Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  Light, enough to barely illuminate a one-metre radius, spilled from the lamp. Bart let out a soft coo. Amazing how such a simple thing could suddenly mean more than all the money in the world, given an appropriate degree of terror. The colours it shed were dappled. A sickly yellow nearer the top from the old bulb, graduating into a dull pink in the middle, then brown at the bottom. Bart stepped closer, letting his eyes adjust. It wasn’t that the glass panes were coloured, he realised. Nor that a special effect had been used on the bulb.

  The outside of the glass had been spattered red. He reached out his fingers hesitantly, wanting to know, not wanting to know. The lantern’s panes were bloodied with delicate streaks, settling at the bottom. Different layers. Subtly varied shades. A mixture of very old, crackled blood, like a glaze on an antique vase, then newer congealed blood. A single blob came away on his finger. Congealed but not yet fully hardened.

  Bart sank to the floor in the small circle of light, an actor mid-stage in a spotlight with no audience to appreciate the beautiful tragedy being played out. Then he pulled the blanket around himself, and wondered how long both the lamplight – and he – would last.

  Chapter Two

  Elenuta ran.

  Three flights down the staircase, she headed for the exit onto the street, hoping no other door opened as she passed it. Each of those other apartments was as dangerous to her as the one she had just escaped. Dressed only in a tattered halter-neck top and Lycra miniskirt, no underwear, no shoes, she raced downwards, jumping the last three steps, praying her ankles wouldn’t sprain. She needed to be able to run. Looking upwards, she checked the situation. No one was following. Yet. It would only be sixty seconds or so before they realised she was missing, though.

  Forcing herself not to barge through the outer door and have it slam, she moved carefully, slipping out into the night air. Dumbryden Gardens was still unfamiliar after the month she’d lived there. Inevitable, given that she hadn’t been allowed out of the flat. Planks over the inside of the windows meant she couldn’t even assess the terrain from above. She’d wondered why the police hadn’t become suspicious. Windows covered from the inside were never indicators of lawful activity. One of the women who’d been held in the flats the longest had explained.

  ‘Looks perfectly normal from outside. Kids’ curtains, flowery curtains, princesses, bullshit rainbows and hearts. They put the planks on with the curtains still up.’ A week later, the woman had disappeared, never to return. None of the other girls knew a thing about it. There were hypotheses and horrified speculation, but nothing solid save for one scrap of information that had got Elenuta where she was now. Perhaps a client had got too rough and killed her, was the most popular opinion. Then there was the option that she’d contracted a disease that would render her useless for sex trafficking purposes. Finlay did his best to keep his girls clean – not for their sakes, but so that his punters kept coming back for more. No one was going to do that with their dick resembling a root vegetable and leaking pus. Perhaps she’d escaped, one of the other women had whispered. There was a rumour about a key being sewn into the hem of one of her skirts. That was why Elenuta had requested that any spare clothes in the house be given to her. She’d pleaded that hers were no longer fit to be worn, and that hadn’t required much acting. Finlay had given her grief about it. As one of the newest members of what Finlay laughingly called his ‘team’, Elenuta was popular with the clients and made more money than anyone else. The clothes landed at her feet one day during her allotted shower time. The key had been shoved roughly into the picked-open hem of a pair of shorts. After that, the problem had been finding a moment when no one was guarding the outer door. That hurdle had suddenly and bizarrely been overcome when a man had walked in carrying a bulging newspaper package smelling of hot chocolate and shouting, ‘Deep fried Mars Bars, you fat fuckers!’ Without a second thought, Elenuta had grabbed the key and gone for it.

  Now she had no plan. All she could do was follow her instincts. Turning left, she raced through an alleyway between the block she’d left and another that sat at a right angle to it. Put some distance in place first, then consider what to do, she told herself. Several of the street lights were broken. Sometimes during the day she heard the sounds of rocks being thrown, the odd cheer when there was a hit. The darkness provided both shelter and a disadvantage. Her pursuers knew the area well. A line of terraced houses was on one side, the rear of another block of flats on the other. She couldn’t see a main road, which was what she’d been hoping for. Flagging down a car would be her fastest way out of the area, and it wasn’t as if there was any definable risk of being raped. Not after twelve different men had been allowed into her room already that day. There were rewards and penalties depending on your behaviour. If you wanted to eat, you did what you were told without complaint. If you didn’t want to be beaten raw, you did what you were told. If you didn’t want to be injected with heroin against your will, you did what any man asked you to, without moaning and without tears. Unless they wanted to see you cry. Several of them did.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, but it had to be after 2 a.m. That was when the stream of customers began to tail off. Few lights shone from the windows of the houses. Pausing to get her breath – it had been several weeks since she’d walked more than a few paces in one go – Elenuta considered her options: stand in the middle of the housing estate and scream like a banshee to attract maximum attention and scare off her pursuers, or run from door to door hoping some kind person would open up, immediately believe what she told them, and protect her until the police arrived.

