling dens.

  “What’s this got to do with a murder, anyway?” Omar asked.

  “That girl in the picture,” Tyler said. “She was found cut in half in Epping Forest. This card was found on her body.”

  “And this concerns me – how?”

  “Come on, Omar. People who owe you money have been known to conveniently find themselves at a bottom of a river. Maybe this girl tried to ruse you with a marked card and you busted her.”

  “First, my friend, if someone did try to cheat in here, they’d be busted long before they took money from me. Second, this is a red Jack. If a person tried to sneak a marked card in here, it would be a black Jack, an Ace or a King. A red Jack is useless.”

  Cael and Tyler already knew this but they wanted to see if Omar Sabir did, too.

  “This card is from a gimmicked Bicycle deck in which every pattern is different on the back. You can see what the card is just from looking at the pattern. Sure, you could use these in gambling but the casino would have to be pretty blind to not see it.”

  It was slowly starting to make sense. Cael drank his whiskey and Coke in one gulp. “Thanks for the help,” he said. “We’ll let you know if we need you again.”

  The detectives stood up and walked toward the exit. As they passed the group playing blackjack, all eyes remained on them.

  “Can anyone lend me a tenner?” asked Cael.

  No reply. The table stared blankly at him.

  “No one?”

  Nothing.

  “Oh well, in that case, this guy here has been using double-lifts to discard two cards at once, and this guy did a fake shuffle on his last deal.”

  Suddenly, the men all turned to each other.

  “Just saying.”

  “By the way,” Omar shouted, “pay a visit to a friend of mine on Littleton Street, Edgware Road. He might be able to help you.”

  “Name?” shouted Tyler.

  “Baggs. He’ll tell you where that card came from.”

  The blackjack players immediately broke out into a scuffle. Omar ran in to interject. Cael and Tyler fled without hesitation.

  9

  Cael sat alone in his car somewhere on the outskirts of London. He wasn’t quite sure where but it didn’t matter. Sometimes he had to escape the sensory overload that came from most London high streets. So far, he had one dead body, no forensic traces and a multitude of theories to go on. Back at HQ, Tyler was looking into this “Baggs’ person whom Omar Sabir had suggested.

  Cael was 40 years old, unmarried with no children whom he knew of, although it was certainly a possibility. He had been a private detective for as long as he could remember. It had begun in his teens in the form of a passing interest in various cases, and was followed by his active involvement in the case of a murderer dubbed the Sideshow Killer around 18 years ago. Eventually, the London Metropolitan Police requested his skills upon following his successful profiling of the Sideshow Killer. He had assisted with some of the highest-profile murder cases in British history, culminating in the capture of notorious British serial killer The Executioner – his most successful case to date.

  And now he was considered one of the best private detectives in the country. It wasn’t a career path he expected, or one he truly chased but one that provided unrivalled satisfaction following successful closure of a case.

  An incoming call through his Bluetooth interrupted the familiar sounds of Planet Rock Radio.

  “Ran away already?” the voice asked.

  “The coffee at the London Met is awful. I needed some proper stuff.”

  “I can’t disagree. Anyway, how far are you from Bayswater?”

  “About 20 minutes or so.”

  “I’m sending you the address of a manufacturing place. Trey Herrera over in Tech has done some digging. He’s found that this company uses the same steel for its machines as the traces found on Stephanie Brady’s skin.”

  “Didn’t the Doc say most places use that type of steel?”

  “He did but here’s something interesting. His autopsy report states that the victim was cut in half with a rotary blade. Most CNC machines use rectangular blades that drop down to cut pieces of metal without leaving a serrated edge. This is one of the few companies in the area that uses rotary blades.”

  “Nice. I’m on it.”

  “Great stuff. We’ve also tracked down Stephanie’s boyfriend. I’m heading out to interview him now.”

  Cael started his car. He programmed the company’s address into his Sat-Nav.

  “By the way,” Tyler continued, “you were right.”

  “I usually am.”

  “Modesty will get you everywhere.”

  “If only. What was I right about?”

  “The traces of DNA on Stephanie Brady’s BDSM table. Forensics has just swept it.”

