Chapter Twenty

 

 

He parked up behind the old Volvo sitting outside the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre in Feltham at eleven-fifteen.

They were parked in the shadow of a large oak tree and he could see a strange curved building bathed in light through the manned security barrier. A Union Jack fluttered in the breeze outside.

He climbed out of his car, walked along the pavement and slid into the passenger seat of the Volvo.

‘Okay,’ he said to Cookie, ‘tell me in more detail what’s been going on?’

‘They came for me. I knew they would sooner or later. I escaped out of the back. When you live in a squat, and you do what I do . . . Well, you have to be prepared, don’t you? Anyway, they arrived in a black van, were dressed all in black with helmets and balaclavas and they were armed to the teeth. Fuck, it was like something out of that second Alien film where the soldiers arrive in that troop carrier with grenade launchers, Gatling guns and . . . well, a whole fucking armoury. I got out of there real fast, had all my important crap in a sack. I stuffed my laptop in with it all and was gone, but the bitch saw me crossing the wall and followed me. After running through a million alleyways I jemmied the door of this car and hid behind the back seat under a blanket. There were some druggies in one of the alleys and she shot them. Then she shot the owner of this car and his girlfriend when the guy asked her to stop sitting on it . . .’

‘Go back to the start. What about the bunker . . . ?’

‘Bunker 7, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a secret government facility in London under Fenchurch Street station. I was finding out stuff for Jerry, and I needed a physical connection to their server, so me and two friends tried to get inside the place. Anyway, they caught us, raped me and killed my two friends on the District Line between Upminster and Ealing Broadway, but I managed to escape and get back into the place. I got the information I needed, and then killed the bastards who raped me and killed my friends.’

‘And then these people came after you?’

‘Are you in hurry?’

‘Go on.’

‘I gave the information to Group323 . . .’

‘I thought it was for Jerry?’

‘Yeah well . . I got that information for Jerry, but I copied everything on their server.’

‘So, you stole top secret government information?’

‘The bastards raped me and killed my friends . . . it was payback.’

‘No wonder they came after you. Okay, carry on.’

‘So, I gave all the top secret files to Group323, who are . . .’

‘I’ve heard of them.’

‘You have?’

‘They’ve been on the news a couple of times.’

‘They’re great, aren’t they?’

‘Troublemakers.’

‘Environmental activists.’

‘Traitors and terrorists.’

‘You’re a pawn of the establishment, I’d expect you to say that. Anyway, I gave them everything I had, and they passed it to WikiUK . . .’

‘Who began publishing . . . ?’

‘The bastards. I bet it was the same people who came for me. They killed everybody in the Wiki building in Iceland, you know?’

‘That was an accident . . .’

‘Are you an idiot? How fucking convenient for the place to burn down just when they’re about to publish documents that could have brought down the government, and then Cally Flinders is found dead in that MP’s flat. Well what do you know – the publication of UK top secret government files stop. You’d have to be a fucking moron not to realise that it was all connected.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘What I don’t know is how they found me.’

‘I’m shocked! Something you don’t know?’

‘If you’ve just come here to take the piss . . .’

‘I’ve come here to help you.’

‘You’re coming inside with me then?’

He laughed. ‘And you call me a fucking moron. Have you seen the size of that place?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Do you know where these people you’re looking for are?’

‘Well no, but . . .’

‘The fences are impregnable, they have CCTV everywhere, there are Ministry of Defence police with dogs . . .’

‘You could call someone.’

‘Like who?’

‘The police?’

‘You’re willing to spend the rest of your life in a high-security prison then?’

‘Me?’

He started counting the fingers on his left hand. ‘Stealing top secret government files, passing said files to enemies of the state, killing government employees, destroying government buildings, stealing a vehicle . . . Have I missed any of your crimes out?’

‘Yeah, but those bastards killed . . .’

‘And we only have your word for that. I’m quite sure that in your rush to escape from authorised government agents who were sent to arrest you for crimes against the state, you dropped the gun that you used to kill the druggies, the owner of the car you stole and his girlfriend, and said gun is now in their possession as evidence . . .’