  A slammed door, cursing, then a shout from behind her helped make her mind up. She needed to buy more time. If they saw her, they’d be on her in a matter of seconds. The front doors weren’t worth the risk. Dipping low, she headed for the rear of the properties, knowing the problem would be dogs in the back gardens, but discounting the danger. She’d been throttled, beaten, drugged and assaulted more ways than she’d known were possible since being kidnapped in her native Romania. Getting into a fight with a bullmastiff looked like a clean exit from her perspective. If they barked, they were going to give away her location. That was a risk she had no choice but to take.

  Her whole body ached. The adrenaline of escape wouldn’t last much longer. Tiredness was setting in, partly through sheer terror, partly because her food had been rationed to weaken her. It was working. She took the first fence easily enough, scratching the inside of her leg on the chicken wire. Didn’t matter. Just one more injury to add to the multitude of others.

  The next garden had a higher wooden construction. She looked longingly at the back door, wondering if she could risk giving up running and starting to wake people. The problem was that back doors didn’t have doorbells. She would have to knock and call out if she was going to rouse people at that time. She steeled herself. Better to be cautious and make sure she was safe before revealing her presence. It seemed wiser to get at least four houses in before starting to hammer on a door. Climbing first onto a wheelbarrow, then a barbecue, she took the high fence, making it over the top then losing her hold and falling to the ground, a tool of some sort smashing into her ribs. Still she didn’t cry out. The worst of the noise was soaked up by the mud and wet grass she landed in but there was nevertheless a dull thud as she hit the earth. She’d learned the hard way recently how to stay silent and endure pain. It turned out to be a useful lesson now. Light-headed and suddenly overwhelmed with nausea, she stayed where she was before daring to move.

  A light came on in the upstairs window, attracting her attention, and undoubtedly also alerting her pursuers to her whereabouts. This was it then. Just two houses in, and that would have to do. She was hoping a woman would live there, maybe fifty years old, mature enough to know desperation when she saw it, and compassionate enough to want to help. It shouldn’t be a family with young children. They wouldn’t want to invite her in and wait for the police to attend. No one in their right mind wo
uld want someone as battered and unclean as her in the same house as their babies. Rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up, she knew she looked awful. There weren’t any mirrors in the flat, mainly because it would be too easy to break them and create a weapon. It had the benefit of stopping the women from realising how dreadful they looked, but imagination worked just as well.

  Elenuta began banging the back door with both hands, with her fists curled one around the other, kicking it at the same time. The owner was already awake. She just had to get them downstairs.

  ‘Please,’ she shouted. ‘Help me. Need help. Call police. I am kidnapped.’ Her English was good but not perfect. Enough to make herself understood which was all she needed.

  An upstairs window slid open at the house next door. ‘Would ye shut yer fuckin’ hole, wench?’

  ‘Help me …’ she screeched. The window slammed shut.

  ‘She’s in the gardens,’ a man shouted. ‘Chunky, get over there and shut her up.’

  They were coming. Last chance.

  ‘Which house?’ another man yelled in response.

  ‘Second one in, I reckon …’

  Not going back. I’m not going back.

  ‘Somebody help, please?’ she screeched into the sky. ‘Call police! Police! Help!’

  Bending down, she grabbed a large stone frog from the path, turning her head aside to avoid the shrapnel, and lobbed it through the glass pane in the back door. It shattered instantly, and lights were suddenly blazing in the kitchen. A man’s hand, then his leg, appeared over the wooden fence.

  The door opened. ‘Get in here!’ a man hissed, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her just as heavy boots thumped down into the dirt.

  ‘Please, you must call police,’ Elenuta said. ‘They will take me.’

  ‘Don’t you worry yerself,’ the man said. ‘I know all about it. Finlay, is this what you were looking for?’

  Finlay Wilson appeared in the kitchen doorway. Five foot four, skin and bones, with tiny wide-set eyes that made him appear more reptilian than human.

  ‘Aye, that’s ma skank,’ he grinned. More teeth were missing than not, and those that remained were a shade of yellow usually reserved only for dog vomit. ‘Good man, Gene. We’ll be out of your way now.’

  Elenuta looked from Finlay to the man she’d assumed was about to save her, to the huge figure – presumably the man called Chunky – who was outside the back door ensuring she couldn’t escape into the garden. There was going to be no escape, no police rescue, no return to her home and family. Served her right for falling for such an old trick. The promise of a better job, flattery, more money. Just a job interview to go through. Then there was the back of a truck, a gag over her mouth, ropes around her wrists and feet. Days of travelling like that, lumped in with a few other women, in a wooden box in the centre of a cattle transport. It didn’t matter how much noise they tried to make. They never had a hope of being heard. From there, they’d been transferred into a lined cargo container and lifted onto a ship. Insufficient water had left them all dehydrated. At some point she’d lost hope that they would survive. When they’d reached land, she’d begun to wish they hadn’t. She’d given it her best shot. There wouldn’t be another chance to escape. That left only one option.

