 
The Facebook Killer: Part One

M.L. Stewart

Copyright M.L. Stewart 2011

Published at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dermott Madison. I'm forty-nine years old and used to live in London. Used to, before all of this happened that is. I also used to be quite a successful banker in the City. Up every morning at six-thirty to join the faceless masses at Ealing Broadway Tube station. I used to read the paper all the way to Canary Wharf. Eyes down, minding my own business. I was a nobody and that was the way I liked it. One of the faceless people. Do my job. Come home at seven. Eyes down. Nose clean. Spend the night at home with my wife and daughter. I never went to the pub, a restaurant now and again, granted, on special occasions but I was never a drinker. Not back then. Not before. I took pride in my job and my appearance. A childhood spent in public schools and a four year stint in the Royal Engineers, taught me this. You could say I was a model citizen before it all went wrong.

I had the perfect wife, Anna, wealthy in her own right before we met. She worked as a freelance fashion journalist. A couple of years younger than myself, we'd been married for almost twenty years. It would have been our twentieth anniversary two weeks after it happened. Laura, our daughter, had just turned eighteen. We had booked a cruise for her to the Eastern Caribbean. She was supposed to fly to the Dominican Republic the next day to meet the ship, Laura and two of her closest friends.

But that was all before. Before this. Before him.

To this day I still don't know how he found out about her birthday party. All I know is what the police told me. After all, I wasn't there was I? That damned Tube strike made me decide to work late. I'd promised her I would be home by ten thirty at the very latest. Then that blasted email from New York arrived just as I was about to leave the office. I didn't know who to blame. The Tube, New York or _him_. Maybe all of them were guilty?

When things went wrong at work, I always looked on the bright side, the eternal optimist, a _what's the worst that could happen_? kind of a guy.

Have you ever wondered that? What _is_ the worst thing that could ever happen. To _you_ I mean. Think about it for a moment.

Try this one on. You get home from work at almost midnight, racked with guilt because you've missed your daughter's eighteenth birthday party, you broke your promise to her and what's worse you had a blazing row about it all with your wife before you left the house in the morning, which ended something like " yeah, you can go and fuck yourself too, Bitch!" Believe me, her side of the conversation was much harsher.

To take my mind off the exorbitant and rapidly rising cab fare on the journey home, I planned my apologies and excuses. I had a bunch of yellow roses for Anna and I'd bought an extra present for Laura during my lunch break, a beautiful diamond bracelet from Liberty.

I could smell the smoke from almost a mile away but thought nothing of it. It was only when we got to the end of my street and I saw the neighbours huddling in the cold, blue lights strobing through a smoky haze that I realized there might be a problem.

I was still carrying Anna's flowers and Laura's bracelet when I ran into the house. My last memory is of those beautiful yellow roses wilting in the intense heat.

Not only did I lose their presents that night, I lost them and half my face as well. Apparently a fireman pulled me clear just before the roof caved in.

Three weeks later they must have started to lower the dosage of sedatives. I began to realize that I was in a hospital. Somewhere. For some reason. Maybe I'd been in a car accident? I had no idea.

The bravest man I have ever met in my life was that doctor. The one who had to explain everything to me. I sometimes wonder how long it had taken him to build up the courage. How many times he'd been over and over it in his head.

"Mr. Madison, I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you," he said. "There has been a tragic fire at your home. I'm sorry to have to tell you that neither your wife nor your daughter made it out alive."

He didn't mention the fact that my face looked like it had been put through an industrial potato peeler. One step at a time, I suppose.

The next few days were just a blur. Bedridden police interviews. More drugs. Trauma counsellors, a few friends full of condolences. More drugs. Police updates, a visit from the family lawyer.

Anyway, you get the picture and so this went on for two more weeks. The mind-numbing sedatives kept all my emotions at bay. One of the strangest feelings I've ever experienced.

Our lawyer talked about life and property insurance payouts totalling millions but nothing was registering. A small pea-sized compartment of my brain was just waiting to get out of that bloody hospital and home to my family. They obviously found a pill that killed that pea.

Five weeks later I was out. I 'd promised my best friend and work colleague, Graham, that I would call him as soon as they released me from the hospital. I was supposed to stay with him and his wife for an indeterminable period of time.

I never called Graham. I did something that I hadn't done for ten weeks. I walked. I walked and walked and walked. Eventually, I found myself in Hyde Park for some reason. It was around ten at night. My mind was still closed to any emotion, I had no feelings. I was numb. I now had close to three million in the bank, my loved ones were dead and my home was gone. Yet I felt nothing. Neither the need to cry nor the urge to talk to anyone. Absolutely zero.

I took a cab that night. I had to see for myself if it was all true. That it hadn't just been some awful nightmare. Fifty minutes later I found myself standing in front of what used to be my beech hedge. Sorry, _our_ beech hedge. Now replaced with seven feet high sections of wire fencing sporting crooked health and safety signs, the ashes of my life lay beyond.

Now, you are probably thinking to yourself that this is when the reality hit me, but you'd be wrong. I climbed back into that cab, I went to the Hyde Park hotel and booked a modest suite. Bear in mind that the sum total of my worldly possessions were the clothes on my back, loaned to me by Graham.

I'd momentarily forgotten about my disfigurement, but as I entered that hotel lobby the great British public, being what they are, took it upon themselves to remind me. At that point I hadn't been near a mirror since the fire. I'd been told to continually wear the half-faced clear plastic mask to help assist the healing and prevent harsh scarring, thereby allowing corrective surgery to be an easier task.

I stayed in that hotel suite for nine whole months. I never ventured outside. I lived off room service and the interest from the insurance payouts paid the bill. The curtains remained closed. Every mirror removed from the suite as per my request.

Hours turned into days. Days into weeks and then months. I had no idea if it was day or night. My only companion was a BBC news channel. No one knew where I was. I had no phone. I was entrenched in my self-made cocoon, an emotionless, airless nest within which I spent each and every day staring blankly at the news. Maybe I was waiting for something?

Back then I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe I needed help? Possibly I should have sought it. Maybe then things wouldn't have turned out like they have. I'm not making excuses mind you. I hold myself totally accountable for my actions.
Chapter 2

The Trial

I wasn't summoned to give evidence at the trial. I just felt some long forgotten urge to attend. Maybe to try and pick up a few more pieces of the jigsaw, which that hurricane had scattered all those months ago.

To tell you the truth I had totally forgotten about the trial until my friend on the news channel brought it up.

My emotions still hadn't returned. There had been no trace of grieving. I suppose I'd become what some therapists may term a paranoid recluse. Maybe I had.

As I walked from my suite into that hotel lobby after nine months of self-imposed solitary confinement, I could hear the sharp intakes of breath from the staff and fellow guests alike. I hadn't worn the facemask for eight months nor had I bothered applying the creams. To be honest I hadn't done much for eight months, least of all looked at myself in a mirror. I was well aware that I probably looked horrific in a Phantom of The Opera kind of way. A half head of hair and beard to match, but to tell you the truth, I didn't give a shit.

An even bigger shock came as I stepped out onto the street. The almost choking stench of exhaust fumes, the sleet lashing my face and the cold, that extreme cold biting into my face.

The uniformed doorman offered to hail me a cab. An offer I gladly accepted. I distinctly remember standing on those steps, my face stinging, watching complete strangers stare in horror. Mothers turned their faces away and pulled their children closer for protection.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, a black cab stopped. The doorman exchanged a few words with the driver. No doubt explaining I was a resident and not some sideshow freak and banging on about the hotel's commitment to guests etcetera. Nevertheless, within an hour I was dropped off outside the Old Bailey. No charge. The hotel had apparently taken care of it.

And so it began. The first day of a three-week trial. A trial, which I attended every day without fail. I even started to buy the London Herald so I could go over the day's proceedings in the security of my hotel suite. And so it went on. I was picked up every morning at nine o'clock by the same paid-for black cab and dropped off at the Old Bailey, then collected at five.

Abdul Hamid

Of course he was going to deny it. Bloody hell, I would have done the same.

Standing in the dock before me was Abdul Hamid. Twenty-one years old. Born in England with Pakistani ancestry. By all accounts a bit of a "wide boy". Of limited education but living off a retainer from his wealthy parents, who apparently owned three commercial properties in Camden. He had an air of arrogance, which was probably bolstered by his seriously expensive barrister, who in turn was obviously financed by the family.

Without fail, I was always the first person in the public gallery of court number two. I always sat at the far end, in the front row. Both the public and press galleries were full on each day of the trial. Strangely the seat next to me always remained empty.

For the first couple of days I felt like an observer. Outside looking in sort of thing. As though this trial involved someone else's family, certainly not mine. Then the thaw began to set in as the details were slowly brought to light.

"So, Mr. Hamid," said the prosecutor. "You do not deny the fact that you attended Laura Madison's eighteenth birthday party."

"No, Sir," replied Hamid.

"Then can you please explain to the jury why you were there? Did you receive an official invite like the rest of the guests?"

"No, Sir, I didn't get an invite. I was just passing and I heard the music. There were a few people out in the front garden, having a drink. I asked one of them if this was Joe's birthday. He just laughed and said no it's Laura's."

"At which point you left. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Only to return an hour later. Is that also fact, Mr. Hamid?"

"Yes Sir."

"Please tell the jury what happened next."

"Well, I bought a bunch of flowers and a card from the florists on the corner of Harrow Road. I wrote out the card, I wrote "Happy Birthday, Laura" and went back to the house. Those kids were still outside and the front door was wide open, so I just walked in. The house was rammed."

"You were previously unaware of this girl Laura? What you were doing, in effect, was trying to gatecrash a party. Is that correct?"

"Yes Sir."

"Were there any adults present when you entered the property?"

"There was an old bird, probably her mum, sitting in the conservatory but she didn't seem to care less what was going on. She had a couple of bottles of wine on the table."

"Mr. Hamid. Did you see a male adult during your time in the house? By adult I mean over the age of, let's say, forty years old."

This is when the thaw really started to take a grip of me.

"No Sir, just the woman with the wine."

"Mr. Hamid please tell the members of the jury what happened after you entered the house."

"Well, I asked a load of the kids where Laura was. Most of them were too pissed or couldn't hear over the music to understand what I was saying. I went into the kitchen and asked in there. Same thing. Some little geek told me to get a drink. The bench was full of bottles of spirits, so I poured myself a vodka and took a little tour around the house."

"Had you been drinking before you arrived at the party Mr. Hamid? And if so, how much?"

"I'd been drinking with my cousin Ahmed in the Grove Tavern most of the afternoon. He was celebrating finding a wife."

"So when you arrived at the party, you admit you were pretty much intoxicated?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How many drinks did you consume whilst you were in the Madisons' house?"

I jumped as he said the name.

"Maybe three or four more, Sir."

"By which time you must have consumed almost one full litre of vodka?"

"I suppose so."

"Please tell us what happened next."

"The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor in some bedroom. I must've passed out."

"So you admit that you were too drunk, in fact, so incoherent that you couldn't even make your own way home?"

"Objection! Leading the witness."

"Sustained!"

"Sorry your Honour. Let me rephrase that. Mr. Hamid why did you decide to fall asleep in the Madisons' house and not endeavour to make your way back to your own home?"

That name again. The Madisons.

"I guess I was probably too drunk. I just crashed."

"So you admit that you were too drunk to get home. Too drunk, in fact, to even call a taxi to take you home?"

"I didn't know where I was."

"What time did you finally wake up in that bedroom Mr. Hamid?"

"About eleven o'clock, I think."

"At eleven o'clock at night?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How was the party by then?"

"It seemed to be over. The music had finished and when I left there was nobody else in the house. They must've had a curfew or something."

"When you woke up, Mr. Hamid, was there any other person in that bedroom?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Please elaborate for the benefit of the jury."

"This blonde girl was crashed on the bed. Looked like she'd puked up."

The prosecutor held up a photograph.

"Can you please confirm this is the girl who was asleep on the bed?"

"That looks like her, yes."

"Did you at any time touch or attempt to speak to the girl on the bed?"

"No, Sir."

"Are you one hundred percent sure?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell me Mr. Hamid. How many other Asians did you see at this party?"

"None, Sir."

"So you admit that you were the only Asian present in the Madisons' home that evening?"

A nod.

"And you stand by your sworn statement to the jury that you never so much as spoke to this girl?"

"I do."

"Your Honour, I would like to submit this photograph as exhibit "A". Ladies and gentlemen of the jury this photograph is of Laura Madison. The primary victim of Mr. Hamid's alleged rape and murder trial."

Laura Madison. That sounded like my daughter's name.

"So, Mr. Hamid, please tell the jury your version of the story between awakening at eleven pm and getting back to your own home."

"There's not that much to tell, Sir. I told you, I woke up on the floor, this blonde bird was out of it on the bed. I went downstairs; the old girl was crashed out in the conservatory. I left and walked home. Simple."

The bastard was smiling now.

"Mr. Hamid, please explain to me if, by your own admission, you were the only Asian at the Madisons' house that night and you stand by the fact that you did not lay a finger upon Laura Madison, a 999 call was received at ten thirty four that evening from Miss Madison requesting urgent police assistance and claiming she had been raped by an Asian intruder?"

He was shaking his head now.

"Mr. Hamid, can you please tell the members of the jury if you lost anything that night?"

"Not that I know of."

"It's just that during Miss Madison's

emergency call, as the jury will hear shortly on the tape labelled exhibit "B", a mobile phone can be distinctly heard ringing in the background, at this point the deceased begins to scream hysterically and I quote " _He's coming back. My God you've got to help me, he's coming back, he left his phone"._ Mr. Hamid, will you please tell the court the caller ID for your cousin Ahmed?"

No response.

"I put to you that the caller ID of your cousin was _Ahmed B_. The exact name Miss Madison yelled out when asked by the emergency operator to try and identify the caller. I also put to you, Abdul Hamid, that when you realised you had left such an incriminating piece of evidence at the crime scene you and your cousin, whom, by the way, has conveniently returned to Pakistan and cannot currently be traced, returned to the Madisons' home, and in your drunken states decided to set fire to the property, as a direct consequence causing the deaths of Anna and Laura Madison."

"You're talking bullshit now!"

I will never forget his tone when he said that. "Prove it mutherfucker!" is what he was basically saying. I was still thinking about Hamid's arrogance when another voice broke through. I could suddenly smell perfume, a familiar scent. I turned around but the seat next to me was still empty. I knew the voice, I knew the smell. What I didn't recognise were the screams. The horrific howls of your own flesh and blood begging and pleading. I remember the 999 operator trying to keep her calm, promising help was on the way but Laura was coughing, choking. "They've started a fire!" she screamed.

