by J. A. Gill
As usual the members were hopeful that tonight The Mentor might post an update. She was still undecided. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, her mother always said. Miss you mum. She blew a kiss up to heaven.
Catching up on what members had been up to was both tiresome and informative. Their bragging and petty squabbles were tiresome. Yet from time to time a story of a narrow escape or new technique or aberration peaked her interest. At the moment Simon Baker intrigued her. He was a rising star for what he'd achieved and the publicity surrounding him was exquisite. He'd certainly caught the public interest and as far as she was aware the police still had no clue as to his identity. He wasn't like the rest of the group and whether he would stay quiet about the group, should he be captured, bothered her.
He seemed educated and obviously had a high IQ. He clearly also had family money behind him. He showed some interest in the conquests of others, but he wasn't obsessed like some. Unlike some he didn't just visit the member's site for kicks. He seemed more interested in technical detail. He asked lots of questions. Maybe she was wrong, but it was as though his need to kill was nothing more than a job of work he felt compelled to do. It seemed that he was genuinely only a member to learn from those with experience. Whether or not he'd continue to kill after his work was completed would depend entirely on whether he would acquire a taste for it. Like many skills you work for, once you have acquired them you feel empowered and then they become very difficult to give up.
'Shut up, Sebastian!' she shouted. The constant thudding, scraping, banging, clattering and moaning was really starting to grate. She'd have to do something about Sebastian sooner rather than later. The only decision was how to end things with him. His neediness had quickly become a turn off and so she offered to tie him up, knowing he'd jump at the chance of going all '50 Shades of Grey'. Now he was completely helpless, gagged, strapped and tied to a chair. He'd been quiet for a while, when he thought her leaving him was a tease. Then after an hour his muffled calling turned angry and insistent. Then his calls turned to pleading.
Sebastian had caught her attention when she read of his naughty exploits at King's College University. Several young women had been abducted and their bodies never found. Unlike the police it hadn't taken her long to track down the perpetrator. After all, his telltale personality traits were obvious to her. Once she'd tracked him down, she promised herself she'd have him when the time was right. Eventually she decided her birthday was the right time. So here he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey all ready for the oven, which was on, she'd put the incinerator on a few hours ago in preparation. Now her only decision was how to finish things with poor little Sebastian. Having opened a fresh bottle and poured herself a glass of wine, she began weighing up the pros and cons. After all, these decisions are all part of the pleasure and not to be rushed.
Depending on how it is used a knife can be quick and it can also be slow. The down side is always the mess, and seeing as how he's in her house, she didn't want mess. Who wants to be cleaning on their birthday?
A cord or rope is too masculine and way too much effort and exertion. A tourniquet helps but always seems clumsy. We'll call that a maybe.
Once again, a gun will create mess and really -- where's the fun?
A syringe full of something nasty is wimping out and should really only be used as a way of completing the job in a hurry or if we need to hide the act.
A bag over the head? Now that is an interesting option, haven't done that in a while. Similar effect to rope or cord or noose but without the exertion. There's the added benefit of once everything is set up one is able to sit and watch. And with only a little audience participation the performance could last for hours. And no bloody mess to clean up at the end. Perfect.
Decision made, she decided she would pop in to the other room and give Sebastian an update. It seemed the right thing to do, yes, she'd break the news to him. After all it only seems fair, secrets can lead to all sorts of misunderstanding. She'd explain to him what would happen and why. Before any of that happened though she was going to have a bath so she could feel completely relaxed before his final performance. She doubted he'd take it well, but then again, they never do?
Forty-Eight
I was finishing a salad lunch at Rosie's Tea Shop when two black Mercedes 4x4's pulled up outside. They weren't hiding, they wanted me to know they were there. A suited man in his thirties got out from the lead vehicle. He looked left and right and then directly at me. He was a wiry man with bad teeth. He patted his side to show me he was armed. The back window of the same Mercedes opened to reveal a man who was probably in his late sixties, he looked at me and with a warm smile beckoned me over.
Rosie came and stood beside me. She put a hand on my shoulder and topped up my pot of tea with hot water. 'You know they'll get a parking ticket if they stay there too long,' said Rosie with a chuckle. Nothing got past Rosie. She could see what was going on but had known me long enough not to ask. Rosie was simply checking I was okay and in her own way asking whether she could be of assistance.
'Thank you Rosie. Sadly, I don't think they're planning on stopping for tea and lovely as it is I'm going to have to leave the rest of my lunch. Would you please call Rayner and let him know I am in a meeting with Papa. He'll know who you mean.'
My legs were feeling heavy as I walked towards the Mercedes. I looked back and could see Rosie was already on the phone calling Rayner. I stood on the pavement for a moment and looked left and right. The street was packed with shoppers and was the last place I wanted any sort of firearms incident. I looked up for CCTV cameras and looked directly into each one.
The wiry man with bad teeth opened the back door of the lead Mercedes and reluctantly I got in and sat beside Papa. Mr Bad Teeth jumped in the front. The Mercedes pulled away and I looked back at Rosie who was stood in the doorway of her cafe.
Mr Bad Teeth leaned over from his front seat and frisked me. Once he was satisfied I wasn't armed he looked at Papa and nodded.
