The Facebook Killer (8 page)

Several of her
photographs were in or around a public house. The only telltale
sign was a partial pub sign behind her in one picture and it looked
like “…LOR” but I couldn’t be sure. I Googled all of the bars in
her area. Nothing fitted in. I went through the online Good Beer
guide. Still nothing. It was either a bar she frequented a lot or
one that she worked in but where the hell was it?

Norman was due
to leave in an hour and a half. I felt sure we could get two for
the price of one again but I had to locate her. In desperation, I
called her home number from Kalif’s untraceable mobile.

“
Hi, this is Alicia I’m afraid I’m not in at the moment, if
you’d care to leave a message after the tone or if you know me that
well try my mobile, bye bye.”

She wasn’t
home. I could send Norman straight around there now but what if the
police were keeping an eye on the house in case the same thing
happened to her that happened to her “irreplaceable” sister. The
risk was too great. I had to find out where she worked.

I was getting
frustrated. I could feel the rage coming. It was getting worse
every day. When I felt it, I just wanted to go out myself and blow
all of these bastards away. These bastards and bitches that haunted
my dreams. The ones who still slagged off my poor little Laura.
Cowards. That’s what they were, nothing but fucking cowards. Full
of bravado now because their mate was off the hook. Free to get on
with their lives like it never even happened. Well let me tell you,
as God is my judge and as I sit here in my no fixed abode fucking
hotel room, whatever it takes, every single last one of those
people will know what it feels like to stare death in the eyes or
may God get this over with and strike me dead now.

I don’t
remember anything except the hotel security guard restraining me on
the bed. I remember kicking out at him. I remember the voice of the
manager.

“
Mr. Johnson. Are you OK? What’s gotten in to you?”

The mist was dispersing. I was calming down. I opened my
eyes. Fuck, I’d trashed the room. The dressing table was in pieces.
It looked like I’d tried to start a fire in the corner by the
wardrobe. Jesus! What was happening? Was it me or had one of
them
done it?

“
I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” is all I could think of saying, in
reality I wasn’t sorry just worried in case he called the police,
“I forgot to take my medication this afternoon. I promise you,
nothing like this will ever happen again.”

“
Let him go Pete,” he told the security guard.

“
I’ll pay you double the cost of fixing the damage,” I
promised, “and the same on top if this goes no further.”

I was on my
feet now. Shit, I couldn’t remember a thing. I was sweating, cold
sweat, my cheek was throbbing.

“
Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid we’ll have to move you to another
suite until this is rectified,” the manager told me.

“
But that’s impossible. I need to stay here.”

I pulled one of
the envelopes out of my pocket.

“
Look there is more than enough in here to cover everything.
I’ll clean up the mess, now please just leave me alone if you don’t
mind.”

“
But Mr. Johnson it is hotel policy…”

“Look! I don’t give a shit about hotel policy. There’s ten
grand in that envelope. You can split it with Pete or whatever he’s
called, I don’t care. I just need to be left alone. In two months
when I’m ready to move out I’ll pay you the same again but
please,
until then give me
some privacy.”

The manager
thumbed through the notes, with a nod of his head he and the
security guard left. I never saw them again.

Fuck! It was
now six thirty. Norman had to leave in half an hour. As I typed
away on my new desk, the bed, I noticed my knuckles were badly
bruised. It wasn’t something I had time to worry about. I went into
Alicia’s local council site. Planning permissions. Search: Licensed
premises. Results: 87. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. There it was.
Permission for change of use from a retail premises to licensed
premises “The Drunken Sailor.” Applicant: Mr Asif Hussain. I jotted
down the information for Norman’s benefit and sent him off fruit
picking.

Now the plan
had to change again. The original plan had been to set up Hussain
with some drugs and get him arrested. We had everything in place.
They were going to be planted in his car. It would have brought
disgrace on him and his family. He would have been disowned by his
mosque and his family, but now that would have to wait for someone
else. We had the chance of another double tonight. I was still
thinking on my feet when Norman left. If we killed Alicia Bell
tonight then it would be immediately linked to her sister’s death
and the police would be all over it.

Norman ordered a double vodka and orange juice. He hadn’t
realised that the Drunken Sailor was a gay bar
and
he was wearing his mac again. Luckily
at this time of night it was relatively empty. He was wishing he’d
worn a wedding ring now.

“
There we are, sir. Four pound twenty please,” smiled
Alicia.

Norman gave her
a fiver.

“
Keep the change,” he insisted.

“
Thank you sir,” she
replied, “not seen you in here before. New to the scene are
you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Norman replied
indignantly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Alicia replied,
heading off to the opposite end of the bar to serve another
customer.

Norman took his drink and took a seat by the
window overlooking the car park. Her car was there. He recognised
it from her photographs. Her pride and joy, a pink Mini Cooper. He
had already put the stuff in the boot loosened the battery cable.
All he had to do now was to get Hussain here and his night would be
complete. Let’s give it a couple of hours, he thought; see if he
comes in of his own accord.

Norman tried to relax. He’d had a hard day
beneath the floorboards, that old bastard Albert kept rolling over
in his sleep and Kalif snores like a pig. He was free now for a few
hours. Free to have a few drinks. As long as he got the job done
the boss wouldn’t mind his little indulgences.

Norman woke up with a start. He looked at his
watch. Ten thirty. The Drunken Sailor was full now, the music
banging out. He looked out into the car park. The pink Mini was
still there. He glanced towards the bar. The rage started to simmer
when he saw him. Hussain was here. Now was the time. Norman stood
up and approached Hussain.

“Sorry to bother you but do you know who that
pink Mini belongs to?” he asked pointing towards the window.

“Yeah, one of the barstaff. Why?”