As the tape continued I couldn't take my eyes off the man in the dock. He didn't care, he didn't even pretend to. My daughter's dying screams were being played to the court, I remember most of the jury weeping but he just stood there like a grinning fucking pimp without a care in the world.

And that was when I woke up. That was the point that reality hit me. Grief, anger, hatred and remorse. Like a cancer, which had suddenly exploded inside of me. The left-hand side of my face began to throb. I could feel my heartbeat in my cheek for Christ's sake. That was the point everything fitted into place. The jigsaw was complete. As I watched that bastard grinning to the tune of Laura's screams I swore revenge. I wasn't angry though. It was a calm sense of final understanding. At last, I knew what I had to do. I had a purpose after all this time.

Three weeks later, I sat in that courtroom and listened to the judge instruct the jury to find the defendant not guilty. Evidence hadn't been correctly documented. A search warrant had the wrong date on it.

That's when it all began. The Facebook Killer, as the press would eventually come to call me, was born, and British justice was my bitch of a mother.

*

On the way back to my hotel suite that day, I asked the driver to stop outside an electronics shop. Ten minutes later I climbed back into the cab having just made my first purchase in almost a year. The first possession of my new life. A laptop computer.

Now don't get me wrong. You don't just wake up one morning and decide that you're going to become a serial killer. Neither is it something to be proud of, so don't try this at home, for God's sake.

I hadn't spent my childhood killing small animals and progressed to human life. Truth be known I 'd never even been in a fight before. My four years in the army resulted in a total kill-count of zero, mind you I _was_ a mechanic before moving to bomb disposal, but my newly chosen career path caused a certain stirring inside of me. Over the course of the trial all my emotions and memories had returned yet I still felt strangely cold.

For the next two days, the laptop remained sealed in its box whilst I decided on my course of action. The London news was full of Hamid's good fortune. He was pictured on the steps of the Old Bailey giving the victory salute, his barrister announcing that they were going to sue the Metropolitan Police for wrongful arrest, defamation of character and a hundred other things. This only added fuel to my fire.

I lay awake that night going over the possibilities in my head. This bastard Hamid had killed the only two people I had in this world and he was going to pay for it. Don't get me wrong; I wasn't some crazed psycho who wanted to kill him there and then. I was calm, thinking logically. I had a lot of money at my disposal with nothing and no one else to spend it on. In a roundabout way, Hamid was about to become the financial beneficiary of the people he had killed and the damage he had caused.

I'll be the first to admit that I was becoming obsessed now, but that's what serial killers do, isn't it?

Then it came to me in a dream. Abdul Hamid was an apple tree, I know it sounds strange but it was only a dream remember, his arms were branches, laden with fruit and his legs the trunk. I remember looking at the tree through some sort of mask. The tree couldn't move now, it couldn't run. There was an old wooden bench next to it with an assortment of tools laid out for the kill, a chainsaw, an axe, a flamethrower, as well as an array of handsaws and pruners. The tree was begging, begging me for its life. I studied the tools through the mask, as I picked up each one the tree screamed and its branches shook in fear. Replacing the last tool on the old bench I approached the tree and started to pick off the apples, one by one. Twisting them until their stalks snapped off. I slowly removed everything that the tree had spent its whole life creating, apple-by-apple, leaf-by-leaf, twig-by-twig and then branch-by-branch. Eventually, leaving nothing but the trunk, quivering in fear. Its lifetime's work lay rotting on the ground. If trees could truly scream, this one would make my ears bleed. I circled the naked, gnarled trunk, stroking the dry bark, pieces of lichen flaking off beneath my fingers, floating to the ground to join the rest. Then I picked up the chainsaw. Then I woke up.

*

That was the last day of my life. The last day I would publicly walk through the streets and parks of London. The last day parents would have to protect their terrified children from me and I knew it. I felt a kind of release, an inner peace. I can only compare it to stories you hear of people who have cheated death only to tell of the passage of light drawing them to the next place, wherever that may be. I could feel Anna and Laura's presence but I can't honestly say that they felt at rest. I needed to spend my final day with them.

I found myself standing outside of the Willoughby Bar just off Marylebone Street. The only thing that had changed in almost a quarter of a century was its name. Back then it was called The Madison Brasserie. That's why I had brought Anna there for our first date, I hadn't told her my last name at that stage, so after an evening being treated like royalty and not even asked to pay for dinner or the drinks, she left feeling, if not a little bemused, at least like the very special person that she was.

When the cab arrived and we made to get in, the driver asked. "Taxi for Madison?"

That's when she gave me that look, a look I still remember to this day, a look of "Oh so you're not the poor army boy that I thought, you own a swanky bar to boot." Well, I had to do something to impress her, back then she was earning more a year than my tuition fees had cost me over three years. It was only the next day I got caught out when I went to retrieve my deposit cheque from the manager and settled the bill in cash. Christ, I was skint for a week after that. I congratulated his staff on their performance and that's when the five-pound note was slipped onto the bar from behind. It was Anna. She'd decided that she liked my Brasserie so much she'd brought a couple of colleagues for lunch. "Oh, and here's a tip," she said, "I don't think _he_ can afford one."

That was the first and last argument we had in twenty-three years of knowing each other.

Pushing the front door open after all these years felt like stepping back in time. The same brass bell hang from the doorframe, tinkling like an old friend welcoming me back. The same layout of tables, the familiar pictures still hanging on the wall, mainly skyline views of New York including a an aerial shot of the Twin Towers under construction. My God, how the world has changed, I thought.

The dining area was deserted. Either too early or the business had gone down the drain. I looked over to the window table, still there after all this time.

The conversations came flooding back. That first date, the uncomfortable talk about families and careers, followed by the bottle of Pinot Noir, "the lip loosener" as Anna like to call it. Then the flirting and jokes. Another bottle. The steak for me and the crab salad for her.

"We'll be serving lunch in around ten minutes, Sir, if you'd like to take a seat", the waiter announced, my thoughts retreating like the tide.

"Thank you," I replied, heading to our window table.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir, that table's reserved," said the waiter, apologetically.

Too late. I was already seated.

"Who is it reserved for?" I asked.

"For the owner's parents, Sir," he replied.

"Then tell the owner that I'm prepared to pay his parents one thousand pounds for the inconvenience. After all I'm sure they will have plenty more times to sit here, but in my case, this is the last."

No doubt a phone call was made, although I wasn't aware of the outcome. The next thing I knew was the menu being offered to me by the same young fellow. I knew it wasn't his fault, in fact I felt a little embarrassed on his behalf but the selfishness was creeping in like dry rot.

"I'll be back for your order in a few minutes, Sir. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?" he asked politely.

"Give me a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses, please".

Sitting at _our_ table the tide started to come back in. It was in this very spot that I was first introduced to her parents, where I persuaded a waiter to serve her the engagement ring instead of dessert, where she cried and said yes. The same table, number seventeen, that our darling baby Laura had her first taste of meat, sirloin to be precise, diced up carefully by her mum and fed to her in a nervous silence from both sides of the table. "Yum," was all she could manage at that age, "Thank God, she's not going to be a vegetarian," I joked.

It was high tide and I was swimming in a sea of memories, immersed so deeply that I only surfaced when the waiter brought me the bill.

It had been three hours, Anna's crab salad hadn't been touched, it sat limply on the plate, the lettuce leaves wilting. Her wine untouched just like Laura's milk. The sirloin steak so finely diced was cold now, a fly waiting patiently on the edge of the plate.

"I'm sorry your friends didn't turn up, Sir," said the waiter.

It took a moment. Like when you wake up from a dream you're enjoying and desperately want to go back to sleep to continue it but realise you have to get up for work.

"Don't worry, son, they _were_ here. Just that they weren't too hungry, that's all."

*

The first time we took Laura to Regent's Park she was six years old. In fact it was her sixth birthday that day. Anna and I had promised to take her for a picnic and then on to the zoo. She was so excited; she'd only read about all of these wild animals and seen their pictures in books.

As we sat on the grass eating ham sandwiches, Laura paused. She looked up at me and asked, "So, Daddy, tell me what is this cancer thing?"

And so began the dark days, or should I say the dark years? Anna swore that she was about to tell me but Laura had overheard the phone conversation the day before.

That beautiful woman fought the breast cancer for four years until she was finally given the all clear. As a family, we spent every day like it was our last together. The worst, yet the happiest four years of our lives. After a period like that you can't just go back to how it was before. We continued living life to the full, we had a good income, we didn't worry about the bills, we were rapidly ascending the property ladder. Life was good.

We'd made a solemn promise during those dark years, all three of us, when I thought Anna wasn't going to make it. We vowed that whichever of us went to Heaven first would buy a house just like the one we had now, with a nice green lawn and beech hedges. They would be responsible for keeping the fridge full of our favourite things like ice cream for Laura, olives and feta cheese for Mum, and Dad's chocolate cake so that when the rest of us arrived we wouldn't be hungry. Laura squealed with joy at the idea. Anna laughed through rolling tears as she hugged us all together. The three musketeers Laura called us.

*

"Do you remember her?" I called. "You must do. It was only twelve, thirteen years ago. I thought you had a good memory. I remember _you_. We stood here, right here on this spot. She had auburn hair and green eyes just like her mum, she was here too."

No reply. People were moving away.

"For fuck's sake Habul give me a sign. Surely you must remember. She said she talked to you, she told you her name was Laura. She said you smiled and said that you wouldn't ever forget such a lovely name."

A distant voice: "Would you mind keeping the language down a bit, there are kids about you know?"

A wave of my hand, a dismissive sigh.

"Habul. _Please_. Just give me a fucking sign. I need to know that I'm not the only one who remembers her."

"Freak!"

And so ended the final day of Dermott Madison. Escorted by London Zoo security to the main gates and firmly instructed never to return.

I certainly think Pinot Noir heightens your belief in an elephant's memory capacity.

Chapter 3

Gillian Baxter

Gillian was my first "apple". She was the same age as Hamid and apparently his first girlfriend at the age of sweet sixteen. They had managed to keep their relationship a secret for almost two years until an uncle of his spotted them in a park near his home. Hamid's parents soon put a stop to the shameful union but he remained in touch with his first love. Until I came along that is.

I knew I had to be careful. After all, I had a lot of apples to pick and I didn't want the farmer coming along with his shotgun and blowing my balls off.

I moved out of Hyde Park Hotel and into a much less salubrious suite in a hotel near Kings Cross. My plan required me to be on a busy transport hub. This lower key hotel offered the same facilities as my previous home of ten months but I was allowed to check in under an assumed name, no questions asked. I paid for three months accommodation in advance. The hotel had free wifi for its guests and directly opposite my ground floor suite was a door, which lead to the rear car park.

I withdrew all my money from the bank, a long and tedious process, believe me, and it was now safely ensconced in my room safe. I disposed of all my identification, credit cards and anything else that could link me to the former Dermott Madison.

I toyed with the idea of having reconstructive surgery on my long forgotten face but researching the procedures on the internet I soon realised that I would be spending months in private clinics, months which I could ill afford to lose. In the end I made the second investment of my new life. Three latex masks.

The company were located on a small industrial estate near Bermondsey, specialist suppliers to the film industry of the most lifelike creations I have ever seen. They agreed to make me a twenty-one- year-old Pakistani, a fiftyish Mr. Ordinary and a seventy-year-old white haired pensioner with matching hands, all for the princely sum of £12,000 cash.

Gillian wasn't too difficult to find. Her social networking sites were numerous. It took me all of seven minutes to find out who her current boyfriend was, where he lived and where he worked. Which, luckily for him, didn't matter to me. He wasn't on the tree.

I had grandiose ideas of how to pick my first apple. I'd planned to be "Kalif", my twenty-one-year-old Pakistani. I had named them all by then. "Norman" was Mr. boring and "Albert" was my pensioner, nevertheless, I digress.

I'd planned to approach Gillian and pretend to be a friend of Hamid. Find out if she still had feelings for him and vice versa but I'd already gathered that much and when it came to the crunch I didn't yet have the confidence. That would come soon though, believe me.

Gillian was the hardest apple to pick because she was the first. I hadn't done this before. In fact I didn't do it, "Albert" did. He sat at the end of the bar all night drinking stout, his shopping bag on the floor by his feet. He knew she would be there, she'd told the whole world that she would be there.

She looked exactly the same as her online pictures. Tall and slender, her hair cut in a black bob, a little lopsided but obviously today's fashion. The nose ring was there and Albert saw the tattoo on her ankle, which she'd told the world about too.

As Albert observed, he felt a pang of guilt emerge. She was bubbly, joined by so many friends throughout the evening who obviously enjoyed her company, but he knew that it had to begin somewhere, with someone. We had to start shaking the tree.

When she left, Albert followed her, walking stick in hand, practicing his newfound limp. The effects of five pints of stout on a nondrinker raised the heartbeat, raised the bravado.

As Gillian walked through the park that night, she cautiously glanced around, she was streetwise, Albert had to give her that. What threat was a pensioner who could hardly walk? She could outrun him if he decided to try anything on.

Gillian Baxter was found the next morning. The strangulation mark from the walking stick, hidden forever by the rope around her neck. The rope, which suspended her body from the tree, twisting gently in the wind, the rope creaking against the branch. Her suicide note soon to be found.

Her young life now offline.

*

When Albert returned to the hotel suite I made the decision to wait a couple of days before anyone went fruit picking again.

The next day I trawled the online news reports. Gillian Baxter's suicide was nothing more than that, no suspicious circumstances. A young woman who never got over the loss of her first love, or so read the note in her pocket.

The latest on Abdul Hamid said he had gone to ground following death threats. Not from my quarter, I can guarantee you that.

I took a step back, some time to analyse my situation. Firstly I had no feelings of guilt whatsoever. What needed to be done was now getting done, but I couldn't help feeling that Albert had rushed into this first job. In retrospect it seemed a little clumsy. What if someone had noticed him sitting in that bar all night? What if someone had come through the park when he was stringing her up? All three of them Kalif, Norman and Albert had to be more careful in future. I had to plan their fruit picking trips much more thoroughly. Each one had to be a work of art in itself if I was to achieve my final goal without being stopped. Little did I know back then how ruthless my three friends would become.

I invested in a forged passport for each of them, Kalif organised the deal through a Russian bar owner in Wapping. They cost £900 each but by God they were good.

No one ever came into our hotel suite. I'd arranged from the start to clean it myself and leave the laundry outside the door on Wednesdays and Sundays; this in turn was swapped for clean stuff. But how could I be sure that one day an over curious member of staff wouldn't decide to have a sniff around?