‘Me? You bastard?’

‘There’s a dozen witnesses who saw you gun down those defenceless people in your mad rush to escape from the forces of justice.’

‘Fuck! You’ve fitted loads of people up before, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve fitted no one up . . .’ He grinned. ‘Well, not for a while, anyway.’

‘I knew it.’

‘Have you been trained by the special forces?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re never going to win a physical fight with these people . . . You should be using your special skill.’

‘Which is?’

‘Hacking into computers.’

She sat there staring through the bug-splattered windscreen into the darkness at the entrance barrier and the hut containing two security guards.

‘I still have a copy of all the files from Bunker 7, you know.’

‘As a government employee, I shouldn’t be advising you to do this, but if you want revenge – get those files out into the public domain. If what you say is true . . .’

‘If?’

‘. . . Then they’ve already demonstrated they’ll do anything to stop those files leaking out. If you’re determined to go into that place . . .’ He crooked his head towards the sprawling buildings behind the security fence. ‘Then you’ll be going in on your own. I have nothing against going out in a hail of bullets, but not tonight. Once I’ve found Jerry . . . Well, then I’ll lead the charge.’

‘Oh, Jerry! I found some stuff.’

‘I have an idea.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Come back to my house now . . .’

She swivelled on her seat. ‘Don’t think you can . . .’

‘To sleep. Jerry’s parents are there, and I also have four children who haven’t seen their dad for a couple of days.’

‘And then what?’

‘After we’ve had some desperately needed sleep we can work out how you’re going to get those files into the public domain, and you can tell me what you’ve found out about Jerry.’

‘I was really looking forward to killing those bastards.’

‘You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes, even if you could have made it inside, which is doubtful. So, I’ll lead in my car, you follow me in this heap of metal. If you decide to go somewhere else, I’ll put out a police alert to find you again. You’ll be hunted down, arrested, and I’ll hand you over to the secret police for interrogation.’

‘It’s nice to know who my friends are.’

‘Wait a couple of minutes before following me. I’ll wait for you at the first junction. Don’t switch your lights on until you’re out of sight of the guard hut. And then, when we’re on our way, keep close behind me and make sure there’s no one following us.’

‘Are you sure you’re not one of those bastards?’

‘I’m sure.’

He climbed out of the Volvo and walked back to his car.

 

 

***

 

 

She knew she was dying.

As soon as she’d cleaned the bucket she puked everything back up.

What scared her was that mingled in with the faeces and vomit was fresh blood.

God! What was happening to her?

Amy had come back down, found a worse mess than what there was before and beat her again. Her wounds had opened up and blood streaked her body.

Who was she?

Where was she?

The pain she felt made her feel that she was alive. It was the only thing that gave any meaning to her existence. The beatings made her feel that she was still a person – still an individual.

She welcomed the beatings now. Looked forward to Amy coming down those steps, said and did things which she knew would elicit a beating. It was so easy. Amy thought she was in control, but she wasn’t.

What else was there?

When had she last eaten?

She had water, but it was old. There were dead flies and centipedes floating in it. At first, she had scooped them out, but now she didn’t bother.

The spiders, cockroaches and centipedes were her sustenance – her life’s blood. She would catch and kill them, and hide them from Amy in a little crack in the wall. It was her secret hiding place.

When had she last been washed by Amy? She could smell herself. There was no toilet paper left, and she hadn’t wiped herself down there, or blown her nose.

She was rotting from the inside and the outside. Soon, that badness would meet in the middle and she’d become a corpse, a zombie, a monster.

What had happened to her toothbrush? Had she ever had one? Her teeth were layered in grey sludge, and her gums were beginning to hurt and bleed.

The door opened and Amy came down the steps.

‘Hello, Amy.’

Jerry laughed and grabbed at Amy’s ankles.

‘Don’t touch me, you filthy animal. What has happened to you?’

‘Have you brought me food and water?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve brought you a stew.’

‘Yummy.’

‘But I have to tell you what’s in that stew.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Remember I said I’d kill all your children if you didn’t clean that bucket?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you didn’t clean that bucket, did you?’