  Throwing herself forward, she grabbed a knife from the block next to the sink, diving into the opposite corner of the room and holding it to her own throat.

  ‘I rather die,’ she said, her hand shaking fiercely enough that the blade was already leaving a ragged trail over her skin.

  ‘Would you now?’ Finlay asked, stepping forward, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘That’s as may be. But what’ll your wee friend back at the flat do without you? There’s a special event on soon, see, and I’ve had my eye on you for it. Problem is, if you act like a little bitch right now and mess up my plans, there’ll be a vacancy.’ He got up close into Elenuta’s face. ‘What’s that kid’s name? Anika, that’s it. I was touched by how you looked after her on her birthday last week. Sweet sixteen. That’s a bit younger than the girls I normally race, but if you fuck with me, I’ll make an exception.’

  Elenuta lowered the knife. She didn’t need any time to think about it. Finlay had proved multiple times in the last month that he never joked about anything. Whatever race he was talking about, Anika wouldn’t survive it. It was a miracle she’d survived the trip across Europe to start with and she’d grown more withdrawn with every man they sent into her bedroom.

  Not your problem, a wormy voice whispered in her ear. End it now. Better like this. Only that wasn’t her. Anika reminded her of her little sister. It could as easily have been her trapped like a tiny bird in the disgusting cage on the fourth floor of flats, all of which seemed to be controlled by Finlay and his men.

  ‘Sensible girl,’ Finlay whispered, taking the knife from her compliant hand and getting a grip on her upper arm, ready to march her out.

  ‘Fin … man … do I no’ get a free suck-off at least, seeing as I told you she was in my garden? After she broke my window too,’ Gene whined.

  ‘You’ve got your right hand. That’ll have to do. This girl and I have business to sort out.’

  Finlay dragged her towards the front door.

  ‘Am I supposed to pay for the broken window? You fuckin’ wanker. Is that all the thanks I get? I should call the bloody polis on you, see how you like that. Treating everyone round here like shite, thinkin’ yer the big man.’

  Elenuta caught the single nod Finlay issued to the man who’d been guarding the back door and who was now standing with his hand through the glass she’d so recently smashed.

  ‘Well, I’m no’ scared of you. You’ve got some paying back to do. Did you really think we’d all stay quiet about what you’ve got going on up the road?’ Gene continued, oblivious.

  There was a single gunshot, more whoosh than bang. The louder noise was the splatter of blood and bone fragments hitting the wall.

  Staring at the mess, Elenuta came to terms with what she’d already known, even if her stubborn brain had kept on trying to see a light at the end of the tunnel. She’d left one shoe inside the container on that ship. One of her best shoes, that she’d thought she was wearing to the job interview that would change her life and her family’s fortunes. With it, she’d left behind both hope and her faith in human nature. In every way that mattered, she was already dead. Finlay dragged her across the broken glass and through the back door into the garden. She didn’t even feel the shard that pierced her heel.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm Reilly would have been staring at the ceiling of the mortuary if his eyes were still in their sockets. Detective Inspector Luc Callanach found it harder to stare at the young man’s face than the bodies he’d seen before. There was something so macabre, so alien, about a face without its eyes. And that wasn’t all that was missing.

  ‘Eyes, heart, liver, lungs, pancreas …’ the French pathologist listed, ‘gall bladder, kidneys and testicles.’

  ‘But the penis is still there?’ Jean-Paul asked. As the Interpol agent heading up the investigation in conjunction with French police, Jean-Paul was in charge.

  That was fine with Callanach. He was only in France as Scottish liaison officer to Interpol temporarily, or so he’d been told on arrival three months earlier. After nearly two years in Scotland, he was still more accustomed to hearing English than French, and his head was performing a bizarre unnecessary translation between the two. He’d spent the previous twelve weeks trying to trace human traffickers who were allegedly moving women from Eastern Europe to the west, and from Spain and Portugal up as far as Denmark and Scotland. Now the body of a Scottish national had been found in the housing projects at Flandres, north-east of Paris’ city centre, and it had made sense for Callanach to attend. Local police had reported a corpse. The truth was that only a shell remained.

  ‘See for yourself,’ the pathologist told them, peeling
down the sheet. The body was one long open wound, cut from sternum to groin, with a cross cut below the ribcage.

  ‘You didn’t make any of these cuts?’ Callanach clarified.

  ‘I didn’t need to. Whoever opened him up didn’t make any effort to sew him back up. This was how he was found. The incisions were made with a scalpel, though, and with some care. The cuts were deep enough to allow entry but no organs would have been damaged. I’d imagine the organs themselves were removed cleanly. There’s little additional trauma, technically speaking. Whoever did this knew their way around the inside of a human body.’