So I sent Albert out shopping. He brought back a hammer, chisel, a heavy duty motorbike chain and four zip-up plastic bags. Three hours later my friends had their own hiding place under the floorboards, along with my laptop. I was quite pleased with the first joinery job of my new life. Any snooper would have to remove the plastic panel from the side of the bath and crack the combination lock that chained the floorboards to the pipe work beneath.

As the fruit fell from the tree, I knew I had to be extra careful.
Chapter 4

Robert Chapel

My second apple was almost as easy to find as the first. He'd posted photographs of himself leaning on the bonnet of an old 3 series BMW in front of his house. The number plate was clear, RVC 291. What really caught my eye was the A4 piece of paper I could see on the rear window. Looking through his online pictures I knew that his house must be near the old brick factory, south of the river. I could see the chimneys in the background.

Kalif took a cab to the area. After a ten-minute walk, aligning the chimneys with the streets, he came upon it.

The car was parked outside his house. 1991 3 Series, 98,000 miles. Full M.O.T. £2,000 ono. The mobile number written beneath.

It was at this point Kalif realised I hadn't supplied him with a phone. A 21-year-old Asian lad in London without a mobile phone. Now that was suspicious in itself.

"Can I help you, mate?"

Kalif recognised him instantly.

Robert Chapel. Status: single. Age: 30. Agnostic. Favourite band: U2. Liked Mexican food and getting smashed out of his head every weekend.

Kalif felt as though he knew this man already.

"Just looking at the motor mate. Yours is it?" Kalif's Anglo-Asian accent was still a little strange but rapidly improving with practice.

"Yeah, why? are you interested?"

"I could be," replied Kalif, walking around the car. "Any chance of a test drive?"

"Yeah no problem. Let me just go inside and grab the keys."

Giving the car a second inspection, Kalif was relieved to see that very little had been done to it. Standard exhaust, no tinted windows and he hadn't even fitted alloy wheels. It had a couple of scratches but this would make the fruit picking a little easier.

As Chapel drove away from the house, Kalif checked out the interior. Well looked after. The seats had covers with "BMW SPORTS" emblazoned on them, this was a plus too. The gear knob was a skull, which he found quite ironic. Apart from that everything was quite unremarkable.

"So why are you flogging it?" asked Kalif.

"Upgrading mate. I've got my eyes on a Merc SLK but I need to sell this first."

After some idle chitchat about fuel consumption, servicing and the like, Kalif said. "I'm sure I know you from somewhere, man. I think we've met before."

The driver looked him up and down.

"I don't think so pal," he replied. "I don't knock around so much with..." he paused.

"What, Pakis?" laughed Kalif.

"Well, you know what I mean, _ethnics_."

"Na, na, man. I've met you before. It's comin' back to me now, man. You were gassed. Do you ever get into the Grove Tavern on Warwick Road?"

The driver eyed Kalif with suspicion. "It's been known once or twice. Why?"

"That's where I know you from, man," he yelped, pushing himself up in the seat. He turned to face Chapel. "You're pals with my mate Abdul, Abdul Hamid. You know? He just got off that rape thing."

"I think you've got me mixed up with someone else, mate," he replied nervously.

Kalif clapped his hands together.

"Na, man," he said smiling broadly. "It was deffo you. Man, you were out of it. Abdul bought some weed off of ya. Gimme a minute." Kalif paused as though he were thinking. "Robert! That's your name innit?"

"Yeah," replied the driver, looking a little bewildered.

"Man, that was the best smoke I'd had in years," said Kalif, clapping again.

"Well I don't do that shit anymore," he said.

"Man, do you ever see Abdul? I aint heard from him since all that bullshit started, we were best brothers man."

Kalif had read the words of support on Hamid's web pages, words written by this man driving the car next to him.

" _Word on the street is that she was gagging for it anyways, been around the block a few times, little slut_."

" _I know you're innocent mate. Keep your chin up. If you go down for this her old man is gonna be London's most wanted. Yeah, I hope you read this you stuck up old prick_."

"I aint seen him since the party that night he got off. Fuck, that was a blow out. His folks laid on everything. The Jacuzzi was full of bottles of champagne on ice, man. Unbelievable."

"Nice," said Kalif, nodding his head. "Wish I'd been there."

"Do you want to give her a go?" asked Chapel, pulling into a lay by.

"Yeah man. Why not?"

The driver got out and Kalif slid over, taking the wheel.

Now, I bet you're thinking that at this point Kalif picked the apple? But you'd be wrong. This one wasn't ripe enough yet.

After another half hour, they took the car back to Chapel's house by the old brick factory. Shaking hands, Kalif promised to be in touch within a few days, explaining that he had to fly to Pakistan the next week for a family wedding. Chapel wrote down his phone number and handed it over.

*

Three days later Kalif had purchased everything he needed. I was excited about this one. I knew for a fact that Chapel had lied. I knew he was still Hamid's main supplier of drugs. I'd seen him at the trial, sitting along from me in the public gallery, giving the thumbs up to my family's murderer.

I'd always assumed Hamid and his cousin were high the night they torched my home and I was about to make a large bet that Robert Chapel had sold them those drugs. He was as guilty as they were and he was about to be sentenced. Kalif-style.

*

It took fifteen minutes of negotiation before Chapel would let him take the BMW for a second test drive by himself. Kalif had shown him that he had the cash and eventually left his passport as security. Chapel knew that Kalif was going to Pakistan soon and would need it. This was a sure guarantee that he would return with the car.

"Okay but you'd better be back in half an hour," he said.

"That's all I need," replied Kalif with a smile.

Kalif had driven to Chapel's house in the other BMW. He'd parked it near the old brick factory. Out of view of any houses and there were no through roads.

I'd found it very quickly on Ebay. The same year and same model. "Norman" had tinkered with it in the hotel's rear car park for a couple of nights. The mileometer was adjusted, a couple of scratches added in the right places and, of course, the apple-picking device was added. Something that could never have been done in the space of a half hour test drive. All Kalif had to do now was switch the number plates, seat covers, air freshener, gear knob, tax disc and personal contents and _hey presto_ , death on wheels.

"Sorry, man, but it doesn't feel so good the second time round," Kalif said as he handed the keys back to Chapel.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean I aint gonna buy it man, sorry."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Take it out yourself man, there's a rattle coming from somewhere. It doesn't sound good, brother."

Chapel looked angry as he jumped into the car, the squeal of the tyres just confirmed it. He roared off down the street, oblivious to the fact that a GPS was now mounted on his dashboard and a very expensive piece of engineering under the bonnet.

I kid you not, for the right price these Russians can get you anything.

When I was in the army, we called it a reverse positioning system. It was in its early days back then and much bigger than now. Basically instead of a GPS system telling you where to go, it took you there, whether you wanted to go or not. It controlled the steering, distance and speed. It was also fitted with brake sensors. We used it to send empty jeeps into areas we thought might be ambush zones.

Kalif checked the time on his new mobile phone. 2:35pm. He would have to give it another couple of minutes. He walked off towards the old brick factory taking a last look at Chapel's house.

When Chapel answered his phone he was screaming. "What the fuck have you done to my car?"

"We're just taking you on a little journey, Mr. Chapel."

"The doors have locked you bastard!"

"Yes I know and they won't be released until you reach your final destination. All you have to do Mr. Chapel is stay calm and everything will be okay."

"Who the fuck is this?"

"It's Kalif."

"You don't sound like him. Where are you taking me you bastard?"

"Turning left onto Lovaine Avenue," said the metallic female voice from the dashboard.

Kalif got into the switched BMW.

"I'll meet you there, Mr. Chapel," he said.

"Where?" screamed the apple.

"You'll see soon enough," replied Kalif. "I know a short cut. Race you," he laughed.

Kalif had been waiting for five minutes when he saw Chapel's car turn the corner at the far end of the street. He'd kept the phone line open all the time so he couldn't call for help.

"Mr. Chapel, you are almost at your journey's end," Kalif whispered into the phone.

The car was crawling at a snail's pace up the street.

"I hope you've enjoyed your little tour. It's almost over, don't worry. If you would care to look to your left, you'll see a large space. There once stood a happy family house in that gap. The house that the "little slut" lived in until you helped your friends burn it to the ground."

He was screaming, almost crying now. "What the fuck is this all about? I had nothing to do with those two crazies!"

His car slowed to a stop opposite the fenced off pile of ashes.

"Who the fuck is this?" he yelled.

"Look to your right Mr. Chapel."

He turned to look me in the eyes. Kalif was gone. Robert Chapel looked horrified.

"I'm London's most wanted, Mr. Chapel, remember? Thank you for flying with Kalif Airlines."

I waved the apple goodbye as his car accelerated at breakneck speed. I'll always remember that look of fear in his eyes, banging desperately to try and break the window.

By my calculations his car should have made impact with the wall at exactly 92 mph.

Status: Deceased.

Chapter 5

Renee Walton

I decided to give myself a cooling-off period of three days between each apple. I figured this would allow me time to see what the papers made of things, refocus and make sure the plans for the next one were as foolproof as possible.

As I locked Kalif back under the floorboards for the night, I actually wished him sweet dreams. I knew then, for my own sake, that I had to concentrate on what was actually going on. I couldn't afford to lose the plot. Not yet.

Renee was proving a little more difficult to track down, probably due to the fact that she was forty years old and a touch wiser, but still not wise enough.

Nothing in her picture gave away any facts. I couldn't work out why, what looked a decent, middle-aged woman would be a friend of Hamid.

I worked on the assumption that she was single. I spent that afternoon calling every R. Walton in the London area. I then moved onto the home counties. Nothing. No one knew of a Renee. I was wasting my time. Who's to say that was her real name anyway? I felt like I'd hit my first barrier. Her profile was private and I didn't want to try and access it, that would be the beginning of a trail. I had to do this from the outside. Leaving no clues until I was ready.

Every apple that fell had to appear unrelated to the next. An accident here, a suicide there and an occasional outright murder now and again. That was the plan. If anyone cottoned on to the game so early, it would be over. Offline. Status: In prison.

That same evening the press reports started to filter through about Robert Chapel's death. The car had exploded on impact, which accident investigators estimated at close to 100 mph. I felt good. The absence of skid marks and absolute destruction of the vehicle could only lead them to surmise that somehow the accelerator had become jammed.

I had an overwhelming urge to celebrate. I wanted a drink. To feel the way I did when poor little Gillian was strung up. I started pacing the room. I had to focus. I sat back down in front of the dressing table and did my accounts. Including the purchase of the BMW and related gadgets I had only spent £36,500 so far.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself. Why didn't you just pay someone to do all this? Like a hired killer? Three million quid can buy you a lot of bullets. Well don't for one second think I hadn't considered it. But what else did I have to do with my time?

Room service delivered my evening meal at 6:30 pm on the dot. A rap on the door signified it was sitting on the floor outside. I waited until the footsteps subsided and slid the tray inside.

As I ate, I thought about Renee. It would have been easy for me to move on to the next one but that would be admitting defeat. She was my first hurdle and I had to jump it. As I ate my yoghurt, I stared at her photograph. I had saved it and enlarged it, sharpening the image slightly. The picture had been taken indoors. It had a yellow tinge about it. The background offered nothing, it was out of focus. Then I noticed it. Why hadn't I spotted it before? On the left hand side of her blouse she had a nametag. Who wears a nametag? Either the hotel industry or shops, or maybe even restaurants. That had to be the link. Her one mistake. A fatal mistake.

I racked my brains. There had to be a logical answer. Hamid wasn't a big player. Most of his friends were homegrown apples and they were the ones I would deal with first. The exotic apples would be dealt with later, after all most of them were at the top of the tree.

As I lay in bed that night it suddenly hit me, and I knew that Norman would have to go shopping in Camden the next day.

*

The three properties owned by the Hamids weren't difficult to find. They were included in their very informative website, imaginatively entitled _Hamid Properties_. It turned out they had quite an extensive portfolio of apartments and houses to let as well.

Norman had a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that he might just be clutching at straws here. But what the hell? It was worth a try.

The shops stood next to each other. Well maintained Victorian buildings. Norman entered the first. A greetings card shop. He wasn't looking for a card he was looking for a nametag. Alas, the staff barely had matching uniforms never mind any form of identification.

The next shop was hardly worth the visit. A pet shop. The only member of staff, a young acne ridden rocker with more facial piercings than he had customers.

His last chance. Norman glanced up at the sign over the door. "Just For Her". As he looked at the arrangement of lingerie and sex toys displayed in the window, he started to regret his choice of clothing. The long brown Mac fitted perfectly with his image but perhaps not in the event of browsing a ladies underwear shop. He was about to turn away, perhaps return as Kalif, when he heard a voice next to him.

"Don't be shy, Sir. Girlfriend or wife? Or both?" she laughed.

Renee had a lovely laugh, thought Norman, childlike and innocent. Tall and slender with auburn hair, she looked ten years younger than her real age. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring either. This one would be a shame, he thought.

"Unfortunately neither," replied Norman. "I'm a widower. My son asked me to buy some underwear for his girlfriend. He's too embarrassed to do it himself."

"My God. That's a bit of an old fashioned attitude if you don't mind me saying so. Fifty percent of our customers are men."

"We're a bit of an old fashioned family."

Norman would have blushed if his face hadn't been made from latex.

"Why don't you come inside, Sir?" asked Renee.

I had designed Norman to look like your average bloke on the Tube. There was nothing memorable about his features, yet the finished article had turned out to be quite handsome, in a boring sort of way. The make up supplied with the masks was used to blend the wearer's lips and eyes seamlessly into the disguise.

Norman reluctantly followed Renee inside the shop.

"Now tell me Mr...?"

"Erm. Norman, you can call me Norman." Norman had been given his own passport but he couldn't remember his surname. Yet another teething problem.

"Well, Norman, I'm Renee. I'm the manageress here. In fact, I'm the only person employed in this branch so I suppose I'm the tea girl as well," she laughed that innocent laugh again. "So tell me, did your son give you her sizes?"

_Shit_. He was caught off guard. He hadn't been prepared for talking to the apple, never mind discussing women's lingerie with it. He looked Renee up and down.

"She's probably exactly the same size as you," he spluttered.

"In the chest department as well?"

"Yes," he replied, looking at the floor now.

"Colour preference?"

"Erm, black," he said.

Norman watched her buzz around the shop checking sizes and collecting an armful of underwear for him to choose from. He'd never felt more uncomfortable in his life. Yet still he couldn't work out the relationship between this one and Hamid, a murderer and rapist. He decided that he would have to take a small risk.

Norman waited at the sales counter, praying to God that no one else came into the shop. Renee eventually returned with an assortment of bras, basques and undies. There was no way on this earth was Norman going to start looking through them.

"I'll take them all," he snapped.

"But Norman, you haven't seen the choice yet."