Jerry giggled. ‘No, Amy.’

‘So I had to kill your children.

‘Oh dear.’

‘I chopped them up, put them through the grinder and made a stew.’

‘Where is it?’ She sniffed. ‘I don’t smell anything.’

‘Did you hear me? I put your children in the stew?’

‘I’m hungry. Where is it? Can I have some bread with it?’

Amy shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. I treated you well, and yet this is how you repay me.’

‘Get the cane! Get the cane.’ She scrambled onto all fours. ‘After you’ve beaten me, will you bring the stew?

Amy went back up the stairs and turned the light off.

‘Are you bringing the stew?’

‘Please bring the stew.’

‘You promised stew.’

She reached into her secret hiding place and wrapped her fingers round a juicy black beetle and popped it into her mouth.

‘Will you bring the stew next time?’ she shouted up the cellar steps, but Amy didn’t answer.

 

 

***

 

 

Wednesday, April 18

 

 

Dragan Milić didn’t live in a big house surrounded by a metal fence in Stoke-by-Nayland, he lived in a detached three bedroom Victorian house with two chimneys and a conservatory. The black Renault Trafic with the number plate matching the one that Sharon Williams had written down on a scrap of paper was parked outside the garage.

He rang Jennifer.

‘Why are you ringing me, Monsieur?’

‘I’m not going to make it home tonight, Mademoiselle.’

‘I’m very disappointed.’

‘I know.’

‘And I’m wearing French underwear that I bought just for you, mon amour.’

‘Don’t tell me anymore. I have to stay here, so that when he leaves in the morning I’ll be able to follow him.’

‘You could come home and get up early.’

‘I can’t risk it. I’ve never overslept in my life, but I would tomorrow, and how could I explain that?’

‘Have a lovely time in the car on your own.’

‘Sorry.’

He ended the call.

No, he couldn’t risk it, but he was sorely tempted. He hadn’t come prepared either – no food and no drink. It was going to be a long lonely night. He reached over and grabbed the tartan blanket from the back seat. His feet were already getting cold.

He was just drifting off when there was a loud knock on the driver’s window, which nearly gave him a heart attack. Had Milić discovered him already?

Whoever it was, the idiot was shining a high powered torch in his eyes. He was sure his optic nerves were fried.

‘Get that light out my eyes, you idiot,’ he said after he’d lowered the window slightly.

‘Neighbourhood Watch,’ a deep female voice said. ‘I’ve got your number, you know.’

He showed the middle-aged woman his warrant card. ‘Police.’

‘You’re staking out that foreigner, aren’t you?’

‘What makes you ask?’

‘Comes and goes at all hours. Doesn’t speak English as far as I can tell . . . or at least he doesn’t answer neighbourly questions. Nobody round here knows what he does for a living . . . Listen, do you want to come in for a hot toddy? You can see everything from my house.’

His feet were like blocks of ice. He was hungry, thirsty and he needed the toilet. ‘All right, thanks.’

‘I’ve taken a few photographs as well – just in case.’

‘Really?’ He climbed out of the car, locked it and followed the woman into the house opposite Dragan Milić’s house.

‘Do you mind if I use your toilet . . . ?’

‘The door on your left. Coffee?’

‘Yes please.’

After he’d relieved himself, he wandered along the hall to the kitchen. ‘Thank you . . . ?’

‘Sonia Nesbitt at your service.’ She gave him a three-fingered salute. ‘Previously Queen’s Guide and senior section leader with the Girl Guides.’

‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

‘Sit, drink, eat,’ she said. ‘Stake-outs are thirsty and hungry work.’ She spoke as though she’d had years of stake-out experience.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. On the table Sonia had provided a veritable feast of cheese crackers, a selection of cheeses, pickled onions, chutney, plum tomatoes, slices of crusty bread with butter, chunks of ham, boiled eggs . . .

‘Are you expecting a troop of girl guides?’

She laughed like a walrus. ‘You need fattening up, young man. You’re far too thin.’

He helped himself like a man who had just escaped from prison. ‘I am a bit hungry.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘I need to . . .’