'Forgive me Detective Hardy, I apologise if this all seems a little theatrical,' Papa gestured with his hands as if all this was beyond his control. 'However, it is vital I speak with you,' he continued.
'Perhaps, we could head over to Scotland Yard and talk there. I would certainly feel more comfortable.' Mr Bad Teeth in the front passenger seat sniggered.
Papa looked at me as though I had made a childish statement. 'Everyone calls me Papa. We will not talk now, I dislike being away from my little restaurant but made this trip for you as it is important.' Papa did not speak again for the remaining journey, he simply looked out of his window and occasionally he sighed. The restaurant was called Caesar's just as Laura had told me. We pulled up outside and Papa was helped down from his seat by one of his men, he then made his own way to the back of the restaurant. I watched as Papa settled himself. Through the glass windows at the front of the restaurant I watched as Mr Bad Teeth and the other men drove away.
I looked around the small and very traditional looking restaurant. I imagined the menu was much the same, with traditional food made the traditional way. On terracotta floor tiles sat rows of wooden booths with leather seats. A tall lean muscular man was attending to the bar area. Behind him I noticed a postcard pinned to the wooden frame of a large mirror, I recognised it to be the black double headed eagle on a red background of the Albanian flag. Behind Papa at the far end of the restaurant was a door which went through to a white tiled kitchen. The door closed behind me and I was alone in the restaurant with Papa and the tall man behind the bar.
Papa lit a cigar and beckoned me over. 'Come, come, please take a seat we have lots to discuss. I am having a coffee would you like something? Actually no, I insist you must have something after all you are my guest.'
'A coffee, thank you,' I said. I could feel my phone vibrating in my jacket and the buzzing was loud in the empty restaurant.
'Please answer your phone whilst Orel brings us our coffee,' said Papa.
; I took out my phone. The large display showed it was Rayner. Papa held out his hand to take the phone. I figured I felt safer knowing Papa was happy to speak to Rayner so handed him the phone. 'Detective Rayner, this is Papa. You may not remember but we briefly spoke many years ago. I am here with your friend and colleague Detective Hardy.'
Papa raised his eyebrows and smiled as Rayner spelled out, in ways only Rayner could, what would happen should I be in any way harmed. Eventually Papa spoke again. 'I understand your concerns. I assure you no harm will come to your friend. He is here with me at my restaurant and I would appreciate it if we were given some time to talk.'
Papa handed me the phone. 'I'll see you later. No point driving all the way over here. So far Papa has been a polite and generous host. If perhaps a little unconventional with his invitation.' I put the phone on the table and Orel placed a strong black coffee in front of me. Papa closed his eyes and sipped his coffee. 'Good,' said Papa. He looked at the bar man beside us. 'Orel here is a good friend. He will make sure we are not disturbed while we talk.' Orel looked at Papa and then at me and returned to bar. My gut told me Orel was a little more than just the restaurant's barman.
Forty-Nine
He seemed so ordinary as he told me of his life growing up in Albania and the struggles of day to day life. He was a man in later life telling me a version of his life story. I could see the pain in his eyes as he told me of how he had married young and quickly lost his beautiful young wife and only child, a son, in a fire at a rented flat. That pain, he told me, changed the course of his life. I listened and for a time forgot just how dangerous this man was. He never mentioned his crimes, he wasn't looking for forgiveness. Perhaps he didn't see what he had done to survive or what he continued to do to acquire so much power, wealth and influence as something in need of forgiveness. I got the feeling he believed he had simply followed the predetermined path of his life one step at a time. He believed he had no more control over his direction, than a feather would have if caught in a hurricane.
'But we have the ability to make choices,' I said finally. 'A feather does not.'
Papa stroked his fine grey hair with his cigar hand and leaned forward. 'So, we come to choices,' said Papa thoughtfully. 'I often considered life to be the hurricane. And that the feather to be our choices. Do you believe we are truly able to make choices without the hurricane of life influencing their direction?'
'Every day we make choices. Some big, some small,' I said. 'Some days we make one important choice and some days we make lots of small choices. All those choices accumulate. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. At the end of a life we are the sum of those choices,'
Papa narrowed his eyes and then his eyes flicked for a moment over my shoulder at Orel. 'They told me you were clever, a thinker. That you make the tough choices most men will not make,' said Papa.
'I don't need a philosophy lesson just tell me why I am here?' I said. I knew now Papa was learning as much about me as I thought I was learning about him. For all I knew, the saga of his growing up was a figment of his imagination to simply give him time to observe me, to read me. I felt a little like I was sat before him because that was his choice. I was ashamed to admit it to myself but at that moment I felt like the feather and he was the hurricane. I knew he saw that realisation in my eyes. He didn't need to say anything, he could see in my face he had made his point.
'Why am I here?' I repeated.
After a long silence Papa said. 'There are men who can be bought. There are those who can be coerced. Some men need only to be threatened. And some men, well let's just say they are obstacles that have to be removed. You I fear are an obstacle. Your need to find answers and your need for justice make you one of those I cannot buy or coerce.'