"It doesn't matter. Just wrap them up please,"

"But there are about six different sets here."

"It doesn't matter, she'll have plenty more birthdays."

It hit him like a shovel to the back of head when he realised what he had just said. No, she won't have any more birthdays. That was her last. Her eighteenth and that was why Norman and I were here. The rage started to surface again at the thought of it. Norman's cheek began to throb.

"Well if you insist," said Renee. "That's going to be one hundred and eighty-five pounds and ninety-seven pence."

Norman began counting out the cash.

"Oh dear, what did you do to your hand?" she asked, wincing.

He'd forgotten to wear his gloves. The horrendous burn scars on his left hand weren't supposed to be seen by anyone. This was a big mistake and one that might have to change the game play.

"A car accident... a few years back. That's how I ended up a widower," he replied.

"Oh poor you," she said with genuine sympathy. "I lost my husband twelve years ago. He was in the army when his helicopter crashed during a training exercise in Norfolk."

That's when Norman made his move.

"Renee, would you like to go out for a drink with me?" he asked. "Just a quiet drink somewhere, maybe after you finish work. I don't get out too much and it would be nice to have some company for a couple of hours. We can discuss lingerie if it would make you feel better."

That laugh again. So innocent, so naive, so not knowing what was about to happen to her. All because of a nametag she wore in a photograph.

"Well, Norman, I'm flattered thank you. I'd like that," she replied shyly. "I finish at five. I could meet you across the road at the Trafalgar, if you like?"

It was all happening too fast. He wasn't supposed to pick the fruit today, just to find it.

"Excellent. I'll meet you over there then. That gives me time to drop these off to my son. I'm sure he'll be very happy. Thank you so much for your help Renee."

"I'll see you at five then?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world," he smiled.

Norman had three hours to get back to the hotel, send Kalif to the see the Russian, get back and let Norman go on his date. It was going to be tight but it had to be done.

*

Serge's bar was simply named "White Russian," even though he and his comrades were actually Ukrainian. The bar was off the beaten track, up a side alley just outside Kentish Town. It was an unwelcoming place by design. Obviously a former office. The interior was sparse with a mish mash of tables and chairs. All the signs were in Russian and the windows blanked out by a huge Kiev flag depicting a winged angel holding a shield and what Kalif could only assume was a large branch for hitting people with.

Serge and his pals had fled from the Ukraine to England, under dubious circumstances, just before its independence from the Soviet Union back in '91.He wasn't your stereotypical Russian mind you. Six foot five, head like a concrete block and muscles that could wrestle the Statue of Liberty to the ground. No, Serge was more shrew-like. A short bloke with a grey Bobby Charlton comb over and half-rimmed glasses. Never let appearances deceive though; rumour had it these people could get you anything from a helicopter gun ship to a ton of cocaine if you had the cash.

"So you think I can just come up with that sort of shit in thirty minutes?" Serge demanded of Kalif.

"Come on man. My boss has given you a lot of dosh already and he's gonna send me with a shopping list soon. Man, he's got money to burn and he's gonna need some serious shit soon, but this is an emergency, man. He needs it quick. Money's no problem, brother."

Serge had an annoying habit of sniffing when he was thinking. He was sniffing now. He poured Kalif a large vodka in a very small glass.

"Drink!" he ordered. "It looks suspicious if you don't. I will be back in five minutes. Watch the bar for me."

Kalif sipped the vodka. It made him cough as it slowly burned its way down to his stomach. It was the first time he'd ever tried spirits. After the initial shock it didn't taste too bad, it gave him a warm feeling inside, a certain light-headedness.

Serge returned from the back room and immediately topped up the empty glass pouring one for himself at the same time.

"Cheers," he said clinking glasses with Kalif. "Someone will be here in twenty minutes with what you require. I will explain it all to you then."

Serge poured the vodka down his neck in one go as though it were cold tea. Banging the empty glass down on the bar before refilling it. Not wanting to offend his host's homeland traditions, Kalif followed suit.

Twenty minutes and seven large vodkas later, a man riding a moped pulled up outside and tooted the horn. Serge went outside and returned with a small envelope.

"Is that it?" asked Kalif.

"Yes my friend, this is it," replied Serge, opening the envelope.

Inside was a small plastic bag with what looked like, quite simply, mush inside of it.

"And that's what we get for two hundred quid?" asked Kalif indignantly.

"My friend, this is Ricin. You must pass these instructions on to your boss. In this form, it can only be taken by the mouth. I could have got you powder but you don't give me enough time. There is no... how do you say, cure?"

"Antidote."

"That is the word. It is also untraceable as the cause of dying. Your boss must not touch this with his hand. Whichever enemy takes all of this amount by mouth will be dead in one day. As soon as it is eaten it starts to work. There can be no going backwards. A horrible, horrible way to die."

Serge crossed himself and muttered something beneath his breath. Kalif handed over the cash and stood up, swaying a little to the left. The vodka slammers were starting to take effect. They shook hands. As Kalif headed uncertainly towards the door, Serge called out to him.

"My friend. Please tell your boss that if he needs anymore of this shit he can make it himself. Tell him to see his computer. I hate doing business with this Latvian bastard. He charge too much."

*

Norman felt like shit as he headed towards the Trafalgar Arms. He silently cursed Kalif for drinking so much. Bloody youth today.

It was 4:50 pm. The lights were still on in "Just For Her" across the road. Norman had just enough time to assess the situation. They needed to sit away from any security cameras. Preferably a quiet spot as far away from the bar as possible. He checked the menu; plenty of sandwiches were available to order.

"Yes, Sir, what'll it be?" asked the barman.

"Can I have pint of orange and lemonade and two cheese and salad sandwiches please?"

"What's the table number Sir?"

"Oh, I'm sorry I don't know, it'll be that one in the corner by the window," replied Norman, pointing.

"Okay, that's number three," replied the barman.

How ironic, thought Norman. He picked up his orange juice and took a seat, waiting for his apple.

At exactly five o'clock the lights dimmed in the shop. He watched Renee lock the doors and head towards the pedestrian crossing.

"Here we are Sir," announced the barman, putting the sandwiches down on the table.

"Thank you," acknowledged Norman.

The lights were still green, the rush hour traffic bumper to bumper, he had a couple more minutes. He opened the sandwich in front of him. Carefully taking the small plastic bag from his pocket, he mixed the deadly bean _mush_ in with the lettuce, quickly putting it back together before swapping it for the sandwich on the other side of the table.

"Hi Norman, sorry if I'm late," said Renee. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Not at all. What would you like to drink?"

"I'll have a gin and tonic thanks," she replied, hanging her coat on the back of her chair. "Oh, you've ordered some food, how considerate, I'm famished."

Norman got the drinks from the bar. He ordered himself a double vodka and orange juice. Untraceable, just like the Ricin, just like the cash he used to pay, just like him.

"Here we are," he said as he handed Renee her drink. "So how did your day end up? No more dirty old men, I hope."

That laugh again. It sent a tingle down Norman's spine.

"Not bad I suppose. Business isn't too good at the moment. The landlord put the rent up on the shop a couple of months ago, so my bonuses from head office have been cut to the bone and I'm under a lot of pressure to make the targets."

Norman noted a certain sadness in Renee's eyes as she talked but there was no need for sympathy. She was merely another apple from Hamid's tree.

"Who _is_ the landlord?" asked Norman innocently.

"The Hamid family from St. James's," she replied, biting into her sandwich.

"Hamid? That name rings a bell. Wasn't there something on the news recently about some Hamid or other?"

Renee nodded, her mouth full. She waved her hand politely as if to say, I'll speak when I've finished this.

_Keep eating_ , thought Norman, _keep eating_.

"I remember now. It was that Old Bailey trial the son was accused of rape or something," _keep talking_ , he thought, _let her eat up_. "That was it. He was supposed to have raped some young girl and then set fire to the house. I think the girl's mother died as well if my memory serves me correctly. Terrible affair. But I'm sure the court's verdict was correct. British justice and all that. I'd hate for them to condemn an innocent man."

"Bullshit!" said Renee, wiping her mouth with a napkin. The sandwich was gone. "That little bastard was as guilty as they come."

"Sorry?"

"I said that little piece of vermin was guilty as all hell, believe me Norman." Her innocence was gone in a flash.

"Oh. I take it you know him then?"

" _Knew_ him. Past tense," she emphasised. "He used to come and do monthly inspections of the shop for his parents. He seemed like a nice lad at first. That was before all this happened mind you. I used to make him a cup of tea every time he came. We'd always have a good old chinwag. He'd talk about how he wanted to open London's hippest nightclub but his parents didn't trust him with the money so he had to try and earn it himself."

"What did he do for a living?"

"Nothing. That's the point. He always drove flash cars but I don't think he ever worked. His parents probably just gave him enough to keep him out of trouble. Anyway, he came to do an inspection about a year or so ago. I could see when he came into the shop that he was on something. His eyes were wide-open, pupils like pinpricks. He locked the door behind himself and..," she paused, fishing the crucifix out from under her blouse, gripping it firmly in her hand. "He grabbed me," she shuddered. "He tried to force me into the changing room. He tried to do to me what he did to that poor little girl."

She looked Norman in the eye, still holding the cross.

"When I heard what he'd done, I felt sick. I thought that if I'd gone to the police about what he did to me in the shop then it might never have happened to her."

Norman felt the rage rising.

"But by then it was too late," Renee continued. "I went to church every night after work and prayed for the souls of that poor girl and her mother."

Norman felt a lump in his throat. Renee wiped away a tear with her napkin.

"When I first read about it in the paper I cried for hours. I knew exactly how the husband must have felt. I was in a similar position when my Robert was killed. I was six months pregnant you see, with our first child. The trauma caused me to miscarry. So you see, I lost my entire family too," she wiped her running nose. "God, listen to me. We've only known each other for a day and I'm depressing you with all my sob stories."

Renee straightened herself up, smiled and laughed that laugh through wet but sparkling eyes. "Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Norman."

What was there to tell? He was only two weeks old after all.

"Tell me Renee," whispered Norman, leaning across the table for more privacy. "Why are you still friends with Abdul Hamid on Facebook?"

She looked confused for a moment, then she started to laugh.

"You cheeky so-and-so. You've been checking up on me haven't you? I bet you were trying to check out my status?"

God, she was naive. She didn't even ask how he knew her surname. If she had done he would have told her it was on the receipt from today's purchase. But she didn't, which is just as well because it wasn't.

"Well?" asked Norman again.

"The little bastard kept asking me for a phone number or email address but I refused to give him one, so I ended up giving him my Facebook page. I meant to take him off as a friend ages ago but I never use it anymore. Shit," she said, covering her mouth. "How bad does that look, me still being friends with a murderer?"

Norman asked the barman to call Renee a taxi when she started to complain of stomach pains. She apologised profusely for cutting the night so short and asked if they could do it again soon.

"Somehow, I don't think that will be possible, Renee," replied Norman, as the taxi took her way.
Chapter 6

I cursed myself to Hell when Norman came back with the news. I hadn't factored in the possibility that some of Hamid's friends might not be "real" friends after all. I was shocked. Furious with myself. What if they were there by chance? Or pure bad luck.

I knew what I had to do. I had to shake the apple tree and I had to shake it hard so only the loyal clung on. My plan didn't include killing the innocent.

I put Norman to bed and spent the rest of that night and the next day relaxing. I had to clear my mind. I watched the news, as always. Renee got a small mention. She was dead. They thought it might be Legionnaire's or Salmonella. The Trafalgar Arms had been shut down.

I'd promised myself all along that I wasn't going to get involved in the network. Now I felt that I must, I had to make sure there were no more Renee Waltons out there. Death by association.

I had to be clever, which I knew I was. I had to be subtle enough not to cause suspicion and I knew exactly how to do it.

After ten minutes research I had the name and address of Hamid's barrister, Steven Neilson. I took his official looking picture from his chamber's website and I was in business. It took me five minutes to create his Facebook page, via an anonymous IP address I hasten to add. I added a bit of bullshit about his career etcetera and started a simple poll entitled "Clear Abdul Hamid's Name." I kept my account private, only those people I had asked to join as "friends" could read it once accepted.

"Dear friends of Abdul," it began, "as I am sure you are all aware, our mutual friend has suffered quite a traumatic ordeal at the hands of the British justice system. Thankfully Abdul has been absolved of all wrongdoing and this is where your help can come in. I would like you to take a second to fill in the poll, which you can see below. Why? Because I am personally seeking justice for him in the form of recompense and cleansing of his name," Fuck, I was starting to sound like the Pope. "This poll is totally anonymous and no further communication will be entered into unless you would like to submit an online character reference."

I then applied to be friends with all of the uncertain apples, all of the "Renee Waltons." I obviously didn't send this to the family members he had listed or Hamid himself. With 105 apples left, I could do with narrowing them down anyway. In retrospect I should have done this from the start.

All his "friends" had to do was click on one of two answers. There was also a comments box below. Only I could read the results.

1) I am still a friend of Abdul and his name should be cleared.

2) I am no longer one of Abdul's friends.

It seemed a bit of a long shot but I had nothing to lose. In fact quite the opposite, anyone who responded would allow me access to their pages as well.

I went to bed at 10:00 pm. I had firmly decided not to do anything for thirty-six hours. Then I would check the poll and make a decision after that.

I fell asleep to the sound of Renee's laugh. It had sounded just like Anna's.
Chapter 7

The laptop remained under the floorboards for almost two days. The television remained turned off for the same period. I just ate, slept, thought, and at one point started counting my money. I gave up after five hours.

It was time. Time to see if anyone had unknowingly just saved their own lives by the single click of a mouse. It may sound like a profound statement but believe me it's not. If you haven't yet worked it out, it's my plan to get rid of every single person that Abdul Hamid cares about and where is the only place I can find that information? On his Facebook page, of course.

It's my solemn intention to alleviate him of his entire "network". His friends will go first, then Kalif, Norman, Albert and I will start with his family. He will suffer like I did only a thousand times worse. When my story finishes he will pray to his God that he'd never been born, the only problem is that by _that_ time, I will be his God.

*

I was surprised to see that ninety people had accepted me as their friend. Fuck, wasn't I the privileged one. I now had to recalculate. One hundred and five minus the eighty-nine who had now washed their hands of Hamid since they thought the law were sniffing around. That left thirteen, plus his family members. Divided by £1,749,000, it equalled just over £87,500 each. I knew we would have to go to Pakistan, which would prove expensive, so let's say I had £80,000 to spend on each apple. That was just bloody ridiculous. It could never be done. But it had to be. That was the plan. The money had to be gone when I crucified Hamid. I had to readjust. Having said that; I was still waiting for fifteen more replies. I would give them twenty-four hours to reply and if not, they would be deemed guilty.