She tapped a television screen and switched it on. ‘Got it here. The cameras have been directed at that house. Don’t want to miss anything, do we?’

He screwed up his eyes to peer at the tiny screen and could just make out the black van in front of the garage.

She grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

‘But . . .’

‘The food will still be here when we get back.’

‘Where are we going?’

She led him upstairs, along the landing, through a door, up some more stairs and into an attic.

‘I can see everything from up here.’

He glanced around the room. She had everything anybody could ever desire or need for a stakeout. There was a telescope on a tripod with a motor drive and automatic tracking pointing out of a skylight window; on a long table – neatly lined up – were a pair of high-powered day- and night-vision binoculars, a single-lens-reflex digital camera with a zoom lens that could have photographed a hummingbird drinking from the well of plenty, a laptop computer, recording equipment . . .

‘I’m an amateur compared to you,’ he said.

‘Be prepared, that’s the Girl Guides motto.’

‘You’re certainly that.’

‘Take a look through the telescope.’

He stuck his eye over the lens. It took him a few tries to actually see anything, but then he jerked backwards.

She laughed. ‘They do that a lot, I’m afraid. Like living in the same street as a warren of rabbits.’

‘Have you actually seen them doing anything . . . illegal?’

‘That should be illegal,’ she said. ‘Some of the things I’ve seen them doing . . . It must be a foreign thing. The British would never do anything like that. ’

‘Other than what they’re doing at the moment?’

‘It depends what you define as illegal.’ She pointed to a box of DVDs. ‘Six months worth of surveillance.’ Then she powered up the laptop.

He saw three men sitting at a table playing cards. One of them spoke in a foreign language.

His brow furrowed.

‘Over there,’ she said, pointing at Milić’s house.

‘You have cameras and microphones inside the house?’

‘They left the door open one day. As leader of the Neighbourhood Watch I felt it was my responsibility to check everything was all right. Just to be on the safe side, I installed some devices – for their own protection, you understand.’

‘Of course. Do you understand what they’re saying?’

‘Not a word – foreign gibberish. If they’re living over here they should be made to speak English, that’s what I say. Personally, I blame that Nick Clegg . . .’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Too smarmy for his own good.’

‘Have you ever seen any blond-haired children in the house?’

‘Not until yesterday. I saw three of them being transferred between his vehicle and another four-by-four. Here . . .’ she said, finding a file on the laptop. ‘This was from yesterday.’

He only caught a glimpse of the three children, but he recognised them as the ones from Pitt’s house. ‘Any idea where they were taken?’

‘Do you think I’ve got nothing else better to do with my time?’

He followed Sonia Nesbitt downstairs, eager to finish the food he’d piled on a plate.

‘You’re coffee has gone cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you another one.’

While she did that, he phoned his contact at CEOP – Chief Inspector Tina Marzocca.

‘This had better be good,’ she said. ‘It’s quarter to two in the morning for Christ’s sake.’

‘It’s DS Rowley Gilbert.’

‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until I wake up naturally, Gilbert?’

‘I think I might have found what we’ve been looking for.’

 

 

***

 

 

‘Please?’ Valery Jacobs pleaded in a voice that was barely audible.

She was suspended in a horizontal position by rope tied around her wrists and ankles. Those ropes had been looped through metal rings bolted to the walls, pulled tight and tied off, so that her body was stretched into a star shape.

He’d chosen the place with exactly this in mind. It was an abandoned saddle-making factory on the outskirts of Broxbourne next to the railway line. The owners used to employ over two hundred local people to make leather horse saddles, bridles, reins and other equestrian equipment, but they couldn’t compete with German efficiency and quality.

‘Please? Yes, I recall saying that myself, but did you listen? No, you didn’t listen. My pleas fell on deaf ears. All you were interested in was your fucking paperwork. Well, let me tell you that life is about more than paperwork. Death is about paperwork. Life should be about something more than that.’

‘I was only doing my job.’