“Because the headlights were left on all
night. I should have told someone before but I have early onset
Alzheimer's,” he explained.

Norman turned away from the bar and left, he
was waiting for his “thank you” but it never came. He waited in the
shadows across the street.

Alicia came out of the pub first, car keys in
hand. She tried to start the car but it just churned over slowly.
Hussain came out next, bringing a smile to Norman’s face. The
knight in shining armour. When he heard the dead battery he snapped
some orders at Alicia and got behind the car ready to push. As soon
as Norman saw Hussain’s hands touch the boot he knew his job was
complete.

Chapter 11

“Good morning. This is the eight o’clock news
live from BBC London. I’m Richard Noble.

The Metropolitan Police have announced a
breakthrough in the double murder of Nazim Khan and Katherine Bell
who were found dead following a blaze in their Worcester Road flat
on Tuesday.

Following an anonymous tip-off last night two
people have been arrested in connection with the murders. A police
spokesman said that a substantial amount of incriminating evidence
was found in the boot of a motor vehicle, which is believed to
belong to a close relative of Miss Bell. It is believed that the
second person arrested acted as an accomplice and will remain in
custody until forensic results have been confirmed. We’ll keep you
updated throughout the day here on BBC London.”

Norman had done a first rate job. The
evidence they were talking about was Albert’s crowbar, the petrol
can, a couple of empty cement bags, which would show traces of the
powerful antifreeze he used in the mix, the trowel and some
downloads he had printed out in an internet café at King’s Cross
about how to professionally brick up an unwanted window. With
Hussain’s prints all over the boot, there was no way would they
walk away from this. Hook, line and fucking sinker. I don’t know
what motive the police would find, but I’m sure they’d come up with
something.

I was buzzing. I was beginning to think
laterally now. Out of the box as they say. I had suddenly realized
that this didn’t have to be a chore. It was something I should
enjoy. After all it might be the last thing I ever do.

Tomorrow the Russians would have some of our
shopping, then things would become much more fun.

Chapter 12

Kalif got to the White Russian a little after
noon. He was surprise to see that Serge wasn’t in his usual
position behind the bar. In fact he was nowhere to be seen. Replace
by a much lager barman with a head like a concrete block, Kalif
felt a little uneasy.

“What can I get you young man?” asked the
concrete block.

“Errm, is Serge around by any chance?” asked
Kalif.

“No. He has gone shopping,” replied the
block, “why don’t you take a seat and…”

“I know,” interrupted Kalif, “it looks
suspicious if I’m not drinking.”

And so the ceremony began once again. It
turned out the block was Serge’s cousin. He was a lot more
convivial then Serge and also drunk a lot faster which is probably
why he never normally worked behind the bar. He told Kalif that
their family were big mafia players in the Ukraine before it’s
independence. They lived like kings, he said, they had numerous
legitimate businesses to launder the money, drove the best of
imported cars and had a house for each month of the year. They were
virtually wiped out when independence was declared and the ensuing
wave anti corruption stings. They managed to get out of the country
free men with about half a million US dollars but they lost
everything that they had left behind. Everything apart from their
contacts that is.

Kalif had begun to realise that Russians, or
Ukrainians, judge time not in hours but in vodkas. By the time
Serge returned to the bar Kalif was a little woozy again. He
greeted Kalif with a firm slap to his back, deceptively forceful
for his size.

“My friend. I see Igor is keeping you from
looking suspicious,” he laughed.

“Is everything going alright dude?” Kalif
asked.

“Slow down, slow down. Where I come from we
have a saying, “your first vodka you talk about friends, your
second you talk about family, your third you talk business.”

“Then your forth you talk about drinking more
vodka, I suppose?”

“No,” Serge replied not understanding the
sarcasm, “then we eat.”

“Vodka stew,” Igor chipped in with a big
concrete smile.

And so they drunk some more until eventually
Serge felt relaxed enough to discuss business.

“So this is the news my friend,” he began,
pulling the shopping list from his pocket, “ pass me a pen please
cousin. We have the storage facility for you. Everything that we
could get so far is in there. We go soon. I show you. The freezers
will be delivered there in two days. We got them for very good
price by the way, but I will come to money soon.”

And so Serge reeled off everything that he
had managed to obtain so far. More than half of the order. He
guaranteed everything else to arrive in a maximum of twelve days.
As Igor lined up the next round of vodkas Serge looked at Kalif in
a more serious manner.

“You know people are asking questions about
your boss? They are asking why he needs some of these things. Don’t
worry, I told them he is a mercenary and that it is all going
oversees to Somalia. Some people are getting a little nervous.”
Serge warned.

“Serge, my man,” Kalif slapped him on the
back, “don’t worry your pretty Ukrainian head about it. None of
this will ever come back to you or your boys. Believe me. My boss
is too clever for that,” he reassured them.

“I hope not my friend. I have called upon
some very big favours to get my hands on some things you asked
for.”

“And you will be rewarded handsomely”

“A dead man cannot spend his rewards,” Serge
said menacingly.

Kalif laughed. Serge frowned. Igor poured
more drinks.

“Serge, Serge, please! Do not worry about a
thing. As long as the shopping is untraceable nobody will ever know
where it came from. If you can trust your contacts then you have
nothing to worry about.”

He seemed a little more reassured especially
when Kalif handed over another seventy grand as a further
“deposit”.

Kalif didn’t make it back to the hotel until
ten o’clock the next morning. What do they say? If you want a job
done properly, do it yourself. He had been taken to the factory
unit where everything was to be stored. He was happy with the
security. When he explained to me what had been bought already I
began to feel less angry with him. He’d spent the rest of the night
drinking with Serge and the concrete block. He was young after all;
a good blowout now and again didn’t hurt anyone.