By God this was getting complicated. I started a spreadsheet, copying and pasting photographs and details. The thirteen friends who were currently sticking by Hamid were now top of my list. Some of the comments they left me were disgusting. Not something even a serial killer would repeat.

*

I sent Albert out to the off licence around the corner from the hotel, to buy a bottle of vodka. By the time he came back the old bastard had drunk a good mouthful or two. I'll send Norman next time. He tends not to drink as much. As I mentioned earlier, I never used to drink, but that was back then. Now I find it helps quell the rage, which seems to be surfacing more often nowadays. We still have a long road to walk and we must do whatever it takes to remain in control.

Chapter 8

Nazim Khan

Friends Reunited enlightened me to the fact that Khan and Hamid had gone to school together for four years. Their paths had obviously forked at some point as Khan went on to pursue a career in dentistry. While his scumbag friend hides out as one of the country's luckiest murderers, Khan is studying hard at Bart's School of Dentistry in Tower Hamlets, and I know just the man to wipe the smile of his face.

When he filled in my online poll, he basically pledged his allegiance to Hamid. His comments were hurtful and echoed those made by the other twelve in the fact that they were all of the opinion Laura had deserved what she got.

This apple was going to be my first direct assault on Hamid's immediate circle of friends. This apple was going to suffer for what he said about my dear little Laura.

*

Nazim Khan. Age: 21. Religion: Muslim. Status: In a relationship. Likes: Hip Hop & RnB. Dislikes: Politics, Heavy Metal & English Food.

Obviously doesn't mind the British women though, judging by his photographs. Seems quite the lady's man by all accounts. That was a possible weakness. But it was old Albert's turn and at seventy odd, and male, he couldn't very well turn that to his advantage.

It was almost two weeks now and we'd only managed to pick three apples. One suicide, one accidental car crash and an unfortunate case of food poisoning. No outright murder yet. No links between the apples. That was good. But we still had at least thirty-one to go, at this rate it would take us just over four months, if we weren't caught beforehand. Things had to be speeded up. To finish our job in two months we would have to revert to one apple every two days without getting sloppy. Kalif would have to take my shopping list to the White Russian. We needed to stock up on supplies to get this thing done.

*

Albert's drinking was starting to concern me, but it was something I could discuss with him at a later date. For now he had to get on with his appointed task.

Sitting on the bench opposite the dentistry school, Albert looked like any one of the thousands of homeless drunks in London. He knew he had only two days to do this. The first day for reconnaissance, the second to pick the fruit. Khan's face was burned into his memory.

The cheap bottle of vodka in the brown paper bag had originally been part of his disguise, but Albert had felt the urge too strong to resist and he was now a quarter of the way through it when he spotted Khan coming out of the main entrance. Albert thought he recognised the blonde girl who had been waiting outside for him but he couldn't be certain. Two apples for the price of one would be nice.

It took those two pathetic lovers over four hours to eventually lead him to their flat. He felt the rage rising as he was forced to watch them wander through the park, arm in arm, laughing and messing around. Probably discussing having a family of their own one day. They stopped for drinks at a bar called the Flagstaff. He had to wait outside just over an hour for them to leave. Meanwhile the rain had started, it was getting dark and cold. Albert felt an overwhelming urge to run up to Khan and just kill him there and then, he knew he could easily overpower him. He could break the vodka bottle and gash his neck. It would be over in seconds and he could retreat back through the park. It had been quiet before and now with the rain and the fall of dusk it was guaranteed to be empty.

He took another swig of vodka. He felt the rage subside a little and continued on his journey, Khan and his little bitch leading the way.

46c Worcester Road. That was his address. A big old Victorian property subdivided into flats and bedsits. A "For Sale" sign outside.

The buzzer system by the front door had sixteen buttons. Access wasn't going to be a problem. Albert retreated across the street, hiding in the shadows he waited to see which light would come on then he would know exactly which flat was Khan's.

Khan didn't let him down. First floor flat, front left, just above the bay window of the ground floor one.

The girl was still playing on Albert's mind. If she was another apple, did she live with Khan? If not she would probably head home later. Probably in a taxi where he couldn't get to her. If she _was_ another one, this would have to be done tonight.

Albert contemplated going to an Internet café but he knew that was an unnecessary risk. Instead he took the Tube back to his Kings Cross hotel suite and back to the security of our nest.

Katherine Bell. Status: In a relationship. _For the next few hours_ , thought Albert. She was another one who had pledged allegiance. She was another one who had to die.

Albert spent an hour Googling Khan's address. The flats and bedsits turned out to be owned and not rented as he had first assumed. Kenton & Rogers Estate Agency was handling the sale of the ground floor flat below Khan. Vacant possession. Albert looked at the floor plan and interior photographs. It would almost certainly be a carbon copy layout of Khan's flat.

192.com confirmed Khan's address and gave Albert the phone number as well. He took Kalif's mobile phone and his own shopping bag from beneath the floorboards, slipped out through the rear car park and hailed a cab.

On his way back to Worcester Road, he asked the driver to drop him off outside a builder's yard, which he'd walked past on his way to the Tube station earlier. Albert paid the cab fair, went into the builder's yard and then walked back to Khan's flat stopping in at a petrol station on the way.

It was now eight o'clock. Albert was back in the shadows on the opposite side of the road. He watched the silhouettes against the net curtains. He watched Khan drying himself after his shower and start to dress. He watched Katherine Bell apply her makeup. He watched them close the curtains. He watched them leave the building and wander down the street laughing, discussing whether it should be Indian or Chinese tonight. They didn't see Albert in the shadows as they headed off for their last supper together.

The builder's pickup turned up about fifteen minutes later. They had everything he'd ordered.

"Funny time of night for a delivery," remarked the driver.

"The men are starting at six in the morning," replied Albert.

"Where do you want it then?"

"Just put it up the side of that house there."

The driver reversed into the driveway, where he and his sidekick offloaded the breezeblocks, sand, cement, ladder and tools into the side garden by the ground floor flat, out of sight. Albert gave them a twenty quid tip explaining that this was all part of a surprise for his grandson, for whom he'd bought the flat. The builders drove off not caring about his heartwarming story, even if it had indeed been true.

It only took Albert an hour to finish the job, after which he returned to his shadows and had a celebratory drink of vodka.

He used the crowbar to force open the door on the bottom of the lamppost, before ripping out the wires. Khan and his bitch didn't even notice how much darker it was when they returned three hours later. Albert could hear their drunken laughs as they staggered up the street. Another twenty minutes and the flat was in darkness. Both apples tucked up in bed together.

When Albert checked the time on Kalif's phone it was almost midnight. Another hour and it would be set. He sipped his vodka to help pass the time.

At 1:00 am he knew it was time to make his move. He pressed the call button for 46b. A sleepy voice answered.

"Who the fuck is this? Do you know what time it is, man?"

"Hey sorry dude. It's Khan from down the hall. I forgot my key, can you just buzz me in, please?"

The petrol can was concealed in Albert's shopping bag. This was going to be his second kill. He was feeling the buzz. The adrenalin coursed through his veins, his cheek throbbed. He crept up the stairs and turned left, emptying all five litres under the door. Luckily the floor sloped to his advantage, he didn't want to kill any more innocents.

The petrol fumes, mixed with the vodka, gave him a serious high, a feeling of total invincibility. He took the phone out of his pocket again and dialled Khan's number. He hoped he would have a bedside phone like the flat downstairs.

"Hello," answered a groggy voice.

"Nazim Khan?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"This is Detective Inspector Robert Niles. I'm standing outside your front door. I need you to let us in. We have some questions to ask you."

The phone went dead. Albert could hear some movement, some mutterings then a yell of "what the fuck?" Followed by a thud as Khan slipped on the fluid. The match touched the edge of the flood; the suction was amazing, the screams that followed were even better, as Khan's nylon pyjamas melted to his skin.

Katherine Bell's screams soon followed. This wasn't enough to kill Khan, he knew that he would rise and head for the window, albeit in agonizing pain. As Albert headed downstairs to witness the finale he banged on the other doors.

"Fire!" he yelled. "Everyone get out now!"

Albert had left the ladder in place. He climbed up onto the flat roof of the bay window beneath Khan's flat. He pushed against the block wall he'd built in front of the windows. It was rock solid. Painted black so that Khan and his bitch wouldn't notice it on their return. Albert had left a gap in the blocks so he could watch them suffer. As he stood there he felt the heat increasing. The window broke, a chair leg stabbed through the gap in the barricade. A sharp intake of air and the flat lit up even more. Katherine Bell screamed for her life. The glass continued to be smashed away, and then the gap was filled, Khan's head trying to squeeze through the space of one missing breezeblock.

"Good Morning," Albert said.

"Help me! For God's sake you have to help me!" begged Khan.

Katherine had fallen silent.

Albert took a moment to savour the suffering, Khan's head wedged between the blocks, smoke billowing out from the small gaps around his face, obviously in pain but breathing fresh air.

"You've gotta help me, man," he begged.

"And why is that?" asked Albert.

"I'm hurt, man, I'm hurt bad."

Albert waved the phone in front of Khan's face.

"Here you are. Call for help," he laughed. "Oh sorry, I forgot, you can't, unless you can dial with your tongue that is. In that case I suppose I'm just going to have to leave you here to die."

"Why are you doing this?" pleaded Khan.

"Ask your friend Hamid....when you meet him in Hell."

Albert picked up the crowbar from the roof and hit Khan with all his might. As he fell backwards into the flames Albert picked up the last breezeblock and hammered into place. A perfect fit.

Albert put the crowbar, fuel can and any other evidence he could find back into his shopping bag and wandered off.
Chapter 9

"Good morning, it's eight o'clock and this is the news from BBC London. I'm Richard Noble. Police are this morning investigating the possible murder of two people found dead in a burning property on Worcester Road in the east of the city. Early reports indicate the windows to the first floor flat were actually bricked up before the fire was started. Fire investigators have confirmed that an incendiary was used to start the blaze and haven't ruled out the use of petrol but say they are still awaiting test results. The blaze at the property, which has a total of twenty-four residents, was brought under control at around three o'clock this morning. A police spokesman confirmed that no one else was hurt in the fire. We'll have more on this as news comes in. Meanwhile in the rest of today's headlines..."

I was pissed off with Albert for rushing into things but at the same time I was also quite proud that he'd picked two apples together, although I wasn't about to tell him so. Nevertheless it had saved us all some time. My God I hoped that bastard Khan suffered.

Of course, this was going to shift the game play slightly. The police would be onto this but I doubt if they would link Khan's death with Hamid. I hope not anyway because that would ruin the game.

After breakfast I decided to take a long, hot bath. Something I hadn't indulged in for many months but I was feeling good about things. We had collectively picked five apples and the farmer was still asleep.

I felt a little self-conscious as I lay in the tub, knowing the other three were under the floorboards. At one point I must have dozed off and I swear I could hear them talking about me.

A couple of days earlier I had asked Kalif to buy me an electric razor, I was aware that my beard and hair on the undamaged side were getting out of control. The last thing I needed was to start leaving DNA all over the place. After a quick shave I got dressed and returned to my dressing table to begin the day's work.

In the light of recent events I was in two minds whether to continue with the remaining eleven friends of Hamid or to target one of the group who hadn't replied to my poll.

If I kept picking his closest friends, the cops would soon work out the pattern, but only if they died. Maybe it was time to change the strategy slightly. I could still cause untold suffering without them actually having to die. Couldn't I?

It was time for Kalif to go shopping. I didn't like the fact that he was going to see the Russians so often. What if they were being watched? So I spent most of the morning composing a shopping list for everything we could possibly need and sent him off to Kentish Town with a large amount of cash.

*

"Welcome back my friend," said Serge, reaching for the vodka bottle.

"Not today thanks, Serge," replied Kalif, with a wave of his hand.

"Remember what I told you last time?" he asked with raised eyebrows. "It looks suspicious if you do not take the drink."

"Can you just give me a juice then please?"

"Juice? This is a Russian bar my friend. Russians don't drink that shit."

Before any further argument could take place, Kalif had a large vodka slammed down on the bar in front of him.

"And how can I be of service to you this day?" asked Serge.

"I've brought that shopping list I told you my boss was writing."

Kalif slid it over the bar, still in its envelope. Serge glanced cautiously at the door before opening it. He read silently for a moment.

"Your boss must be a very rich man," he said.

"I told you before, money's no problem, dude."

"Obviously," Serge continued to read the list. "Some of these things may take some time to get," he warned.

"We need them all within two weeks and we also need somewhere safe to keep them."

"This is going to be very, very expensive my young friend. What are you planning to do? Start a fucking war?"

"It's already begun I'm afraid," replied Kalif.

"Do you have a contact number?"

"No. I'll come back. How much is all that gonna cost?"

"It will take me a day or two to get the prices together. Come back to see me on Friday. Bring your boss if you like, we can all have a drink together," he smiled.

"He's not really the social type but I can ask him."

"I'm going to need quite a big deposit for some of these items," said Serge.

"How much?"

"Oh, around thirty thousand," he replied, without batting an eyelid.

Kalif had the money in separate envelopes, £10,000 in each. He handed three over to Serge.

"Thank you my friend. I will do my best to get it all as quick as possible. Some of these smaller things you will have on Friday."

Serge and Kalif downed their vodkas, slammed the glasses on the bar and said their farewells.

*

I must admit, when Kalif told me of the delay, I was more than a little pissed off. I'd planned to send Norman out the next day for his dose of fruit. An apple a day keeps the rage at bay, or even every two days for that matter.

I decided I would send Norman out anyway, but I told him of the change of plan. He seemed quite pleased. I don't think he was altogether happy with killing people anyway.
Chapter 10

Asif Hussain

Hussain was number eleven on my list. Age: 31. Status: Married. Likes: Nights in with the family. Dislikes: Going to work. Favourite Film: Titanic. Favourite Music: Ahmed Rushdi.

The secret life of Asif Hussain. On the surface he appeared quite the family man. Devout mosque-goer. Married for eleven years to Hamid's elder sister with four kids. Nine to five job at his brother's "fashion factory."

In fact, his page made him look like a very upstanding member of the community. Thirty-six photos, mainly of him, the wife and kids. Yet one picture looked out of place. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Hussain was sitting in a garden, an old stone wall with trails of ivy behind him. He was off centre, too far to the right of the frame. It was the only picture of him alone, without family or friends all around. Probably taken in a pub beer garden by the looks of the table and umbrella.

I knew that wall. I mean I didn't _know_ it but I'd seen it somewhere before. It must have been on someone else's page. After all for all these months that's all I'd looked at, that and BBC news. I hadn't looked at or done anything else. I hadn't watched movies or read a book.