'Are you threatening me?' I asked. I looked over my shoulder and saw Orel at the bar checking stock levels, I was now feeling a little jumpy and wanted to keep one eye on the barman.
'Goodness me no, I am merely stating a fact. I want you to understand my situation before we discuss our predicament.'
'And what is our predicament exactly?'
'I have become aware of a case you are working on. From what I hear there have sadly been several untimely deaths. Young women. Some of these women may in the past have had some association with one of my businesses.'
I said nothing and Papa continued.
'We are looking into the circumstances surrounding these incidents. I assure you it will be dealt with. And when it comes to justice, it will be swift and final, I simply need you to give my organisation a little time to deal with the matter.'
'What about Klaus Seidel?' I decided to take a chance and see whether the cases were connected.
'Klaus? We're looking into that too.'
He was lying. He knows Klaus but he didn't know he was dead. He also just admitted that he wasn't surprised someone in his organisation would have likely killed Klaus. I pressed him further. 'Someone in your organisation is out of control, he's killed several young women plus Klaus and his bodyguard, and you're asking me to look the other way?' I asked in disbelief.
'I am asking you to be smart. The women will have justice and so will Klaus. These matters need to be dealt with internally.'
'Are you admitting your involvement?' Papa looked at me as though I was becoming tiresome.
'I am merely suggesting that through a little mutual understanding the perpetrator of these crimes will be punished. Punished, not by Scotland Yard and sentenced at the Old Bailey but nevertheless they will be punished.'
I jumped to my feet and leaned over Papa. 'There is only one rule of law in this country, I think it's time I left,' I said furiously.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Orel stood beside me and then I looked down as I felt a small blade pressed against my ribs. 'Please, sit down, Papa hasn't finished.' said Orel.
'It is time I was going,' I said. 'This meeting is over.'
Papa nodded to Orel. 'Life is harder than it needs to be for the stubborn man,' said Papa as a parting blow.
I walked out of Papa's restaurant without looking back. Mr Bad Teeth was back outside waiting for me. He drove me to my car which was parked in the street outside Rosie's Tea Shop. Lunch at Rosie's seemed like an age away. Mr Bad Teeth was all smiles when we reached the car. He reached out, grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. 'No hard feelings. Sorry for any inconvenience. Enjoy the rest of your day,' he said repeatedly. 'No hard feelings. Goodbye for now.' He jumped back in his black Mercedes 4x4 and drove away.
I climbed into my car and dialled Rayner's number. As Rayner answered I noticed a bright yellow plastic supermarket bag on the front passenger's seat. 'Rayner it's me, I'm okay. I'm going to call you back in a few minutes,' I said absently. I leaned over and grabbed the bag. It was heavy and I lifted it onto my lap. I opened it and looked inside. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I reached inside and pulled out bundles of hundred pound notes. The bag contained cash, thousands of pounds. I picked up my phone and called Rayner.
'You had me worried there for a minute, mate,' said Rayner.
'No, I'm okay. I have a problem though,' I said.
'What sort of problem?'
Across the street a young freelance photographer was capturing the images that he had been assured would fast-track his career.
Fifty
I'd stayed at my parents' home to see Monica and the girls. Though Monica was feeling stronger she was having trouble sleeping due to repeated nightmares. It was six forty five and we were sat at the breakfast bar drinking hot tea and talking. I had the feeling Monica was needing to talk as part of her recovery so I sat quietly and listened. Her injuries though minor on the outside went far deeper psychologically and I knew from experience they shouldn't be underestimated. I decided I'd speak to my psychologist at Scotland Yard and get some advice, perhaps try to get a referral for her. We talked for a couple of hours before Monica took a shower.
I was washing cups in the kitchen when I g
ot a call, a report had come in that a homeless man, Chris Ryan, had seen two men throwing something bulky in the Thames river. He'd told the attending officer he might be homeless but he wasn't stupid. He'd served in Iraq and Afghanistan and knew what a body looked like and how you handle that sort of weight. He'd heard about the murdered women found in the river and was sure these guys were disposing of a body. He was also able to give a description of the car, a dark blue Mercedes, most likely C Class or E Class, probably C Class. The two men were white. It was dark and he was quite some distance away but he was certain of what he'd seen, he was apologetic he couldn't give us more but by the time he'd got to the bridge the men were gone.
A team with divers from Thames River Police were called and they did sweeps along the river, it didn't take them long to find the body. Again, the body was wrapped in plastic sheeting and the female victim had been strangled and stabbed multiple times.
Rayner came straight over when I arrived. 'How's Monica?'
'Getting there,' I said. 'The swelling is going down, few minor bruises and cuts but physically she's fine.'
'That can only be good news, send her my love, I'll pop round and see her before starting my surveillance shift,' said Rayner.
'She'd like that. So, what have we got here? Are we certain this is related?'
Hamilton looked up from the body. 'Definitely. Same MO. Same knife. Same plastic sheeting. The only difference is this girl has no wolf tattoo. Another thing I can tell you is this girl hasn't been dead long, perhaps six hours. I need to test it but I wonder also whether her make up is theatre make up, perhaps our girl here was an actress or worked on the stage,' said Hamilton finally.