‘And you certainly did a wonderful job on me, Valery fucking Jacobs. But breaking families up isn’t a job – it’s a vocation. A person has to be really dedicated to do what you do. All that snooping and report-writing takes time and effort. Did you take your work home at night? Yes, I imagine you did. Did you sit there typing my name into your computer describing me as a dangerous psychopath who should be kept away from his family? Guess what, Valery – you got it wrong. It wasn’t my family that was in danger, it was you.’

He squatted to stare into her eyes.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Please don’t do this.’

‘Do you know that I haven’t seen my children in twelve months. A father has a right to see his children, but you took that away from me. Nobody should stop a father from seeing his own children . . .’

He was so fucking angry that he grabbed her throat and squeezed. As her eyes began to bulge he let go.

She gulped in air, coughed and spluttered.

‘You make me so fucking angry. You’ve made it impossible for me to even speak to my children anymore. Well, just as my children don’t have a father, so your son won’t have a mother . . .’

‘Please don’t hurt me.’

He laughed. ‘Hurt you? That’s the least of your problems. Shall I tell you what I’m going to do to you?’

She began squealing and struggling against the ropes. Urine dribbled through her dress and onto the floor.

‘Now you’re getting the idea. Pissing yourself is exactly the response I was looking for.’ A teaspoon appeared in his hand. ‘I’ve made this little gizmo especially for you. Yes, I know it looks like a teaspoon . . . Well, it is a teaspoon, but the end of the scoop has been sharpened for a specific purpose. I’m going to manoeuvre it over the top of your eyeballs, and then downwards. The sharpened end will slice through your optic nerve and your eyeball will simply pop out onto the floor.’

Valery vomited.

‘It does sound a bit yucky, doesn’t it? Anyway, that’s the first part of the plan. I think it’ll be slightly uncomfortable – like having grit in your eye – but it won’t be too painful.’

She began jerking about again.

He held her head tight, forced the teaspoon through her closed left eyelid and over the top of her eyeball. The orb dropped onto the dusty floor, bounced once and rolled a couple of inches like a dobber marble. Whatever happened to marbles? Do children still play marbles? Do his children play marbles? The bitch had robbed him of ever playing marbles with his children.

‘Now for the right one.’ He used the teaspoon to dig out the right eyeball. ‘There we are – all done. It wasn’t too bad, was it?’

He picked up the eyeballs from the floor one at a time and slid them into a clear plastic sandwich bag, which he knotted at the top. He then put the bag into a small cardboard box with a longitude and latitude written on the inside of the lid, jiggled it into the pre-addressed brown envelope and stuck the flap down.

‘There we are, all ready for delivery to DI Jed Parish at Hoddesdon Police Station.’

‘What have you done to me?’

He laughed. ‘I think you should be more worried about what’s to come than your missing eyeballs, Valery. Of course, I never did get to tell you about the second part of the plan. Well, I’m going to save the person who does your post mortem a job by emptying your abdominal cavity.’ He cut her clothes off with the Stanley knife he had in his pocket. She had defecated – he could both smell it and see the brown stain seeping through her white cotton knickers. Then, he reached under her, pushed the tip of the blade into her flabby pitted flesh and dragged the knife up towards her head – only stopping when he reached the base of her sternum.

Her large intestine made a slapping sound as it hit the floor. He was surprised at the small amount of blood – he’d expected more. Instead, eighteen feet of small intestine unravelled on the floor like pork sausages being ejected from a sausage-making machine. Suspended from arteries, veins and sinews were the liver, the stomach and the spleen.

‘Abdominal wounds are the worst, you know. If I had the time, I could watch you die for two days or more. Sadly though, I don’t have the time.’ He dragged the blade across her throat.

Expelled air hissed out.

There, it was done.

Just two more to go, he thought.

On her forehead he carved: SEE NO EVIL, and then walked back to his car.

He drove to Hoddesdon town centre, found the resident tramp – old Abram Welsh – and negotiated the delivery of the brown envelope to Hoddesdon Police Station for two bottles of methylated spirits.

‘Make sure it gets there, Abram.’

‘Sure will, Mister. For two bottles of meths I’d deliver your wife’s baby.’

He smiled as he made his way back to the car. He’d heard rumours that old Abram had once been a doctor, but he didn’t believe them.