Maybe I should send one of the boys out to a fine restaurant one night, or the theatre perhaps? On second thoughts perhaps not. We have a job to do. When it's complete there'll be plenty of time to relax.

I opened up my "apples" folder. I didn't have to go onto Facebook anymore I had all of their details in a nice hidden file.

I searched through all of Hamid's friends' photographs. After almost an hour I was about to give up when I spotted it. Alicia Bell. Status: Single. Age: 24. Sitting in front of the same stone wall, the same ivy trails and the same table.

I copied both pictures and pasted them next to each other. It was the same photograph. That's why Hussain was so far over to the right. He had his arm around Alicia Bell. They had split the picture before posting it on their pages. Obviously Mr. Hussain didn't want his wife seeing them together.

I went live to Alicia's page. Lo and behold she'd included a link to Katherine Bell's tribute page. "My irreplaceable sister," she called her, "killed before her life had even started." Tell me about it, I thought. Jesus, ff I'd known those four were linked I would have organised a fucking dinner party.

It was still only two in the afternoon. Another five hours until Norman was due to leave. I was sorely tempted to leave a message on Katherine Bell's tribute page but thought better of it. I wouldn't feel so smug sitting in a police cell. There would be plenty of time for gloating later.

I checked the news reports. Albert's job was now officially a double murder enquiry. It looked like the cops were grasping at straws. None of the residents had spotted Albert on the roof. The builders hadn't come forward yet; they probably believed the old bastard's story. The police likened it to a gangland killing, which I found a little strange unless Mr. Khan had had something to hide. Katherine Bell was a nurse at St. James's, which I knew already. The rest of the reports didn't tell me anything new either. They were still begging for information.

I couldn't pin down Alicia Bell's place of work. I had her address and phone number, I even found out her parents details but I needed to know where she worked. If some smart arse cop started putting the pieces together, it's possible, yet highly unlikely they would see the pattern forming. We had to try and stay away from the apples' homes as much as possible. They had to be lured out into the open.

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 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 first. 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 beginning to get 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 okay? 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," said the manager.

"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's 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, then 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 a 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 that 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 we?"

"I beg your pardon?" replied Norman, indignantly.

"Don't worry about it," said Alicia, heading off to the opposite end of the bar to serve another customer.

Norman picked up 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. Norman had already put the stuff in the boot and loosened the battery cable. All he had to do now was get Hussain there 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 there. 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 bar staff. 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 police 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'd printed out in an internet café at Kings 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 would come up with something.

I was buzzing. I was beginning to think laterally now. Out of the box as they say. I had suddenly realised 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. Replaced by a much larger barman with a head like a concrete block. Kalif felt a little uneasy.

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

"Erm, 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 drank a lot faster which is probably why he never normally worked behind the bar.

He told Kalif that their families had been big mafia players in the Ukraine before its 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. But they were virtually wiped out when independence was declared and the ensuing wave of 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?" asked Kalif.

"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 fourth you talk about drinking more vodka, I suppose?"

"No," replied Serge. 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 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'd managed to obtain so far. More than half 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'll be rewarded handsomely"

"A dead man cannot spend his rewards," said Serge, 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 hundred 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'd 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 never hurt anyone.
Chapter 13

It's six o'clock at night and I've just woken up, thanks to Kalif's little party. I missed my final deadline for the remaining fifteen apples to reply to my poll. Luckily none of them joined Hamid's little army, they all "unfriended" him. At least that was one loose end tied up, a loose end that had been bothering me, but now we had the final statistics.

OK, so now put yourself in our shoes. Seven apples have been picked. We still have a vast amount of money in our safe, which has to be spent, and several more apples to go, five of which are growing in Pakistan. Just to recap we have one suicide, one road crash, one food poising, a double murder and the two culprits for the latter are locked up.

Let's just assume for one moment that the police don't have a clue what's going on, which I personally believe is the case, how would _you_ pick the next apple. You're probably sitting there thinking, "I wouldn't, I would go straight for the jugular. If someone had raped my daughter and then burned her to death along with her mother, my wife. I would have killed him on the steps of the courthouse."

But that's where we differ you see. We all know the old adage "revenge is a dish best served cold." I admit it, I had the exact same thoughts as you're having now. Execute the bastard and get it over with, but that would only be a few seconds of pain for him and then he would float away peacefully to wherever we go and I would rot in a prison cell for the rest of my life. Who would be the winner? Certainly not me.

No, to do this properly, for full impact, his life has to be turned upside down. Wherever he's hiding he will have learned about the deaths and the arrests, he's probably becoming suspicious but I know he won't say anything to the cops. They all know he was guilty as hell and I'm damned sure they won't lend a hand to help him now. Quite the opposite in fact.

So where was I going? Oh yes. You've got all this cash and a tree full of apples left to pick, or to put it in layman's terms, you have a tree full of innocent people to murder, send to prison or force to commit suicide. That's the word you forgot isn't it "innocent" and believe me that's the hardest part for me but I just keep thinking about Laura and Anna, they were the most innocent people I've ever known. So does it make it all right? Do two wrongs really make a right? FUCKING RIGHT THEY DO! And I'm gonna prove it to you.

*

I sent Kalif out to bring the VW camper van from the lock up back to the hotel car park. It was an exit strategy if we had to leave in a hurry. I got him to stock it with enough tinned food and water for all of us to survive a month if we had too.

It was a nice vehicle, made in 1977 with a rising roof, toilet, shower and a tiny galley kitchen, low mileage and dark tinted windows for privacy. The best part was that it was legit. The Russians weren't stupid enough to let us drive around in a stolen motor. They had registered it under a false name but nonetheless it was safe.

I asked Kalif to take us on a test drive. I had a dream a couple of nights before, a dream about my parents. I was an only child, well that's not quite true, my brother died of meningitis when he was only two. My parents doted on me after that. They used to take me to a place they called their "secret kingdom," deep in the heart of Epping Forest. It was somewhere I hadn't been for almost forty years and I wondered if I could still find it.

Father had built me a tree house in one of the tallest oaks. To this day I clearly remember it. It had a hatch, like the ones you use to get into an attic. He'd attached a long, thick piece of nylon fishing wire to it, almost invisible to the eye. When you pulled it, the hatch would fall open and a rope ladder dropped down to the ground. Each time we went we had to take another rope with a hook on the end, when we were ready to leave we hooked the rope onto a sturdy branch, I had to sit on the branch while he pulled up the ladder and closed the hatch. We would then slide down the rope and wrap the fishing wire around the trunk of the tree before jiggling the rope free from the branch.

You know how it is when you're a kid, you always remember things being much bigger or much higher, but then when you revisit they're nothing like you remember. I had memories of our tree house being hundreds of feet in the air, like Jack and the beanstalk. I doubted if it was even still there but I had a yearning to try and find it. I had nothing else left apart from memories.

I remember we used to park near a derelict farm on the outskirts of the forest and we would walk for about an hour, maybe two, I don't exactly remember. My parents always kept my mind off the journey by playing I-spy, which in a forest offers very limited opportunities. I spy with my little eye something beginning with T: Tree. I spy with my little eye something beginning with A: Another tree.

Kalif drove back and forth for almost two hours until I eventually spotted it. Truth be told, we'd passed it twice but I hadn't recognised it in its refurbished state. We parked up near the farmhouse.

I remembered the stile on the opposite side of the road, that's how we used to get over the fence. The path was much more overgrown than I remember. Pushing leafy branches aside and wading our way through nettles I eventually saw something resembling a track.

Kalif set the timer on his phone to go off in one hour and we made our way through the undergrowth. The sound of the birds and the smells brought memories flooding back. Sounds and smells, which I hadn't experienced for too many years living and working in the city. Why hadn't I brought Laura here when she was still alive?

If my memory served me correctly there were two "landmarks" we would pass. The first was a tree stump so huge that my father told me it was King Arthur's round table, I remember in my youthful innocence imagining the knights sitting around it, their horses tied to the neighbouring trees. The next landmark, from memory, was a blackened dead tree. I realise now it was the victim of a lightning strike but back then I was firmly convinced it was the home of the dark witch of the forest. At this tree we had to turn right, cross a stream and we would be there.

As we eventually came upon the landmarks I felt an overwhelming sense of depression and loss. An all-consuming wish to end it all there and then, like my life had come full circle. I knew it was merely a sentimental emotion caused by my surroundings, a chemical reaction in the brain.

The dark witch's tree still sent shivers down my spine. It seemed taller and more evil than it had before. As I approached, I could feel my mouth drying out, my cheek started to throb. I stood under the shadow of her dead, burned and gnarled tree. As I stared upwards I could feel the rage returning. Rage for being here without my father, my parents or Laura. Rage for being so cruelly left alone in this world.

Before I knew it I'd picked up a branch and was striking the witch's tree, harder and harder. The vibrations jarred my shoulders but still I went. Harder and harder. The rage was in my eyes, on my breath. The branch broke and I fell forward, crashing into the tree where I fell to my knees and cried. I must have been sobbing for ten minutes or more when Kalif snapped me out of it.

He was right, we had to go on. We crossed the stream together, the sun's rays piercing the canopy overhead, the water bubbling underfoot. It was then that we saw it. The tallest tree in the forest. It cast a shadow like a sundial. Cloaked now in over forty years of ivy, we could only stare in awe. It was much, much taller than I'd remembered. It made the beanstalk look like a sunflower.

It was at that point that I left Kalif. I approached alone. The base of the tree was totally covered in ivy, which spiralled the trunk, choking every branch on its way to the top. I started to pull at it with my bare hands but it was too tough, only leaves came away in my hand. I called out to Kalif, did he have a knife? He came up with a twelve-inch kitchen knife. Why he was carrying it I never found out. I started to hack away at the ivy. The blade was scalpel sharp. After making some headway I climbed up onto the massive protruding roots and started to feel my way around the trunk. Some more slicing and I found it. The fishing wire.

I couldn't see the tree house, but when the hatch dropped, sending blackbirds scattering in all directions, I knew it was still there. Invisible to the eye, untraceable.

The rope ladder got stuck three quarters of the way down but we soon sourced a branch long enough to hook onto it.

The voices almost deafened me, "be careful you two," cried Mother. "After you, soldier Joe," said Father. "Why didn't you take some time out to bring me here?" wept Laura.

The voices chased me up the rope ladder, as I climbed faster and faster. The ivy tried to grab me, wrap itself around my ankles and pull me into its spider-infested nest. I managed to get to the hatch. I was breathless. I clambered inside, quickly reeling in the ladder and pulled the hatch firmly shut.

I lay on the dusty floor and curled up into a ball, ignoring Kalif's pleas from below to join me. This was _my_ place, my secret kingdom and for the first time since all of this began I felt at home.
Chapter 14

I don't know what time it was when I awoke, or even whether it was day or night. The tree house was almost airtight. I wrestled with the wooden bar, which held the window shutters in place. Once free, I tried to push the shutters outwards but the ivy had too strong a grip over them. I managed to slide Kalif's knife into the gap between them. Slicing blindly up and down, they started to give a little. A couple of minutes later and they were open. The obstructing ivy must have been three feet thick. Leaning out of the window, I carefully cut a rough square through it, making sure to bring each piece back inside so as to leave no evidence on the forest floor. A few more cuts and the breeze rushed in followed by the daylight.

The tree house was as large as I'd

remembered, about twenty feet by ten feet. To this day I still don't know how my father had built it, and so high up too. As I got older I often wondered if it hadn't actually been there already. Maybe a birdwatcher's hide? Of course Father denied this vehemently, but I always remember Mother smiling the first time I asked him.

Apart from the dust and a few spiders the interior was in pretty good shape. I'd never seen the roof but it had obviously held up well and the extra few feet of ivy helped as an added barrier against the rain.

As we dove back to London I broke the news to Kalif. He didn't seem very impressed but it made perfect sense. We would all move in immediately.

Think about it. We now had our own transport and cooking facilities. The van had a toilet and shower. Okay we would need to find somewhere more discreet to park it, preferably closer to the tree house if possible, but it was perfect.

On the way back to the hotel we stopped at a DIY store to purchase a lot of the items we would need for the "makeover" before moving onto an electronics store where Kalif bought a pay as you go satellite broadband usb and five hundred quid's worth of top ups. I would charge the laptop in the van.

Two hours later we had picked up Norman and Albert. I said a final farewell to my BBC news friend and we were on our way to our new country home.

I'd initially decided to make the other three live in the camper van and I would live in the house, but I realised that if someone found them in the van it could be Game Over, so we all moved in together. The Kill Family Robinson.

It took three trips to carry everything to the tree house but at least I knew exactly how to get there now. Each time I walked a slightly different route taking great care not to leave a trail of trampled vegetation or broken twigs. In the morning we would investigate a new parking place for the van.

And so I set to work renovating my childhood den, which I had decided to name "Laputa" after a film I once watched. Laputa was a mythical city in the sky, which was concealed by the swirling clouds of a thunderstorm, my ivy.

I brushed all the dust out through the hatch before installing the pulley system. This would allow me to haul things up into Laputa. It also had the added benefit of allowing me to leave using the rope ladder and then use the pulley to winch it back inside, closing the hatch afterwards. There was enough ivy around the tree to hide the rope. No more need for the fishing wire. The end of an era was upon us.

The positioning of the small solar panel was a dilemma in itself. It had to be out of sight to avoid any reflection being spotted, yet also able to catch the sun's rays.

After some time foraging in the forest I came up with three pretty straight branches, each one about eight feet in length. I lashed them together end to end. The last branch had a configuration of three thick twigs at the end, enough for me to lash the panel to it with the redundant fishing wire. With much effort, resulting in an aching neck and shoulders, I managed to feed the concoction through the branches and ivy until it poked through the topmost leaves of the tree. I lashed it in place and connected it up to the battery.

Success! In thirty-six hours I would have enough power for the solitary light bulb, the small caravan fridge and my laptop. The fridge also served a secondary purpose, its rear element gave enough heat to keep the room warm during the night.

I don't know why I painted the inside of Laputa. I just did. White. Furnished with a deck chair, folding table and a rug on the floor, my sleeping accommodation comprised of a camp bed and sleeping bag. It wasn't quite the hotel suite, which I had grown accustomed to, but it felt safe. No one would ever find it. I had just joined the long line of Epping Forest criminals, Dick Turpin, Harry Roberts the cop killer not to the mention the countless murder victims buried amongst its roots.

*

I decided that old Albert looked the most like a rambler so I sent him off early next morning to find a better spot for our van. He returned almost five hours later. I could tell he'd been drinking, he was smiling.