  “And?”

  “The only traces they found belonged to her. No one else. In fact, they found no trace evidence of anyone else ever setting foot into that room except her.”

  “That blows your prostitute theory. Pun very much intended.”

  “Sure does.”

  “Meet me on Littleton Street, Edgware Road when you’re done interviewing her boyfriend. I think I know exactly who Stephanie Brady really was.”

  10

  “Mannequins.”

  Cael had driven to a company called Alcaro Interiors on the outskirts of Bayswater. He had met with the owner of the company – a Roger Larkin – to see if the rotary blades he used for his machine work matched the lacerations on Stephanie Brady’s torso.

  “That’s all you make?”

  “Yep, pretty much,” said Roger. “We design mannequins for shop displays and then craft them to our customers’ specifications.”

  Roger was in his late 40s, prematurely bald and more overweight than he’d like to admit. He wore a loose-hanging shirt and tie that stretched down to his crotch.

  “I’m looking for a specific type of blade you might use in your machines,” said Cael.

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “How are you regarding graphic details of murder victims?” asked Cael.

  “Try me.”

  “A girl was discovered murdered in Epping Forest two days ago. She’d been cut completely in half. Autopsy analysis shows that a specific type of PH steel was used to perform the mutilations. The type of steel you use here.”

  “Oh dear,” said Roger. “I’d be happy to help you any way I can, However, I assure you our machines aren’t anything special. Our parts are all very common. Straight-cut blades from our machine supplier. What exactly is it you need from us?”

  “We believe our killer used a rotary-type blade, like a mechanical saw. It wasn’t just a straight-cut blade. Our tech department told me you might have some of these here.”

  Cael noticed that Roger’s weight shifted from one foot to the other. The corners of his mouth turned downward. Something in him immediately changed.

  “What is it?” asked Cael.

  “Yes, we do use those blades here. Quite sporadically, mind you. However, we recently had an incident with one.”

  “An incident?”

  Roger took Cael across his factory floor. They passed rows of identical machines as they walked. In the background, the insanity-inducing whir of mechanical machinery almost drowned out their conversation.

  Eventually, Roger and Cael arrived at a desolate area of the factory. The air had a sticky moisture to it.

  “This is what we call the graveyard. This is where our mannequins come to be chopped up when they’re finished with.”

  “You use the rotary blades here?”

  “Yep. Y’see, some of the fixtures on our mannequins are kept
in place by heavy duty screws and bolts. When we’re done with the mannequins, we chop them up so we can re-use the parts. To cut through bolts, we need the heaviest blades possible.”

  Roger pointed out the machine in question. It was a long, narrow conveyer belt with an arm hovering above. The blade in question had been removed.

  “The conveyer belt automatically positions the mannequins where they need to be. Then the blade cuts the parts off.”

  “And the incident?”

  “We used to have a guy down here who ran this place full time. Greg Morris. But we stopped using this part of our factory about six months back.”

  “Why?”

  “Unfortunately, Greg had a horrible accident down here. He reached over the conveyer belt on the machine to pull off a mannequin part. He didn’t press the safety button – or he forgot to, we’re not really sure – and the blade came down on his arm.”

  Cael winced at the thought.

  “And where’s Greg now?”

  “Bayswater Cemetery.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s fine. Greg always pushed his luck. Didn’t really play by the rules. Kind of a loudmouth. He always took shortcuts but this one cost him his life. A damn shame.”

  “And you’ve had to stop using these blades legally?”

  “No. There was an investigation but the company was absolved of blame. It was deemed to be human error by Greg. We paid compensation to his family even though we didn’t have to. We also paid it to one of our employees for trauma. He witnessed the whole thing.”

  Suddenly, Cael’s attention was piqued.

  “Someone saw it?”

  “Yeah. One of our janitors. I don’t remember his name, to be honest.”

  “Does he still work here?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him since the incident.”

  “Can you get me his details?”

  “Sure. Give me a day or two. I’ll dig out the records.”

  “Thanks. I’m rubbish with technology, so just send it to the London Met office.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Do you have one of the blades I can borrow for reference?”