It turned out there was a campsite only fifteen minutes away from Laputa. It couldn't be seen due to the dense forest, and a steep ravine separated us from it, so there was no chance of receiving any unwanted company.

Albert left the van there, explaining that he was conducting an ornithological census on bird life in that area of the forest. He paid three month's fees up front, explaining that his work went on night and day so not to be worried if they didn't see him around for a while.

And so we were done, time to get back to work. These apples weren't going to pick themselves!
Chapter 15

Michael Collins Jr.

I was dumbfounded when I realised they had Internet access in prison. Whatever happened to punishment?

Michael Collins Junior, or MCJ, as he liked to be called. Aged: 29. Status: Locked up. Likes: Gangsta Rap & fast women. Dislikes: His fourteen-year sentence for kidnapping, grievous bodily harm and aggravated rape. Current Location: Whitemoor maximum security prison, Cambridgeshire.

Now I'll be the first to admit it, this one was going to be tricky. My father used to have a saying, "When the going gets tough, get out your cheque book."

After a little more research I learned that the only way he could update his page was either, with a mobile phone that someone had smuggled in, or he was getting a friend or relative to update it on the outside. I checked his site and it looked like the latter as it only seemed to be updated once a fortnight, probably after visiting time, actually it was always on a Thursday evening.

I found an old news article about MCJ's crime. He'd been inside for two years now. It turns out he'd gatecrashed a party in Notting Hill, pretending to be a friend of the family. The problem was that the father was home and it was his daughter's sixteenth birthday party. When the old man tried to eject him from the house he apparently went crazy hitting him around the head with a chair before grabbing the birthday girl and fleeing in a waiting car. The girl was repeatedly raped at knifepoint. The other assailant was never traced. So, reading between the lines, Mr. Hamid had probably done this before?

Now this is when my dangerous solar- powered Internet really reared its ugly head and proved to me that nobody is safe. Not even in a maximum-security prison.

Within half an hour I had read an article in the Daily Mail, which called Whitemoor "HMP Islam," I learned of its gang problems. Another site told me the visiting times, I soon knew every aspect of the prison, from the fact that the library was only open half an hour a week to how much salary the prisoners earned.

MCJ was not only friends with my Muslim friend Hamid but he was also locked up with 135 more of them.

Emailaprisoner.com came as one of my biggest shocks. I quote "Email a Prisoner enables you to send messages to prisoners in the UK and Irish prisons that operate our service from any computer, without any of the hassles of writing and posting a letter, and it costs less than a second class stamp! What's more, your message is delivered to the prison within seconds so that it can be delivered to the prisoner by the prison staff in the next delivery."

Jesus Christ, I was flabbergasted. For the price of thirty pence I was about to turn this rapist's life upside down. Here he was sitting in a secure prison, where he was put to keep the public safe and thanks to some do-gooder somewhere who believed bastards like him and Hamid deserved the same rights as us, I could send an email to him, which a nice guard would hand deliver to his cell. Actually, I knew my email would never reach his cell but at least the do-gooders had given poor MCJ the human right to receive it.

The last thing I had to do, as I shook my head in disbelief, was to sign up to the Prison Chat site, which I would use to find out his prisoner number.

Username: Golden_Delicious

Password: ApplePicker999

Email: Shakingthetree123@yahoo.com.

The do-gooders sent me the confirmation link and I was in. It was like diving into a whole new world. The forum was only supposed to be for friends and family of those spending time at her majesty's pleasure. For them to discuss, comfort each other and share tips.

There was an A-Z index of UK prisons, why they had "Z" I will never know, I clicked on Whitemoor. Reading through some of the threads you could see the coded messages; they stood out like a lighthouse in the Sahara.

JamesBroyleisinoocent wrote: Hi Daphne I was soz 2 hear bout yr mans sntnce bein extended. I hear it was self-defence.

Daphne321: It was dat hun. Protecting his black ass gainst them gangs in there and he gets punished for it? But the good LORD will provide for me as he has done since my poor Daryll went down. He has kept the roof over my head and food on my family's table.

A quick Google of "Daryll, Daphne and Lord" revealed that one Daryll Amora was doing a fifteen-year stint for the abduction, torture and tongue-removal of a man who allegedly tried to blackmail Lord Havery of Essex over a gay affair. Looks like the Lord _is_ still providing for the family after all.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the forum had a private messaging service whereby I could contact any other member in total privacy.

Golden_Delicious wrote: "Hello Daphne. You don't know me but Imm a close friend of your Lord. The Lord is very sorry about D's longer sentence and knows that you have waited a very long time for him already. The Lord would like to give you a chance to make a fresh start, with or without D. The Lord is willing to pay you one hundred thousand angels if you can help in this most heavenly matter. I await your reply, Regards, GD. P.S. The Lord requires a reply within 24 hours."

I had the option to add all sorts of smileys but I couldn't find a serial killer smiley, so I sent the message unadorned.

We'd lost a lot of time moving house so I decided to try and speed up the process by also sending PMs to anyone Daphne had chatted to in the last two days. Simply asking if they had other means in which to contact Daphne321 could they possibly ask her to check her messages on the Prison Chat site?

I left the page open and started to the read the day's news in a new tab. Not a word about the killings. That was a plus but at the same time I felt a little let down. I'd kind of hoped that the brains behind the Metropolitan Police force might have started to realise what had begun, because as long as they remained unaware, the apple picking would continue in a humdrum kind of way.

In Laputa I felt invincible, like one of the villains in the films with their impenetrable island fortresses. I was ready for the chase, but I sure as hell wasn't going to initiate it. It was their job to work it out.

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when I heard a ping. A small box popped up on my laptop. "You have a PM," it said.

Daphne321: Wots da deal?

Golden_Delicious: The Lord asks only two things from his loyal servant.

Daphne321: Nuff already wit da bullshit. Just tell.

Golden_Delicious: 1) The Lord needs the prisoner number of Michael Collins junior. Serving 14 years in Whitemoor. 2) The Lord needs you to pass a letter to D.

Daphne321: And dats it? For 100k?

Golden_Delicious: That's it. When can you give the Lord his answer?

Daphne321: D has a phone. I will text him now. Stay online.

Golden_Delicious: OK.

I checked the Insidetime website. Sure enough it was lock up time for the residents of Whitemoor. Ping!

Daphne321: His no is 823756. What about da letter.

Golden_Delicious: Where can we meet?

Daphne321: I'll go and see him 2moz if you like.

Golden_Delicious: I must consult with Lord. Stay online. I'll get back to you in five.

I went on to Google Earth. There was a restaurant advertised not two miles from the prison. It had a rear car park, which was good. It also backed onto woodland, which appeared to have a path through it. We could leave the van on the other side of the woods, yes that's what we'd do, much better than having her see it.

Golden_Delicious: Are you still there?

Daphne321: Waiting.

Golden_Delicious: There is a restaurant named Chesterman's about two miles from the prison. It's on Longford Street. I'll meet you there.

Daphne321: How will I know you?

Golden_Delicious: When you come in, tell the barman you are looking for Major Jones. I'll have told him where I'm sitting. When you approach ask, "Are you Major Jones?" I will reply, "I was before I retired." If you receive any other answer, get out of there.

Daphne321: Will you have the cash?

Golden_Delicious: I will, but the Lord says I can only give it to you after you have delivered the letters.

Daphne321: What you talkin bout now boy LETTERS? Deal was only one letter.

Golden_Delicious: Sorry change of plan. There will be two. I will explain over lunch. What time can we meet?

Daphne321: 1:00pm. Visiting starts at 2. By the way I want 2 see the cash and yous paying for the food.

Golden_Delicious: No problem. I'll see you tomorrow at one. May the Lord be with you.

*

Daphne was nothing like Norman had expected. Assuming she would be of Afro-Caribbean origin and of a larger stature, he was surprised when a white woman in her late thirties approached him and asked if he was Major Jones.

He smelled a rat immediately.

"I was until I retired," he replied. "You must be..?"

He purposely left the question open ended.

"Daphne," she replied, "or Daphne321 as you know me, Major Jones."

She offered her hand, which Norman shook after getting to his feet. Always the gentleman.

"You look surprised," she smiled. "Not what you'd expected?"

"Well not exactly," replied Norman.

"Don't tell me. You thought I was going to look like a poor Whoopi Goldberg instead of a middle class white bird?"

"Well, now you mention it," he mumbled, picking up the menu.

"I used to work for the Lord. I was his PA for five years. That's how this whole mess started. Anyway we're not here to discuss my history. Do you have the cash?"

Norman nodded towards the floor where Albert's shopping bag sat. Daphne used her foot to subtly open it.

"I had a talk with Daryll after we finished chatting last night. He's open to the deal but says he wants a hundred thousand per letter."

"So now you want two hundred grand?" asked Norman in disbelief.

The rage was rising. Who was this bitch to double the stakes? There were another five hundred prisoners in there that would be glad of the money. Prisoners whose families weren't being kept alive by corrupt aristocracy. But it was too late. The email had already been sent and two copies of it were in Norman's pocket.

"Okay, I think under the circumstances that's a fair enough demand. The Lord told me that he thought this might happen and therefore the rules must change to suit."

"What do you mean?"

"I have instructions to pay you the first hundred thousand upon delivery of the letters. The rest you will get when we receive news of Mr. Collin's death."

Daphne leaned across the table.

"Are you telling me the Lord expects my Daryll to kill this man?"

"No, no, that'll happen as a result of the letters."

"Good. Because I vowed to stand by him until he gets out of that hell hole and no money in the world will make me wait an extra fifteen years."

"I respect your loyalty, Daphne. Shall we order?"

Norman clarified things over lunch. One letter was to be handed in person to a prisoner named Muhammad Karam the other was to be passed to the coordinating chaplain, Mr. Fawaz.

"I've heard about this man Karam," Daphne said, a nervous look on her face. "He runs that prison from what Daryll has told me."

"Exactly," replied Norman. "Now let's enjoy lunch and I'll be here waiting for you when you're done at the prison, and by the way, the Lord has agreed to keep up your "family" payments for those extra two years but he says that if you betray him today, he will rescind his financial input."

*

Norman ordered a double vodka and orange juice. This was going to be a long wait. He sat back down at the table and moved Albert's shopping bag out of the way of prying eyes. Daphne had left. She had the letters. Norman took out the copy he'd made for himself and read it for the fourth time.

To whom it may concern,

_I enclose a copy of an email sent to Mr. Michael Collins Junior._ 823756 by Mr. Abdul Hamid.

Hey Mikey I hope things aint too bad in there for you. Just writing to say I did what you asked. I burned that mutherfucker to death along with your ex girlfriend. Fuck man you should have heard Katherine scream. I should have taped it for ya. Anyway listen, I couldn't do all that shit alone so I got Khan to give me a hand. Fuck man we prayed to Allah for forgiveness for killing a fellow Muslim but we did it for you man. It just wasn't right him screwing Infidels, never mind your ex. Listen we dumped the evidence in Kat's sister's car. Khan's on remand in the Scrubs at the minute on suspicion but I think he might get out soon. My family barrister's working on it. Look, take care of yourself. I'll try and get to see ya soon pal. Abdul

From where I intercepted this communication is not the question. The question is what is to be done about it?

Allahu Akbar.

It took two hours for Daphne to return from the prison to collect the money. I told her I would get in touch as soon as I heard news that the job had been done. She could meet me in the same place for her second instalment. She left. I slept in the camper van. I checked the online news the next morning.

A riot in Whitemoor prison. Three prison guards injured and one inmate found dead in the prison laundry, believed to have been in an industrial dryer for at least three hours, currently unidentified due to horrific burns. Police are awaiting results of a dental match.

Wormwood Scrubs. A prisoner on remand was found dead late last night. Initial reports indicate the victim was attacked en masse during the evening meal sitting. A source claimed he had body parts removed. A separate source told Reuters these incidents were believed to be honour killings, although no official statements have been released from either prison pending further investigations.

Golden_Delicious: Are you online?

Daphne321: I read the news too. Do you have the rest?

Golden_Delicious: Of course. I am waiting.

Daphne321: I'll be there in one hour.

Chapter 16

Brian Bridgewater

Age: 21. Status: Single. Likes: Motorbikes, West Ham FC, lager and Chinese food. Dislikes: Being mistaken for my twin brother all the time.

It looked to me like Brian preferred chat rooms to anything else. He seemed to spend most of his time online. He made the mistake of using the same username and email address for each forum, making him much easier to track. He was a member of bike forums, West Ham chat rooms, gaming forums, you name it he was on it.

He rode a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14, had a season ticket for West Ham, worked as a computer games programmer and lived with his identical twin brother in a flat in Bermondsey.

The flat was above a fast food takeaway. The café opposite gave us an excellent view of their comings and goings. The only problem was that we couldn't tell the difference between the guilty apple and his innocent brother. They had the same close-cropped blonde hair, same height, same slight build and they even dressed alike.

Brian worked from home and his brother was "between jobs", so that meant we couldn't even identify him from his workplace.

Kalif was on his fourth cup of tea. To avoid suspicion he had explained to the café owner that he was an insurance investigator and had reason to believe that one of the residents over the road had made a fraudulent claim regarding a traffic accident. A £500 bung had sealed her lips for the next couple of days. He felt a little bit pissed off that she still charged him for his cups of tea though.

Kalif had spent almost two days sitting in that café watching Tweedledum and Tweedledee come and go, but still there was no pattern. He was starting to get frustrated. He tried his best to contain the rage that he could feel stirring deep inside. The worst part was that we knew everything about this apple and I mean, everything. His whole life was splattered across the Internet for the world to see; yet we couldn't work out which one he was. Brian had bragged online how even their girlfriends, when they had one, couldn't tell them apart.

Truth be known, I knew this was going to be a problem from the start. I thought the motorbike might have helped us identify him but there was no sign of it. Kalif had followed them to the football match on Saturday but they were soon swallowed up by the converging masses that flowed from the adjoining streets.

Serge had supplied us with an extremely expensive piece of equipment that would hopefully solve our dilemma, allowing us to pick the fruit and move on quickly.

The van was parked around the corner, tucked out of site in a pub car park. Kalif knew he had to get into the flat to lay the trap, but the twins rarely left together. It was either one or the other. All he could do was sit, wait, drink tea and control his anger until they eventually left together. He cursed himself for not doing it while they were at the match, he would have had plenty of time to fit the flat out and if there had been any problems, go back and adjust things. Now he had to wait for a second opportunity. Luckily the café was open 24 hours.

I knew Kalif was chomping at the bit. This was going to be his second kill and I could feel that he wanted to make it a good one. There seemed to be a bit of rivalry going on between him, Albert and Norman. Who could do the best job? Who could impress me the most?

Kalif was young and full of fire, a fire that was rapidly turning to hatred. When he read the comments left by Brian Bridgewater it had flicked a switch inside him.

"Dear Mr. Neilson," it read, "I have been good friends with your client for many years and I can assure you (and please feel free to quote me on this) Abdul Hamid is in no way, shape or form a rapist, let alone a killer. The story on the street is that the girl was the one high on drugs, whilst her mother drank herself into a stupor downstairs. She is allegedly the one who initiated any sexual activity and then, in a moment of guilt, cried rape before starting the fire herself to try and support her story. The tragedy is that an innocent man's life has been altered forever due to this girl's promiscuity, drug abuse and neglectful parents."

By God you're life's gonna be altered forever, Kalif had promised himself.

This was going on too long. It had been two days already. Kalif had the urge to go across there and kill them both. That would be the easiest solution. But something in the back of his mind was stopping him. He knew the original plan would be much more fun anyway.

At precisely 8:30pm the dirty blue door to the left of the takeaway opened. The twins emerged, well dressed and probably heading to the pub for a few. Kalif stood up slowly, pins and needles cramping up his left leg, he handed the waitress a tenner tip and left.

He followed the twins around the corner to the Golden Oak Tavern, the pub where he'd parked the van. He quickened his pace. This wasn't a covert operation; he wanted to hear every word they said. He needed to know who was who before he had to resort to plan B.

Kalif stood in line behind them at the bar. One of the twins checked his watch.

"What time did they say they were coming?" asked the other.

"About nine o'clock."

"So what's the plan are we gonna stay here all night or go out to a club later?"

"Don't know. Let's see what the others want to do."

Christ, they even sounded the same.

Kalif sat down at the table next to them, sipping his double vodka and orange, straining to hear the conversation. At least now he knew they were out for the night. That would give him time to do what had to be done. He decided to have another couple of drinks, he didn't want to look suspicious after all, but he gleaned nothing from the conversation.

Even when their friends arrived, they just called them boys. "How you doin' _boys."_ No one even brought up the subject of Brian's work. Fuck this! Kalif stood up and left. "Life-altering time," he thought to himself.

*

As the Bridgewater twins embarked on their fun-filled, carefree night with friends, Kalif went to work on the lock to their flat. The dirty blue door on the street was a communal entrance, which had been left unlocked giving him free access to the first floor. The Sputnik decoder, which he now held in his hands, had cost a small fortune. Normally used by the secret service and such like, it was one of the items that Serge had charged four times the market value for. Named after the satellite it resembled, Kalif inserted the pins into the lock, carefully adjusting each small handle until he heard the pin click. Within a minute he was standing in the empty flat. The pattern of the fine wires on the Sputnik gave him the exact shape of the key, should he want one cut.

Once inside, Kalif was pleased to see the place was a pigsty. The typical result of a dosser and a computer nerd sharing the same environment. Beer cans, fast food packaging and clothes littered every available space. He dropped his rucksack to the floor and began to unpack.

The listening devices were the size of a hearing aid. Each room had to be covered, as we weren't sure where they would go when they returned home. He placed one under the television facing the couch. In the first bedroom, he placed one under the stereo and in the second bedroom, on top of the wardrobe. Opening the cupboard under the kitchen sink, Kalif moved all the carrier bags and unused cleaning items into a nearby drawer. He unloaded the remaining contents of the rucksack into the cupboard.

All that remained was to supercharge the appliances. For this plan to work we needed absolute silence when they came home. If they switched on the television or started banging out loud music, we were fucked.

The simple transformer raised the electric supply from 240 volts to 380 volts, quietly burning out all the transistors. Kalif unplugged the television, inserted the transformer into the wall, plugged the TV back in and turned it on. The slight burning smell would dissipate before they got back. After burning out the final CD player, Kalif slipped out of the flat and headed back to the Golden Oak.

The bell had just rung for last orders and the boys were still there, a little worse for wear, voices raised due to alcohol-induced deafness. Kalif ordered a lager and a double vodka with orange. It was going to be a long night after all. He sent the text and could do nothing now but wait and listen. One of the twins' friends talked about the time he was caught speeding.

"You're serious mate? You were doing sixty in a thirty and you got off with it?"

"On my mother's life. My solicitor argued that the police camera van was actually blocking the speed limit sign. So, therefore, it was their fault that I was speeding."

"You've gotta be joking!"

"Truth mate. They couldn't prove otherwise. Innocent 'til proven guilty and all that."

"Yeah bit like Abdul," added another, sarcastically.

"My arse," replied the speeder. "He was a bad bastard who just got lucky. Mate, I hated him at school and he hasn't gone up any in my estimation for that bullshit stunt."

Kalif carefully watched the twins. Hoping Brian would stand up for his "friend". Nothing. The twins sat emotionless, listening.

"So you reckon he was guilty?"

"Of fuckin' course, mate," replied the speeder checking his watch. "Oi Brian, it's almost time and it's your round, pal."

Kalif felt the rage like a knife in his stomach. Brian was about to stand up and make himself known. He couldn't help but stare. One of the twins met his gaze.

"Got a problem over there have you pal?" he asked.

Kalif just shook his head. It was a crying shame that the boy couldn't see the irony in what he'd just asked.

When a short, fat kid with the makings of an afro got to his feet, Kalif felt deflated. This was brilliant. Two identical twins _and_ two Brians.

Kalif's phone vibrated. He checked the text message. "In place. Let me know when." He finished his vodka and orange, stood up and headed outside to the van.

"Yeah, you'd better piss off before I do something I might regret," shouted one of the twins after him. Kalif felt the knife twist in his stomach.

*

The camper van was parked in the shadows beneath a tree, the interior lights switched off, the tinted windows making it impossible to see inside. Kalif watched as the "boys" left the pub. He hoped they weren't going on to a nightclub; that would make it a horrendously long day. As he watched, they just hung around the door to the pub, swaying a little bit back and forth and talking amongst themselves.

Then one of them pointed towards the camper van. Kalif slid down in the seat. One of the twins approached. Kalif's pulse was racing, his cheek starting to throb. He held his breath as he watched the boy circle the van, peering through the windows, his mates urging him on. He knocked on the window.

"Hello. Anyone in there?"

Kalif reached for his knife, which he had stored under the seat, so the boss wouldn't find it. The knock came again. The twin had his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to peer inside the van. Kalif put his face to the glass, knife in hand, cheek throbbing, rage churning.

"Okay, so you won't mind if I piss behind your van then?"

The twin relieved himself against the tree. He was just finishing up when the taxi headlights illuminated the car park. The twins bade farewell to their friends and headed off. Obviously no clubbing tonight. Thank God.

Game on!

*

The Voice Stress Analysis console was about the size of a large laptop. It wasn't exactly James Bond stuff but apparently it was getting increasingly popular with the CIA. You can actually buy this shit quite cheaply but when it's a matter of life and death, you have to invest in the best.

It looked hugely complicated, like a recording studio mixing desk, but when you'd read the manual as many times as Kalif had, it wasn't so intimidating. Basically he just had to record each twin, as they spoke, onto bands A and B. The system would then analyse each of their voice patterns so it could differentiate between twin "A" and twin "B". An LED bar would show if they were lying or not. When it hit red, they were telling porkies, if it remained in the green or low amber region then they were telling the truth.

Kalif put on the headphones and placed his fake police ID next to the console in case anyone decided to interrupt him. He heard the flat door unlock. Christ, the audio was good. He turned down the volume.

"I'm dying for a slash."

"You should've gone at the pub like me, bro."

He heard the toilet seat hit the cistern, the lager hit the water in the bowl, even the sigh of relief. The flush followed.

"Do you want some of this pizza, bro?"

"No thanks, I'm gonna hit the sack. See you tomorrow."

Kalif heard a click. Then another.

"What the fuck? Oi bro! What's up with the telly?"

"Don't know, it was ok before we went out."

He could hear the pizza being crunched and slurped in silence. Five minutes later he heard the box hit the floor joining its other abandoned friends, some water running, doors banging and then silence.

He switched the controller to bedroom one. Snoring. The grinding of teeth. Bedroom two. The rustle of clothes being taken off and discarded, drunken murmurings, then bed springs, a duvet being pulled around and kicked, then silence. He listened to bedroom two for eight minutes before he heard the snoring begin. He sent the text message, "It's time I think. Your shopping's under the sink."

Three minutes later Kalif could hear the lock being turned gently, the door catching the carpet as it opened ever so slowly before closing again with the smallest of clicks.

Dmitri had been waiting patiently in the 24-hour café across the road from the flat. Serge had promised he was the best of the best and that was why he cost so much. Plus the fact that his Interpol arrest warrants had put him off air travel, so he drove everywhere and to be here tonight he'd travelled from Latvia, as a special favour to Serge.

Standing six feet seven inches tall with a steroid-built body like a small mountain, Dmitri was covered head to toe in tattoos. Self inflicted reminders of time served in Eastern block prisons courtesy of the secret police.

Military night vision goggles guided him through the darkness to the kitchen. He recovered the "groceries" from beneath the sink, immediately putting on the headset. He tapped the small microphone three times.

"I hear you, Dmitri. Can you hear me?"

He tapped once to confirm. Kalif could hear furniture being quietly rearranged. He checked both bedrooms. Snoring came from both transmitters.

"Dmitri, they're still asleep."

Another tap came through the headphones. Kalif heard the light bulb in the lounge being removed, the plastic ring of the fitting being undone, screws squeaking as they were being loosened then metal connecting to them before being retightened. More rummaging in the rucksack. Then the quiet rustling of plastic and clothes being moved. Then silence. Two minutes of total silence. Kalif couldn't even hear Dmitri breathing anymore.

"Do you hear me?"

A tap on the microphone, followed by almost inaudible footsteps. Another door creaked open. The snoring stopped momentarily. A choking sound. Gasping. Then silence. Kalif's heart was pounding. He listened to the same sequence happen again. His mobile buzzed. A text message. "The babies will sleep for half hour." Then the sound of a bed creaking and something hitting the floor. A dragging noise. The door being kicked, no creeping about this time. A chair creaked somewhere. The sound of duct tape being ripped from the roll. Taping. Taping. A sound like a fist hitting flesh. Then the same again, dragging, taping, and punching. Another text. "Ready?"

"Ready," replied Kalif.

*

As the effects of the chloroform wore off, the twins awoke to the nightmare vision of a naked, tattooed giant. A cathedral on his back, his knees and one shoulder decorated with stars, a rose and a cross on his chest. His clothes safely packaged to avoid DNA evidence, his face hidden beneath a Hellraiser mask.

They were taped to chairs, backs to each other. Their ankles taped to the chair legs, their wrists taped to the arms, their necks and foreheads taped together like Siamese twins joined at the head. The electrical cable from the overhead light had been stripped of its plastic insulation and the bare copper wires stitched through the skin on the twins' chests, linking them together, each puncture wound still leaking blood. The cables ran through a small black box before returning to the light socket.

Dmitri had laid the tools of his trade out on the couch. He picked each one up in turn and showed it to the twins as he circled them.

"Now this can be very easy or very deadly," said the giant in a heavy accent, smiling. "Which one of you two is Brian Bridgewater?"

Neither replied. They just stared, eyes wide open with terror, the effect of the chloroform and beers still wearing off.

"The one from the bedroom by the front door is twin A," whispered Kalif.

"Okay, You! Mr. A, as I'm gonna call you 'til you die. What is your name?"

The boy had begun to cry, shaking slightly.

"Bridgewater," he replied.

Dmitri hit the light switch. The searing pain tore through their skin, chest and hearts as one. They convulsed in their chairs, their backs arching, the veins in their necks and arms bulging.

"Maybe you don't understand my accent little boy," he leaned down to stare "A" in the eyes. "We are not playing games here Tinkerbell. One of you two has to die tonight. I did not drive one thousand miles to give you a striptease show. Now I will ask you again, what is your name?"

"Bridgewater," he yelped, closing his eyes. The light switch was turned on again, for longer this time. Dmitri could smell the faeces.

"Moving on to you Mr.B," he whispered in the microphone. "What is your name?"

"Fuck you!" came the reply.

"Dmitri, I need them to start answering some questions. It's not supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be scared," said Kalif.

"Okay!" screamed the giant. "Which one of you two mutherfuckers is Brian Bridgewater?"

Silence. Then the light switch. The convulsions. The veins. No answer. Dmitri picked up a pair of pliers. He peeled off some more duct tape and secured it across A's mouth.

"Now listen very carefully to me," he told B. "I am going to cut off all your brother's fingers and toes unless you tell me which one of you is Brian. Do you understand?"

B closed his eyes and braced himself for the light switch. He couldn't see his brother but he could hear the bones breaking, the smothered screams and the violent yanking on his neck as he thrashed around in his chair. He heard the giant rip the tape from his mouth.

"Are you ready to tell me now? Which one of you is Brian?

"What the fuck is this all about?" sobbed A, with the ten broken fingers. "It's about that drug debt to Marco, aint it?"

"No, no little boy. This isn't about drugs. This is much more simple. Now let me ask you again. Which of you is Brian?"

"We both are!" screamed A. His brother was blubbering hysterically now, his tears mixing with saliva. Dmitri punched him so hard that even Kalif jumped when he heard the jawbone break. Then he retaped A's mouth.

The giant began pacing the room, mumbling something in his native language. He was agitated. He ripped off his mask and for the first time the twins saw his face. A deep scar ran from his forehead to his chin, a barbed wire tattoo sat like a crown of thorns around his shaved head. Dmitri went into the bathroom. The twins could hear water running. He returned holding the mask, dripping water like a severed head drips blood. He had a wild look in his pale blue eyes. Picking up a pair of wire cutters, he began to remove the back of the mask leaving just the face and scalp. B watched him slice and rip in terror. The giant placed it onto the twin's face, patting it into place like a beauty treatment. B was blowing, trying to jerk free from the mask, dreading whatever was coming next.

Kalif heard the hiss of gas followed by the flint of the lighter. Dmitri placed a stool in front of B and sat down. At the sight of the blowtorch the boy started screaming his lungs out. Dmitri calmly worked the blowtorch over the mouth of the rubber mask, melting it to the boy's lips and teeth. Then silence. He waved the blue flame in front of his terrified eyes.

"Now, let me ask you one more time. Are you Brian?" asked the giant quietly.

No response.

Dmitri shook his head in resignation. He waved the blowtorch back and forth in front of the boy's face.

"Did you know that the skin can be totally removed from a man's skull and he won't die? No? Well I did, because I have done it several times my little friend. But the pain, my God, if someone did that to me I would want to die. I would beg God Almighty to let me die."

Still no response. Just two streaming little brown eyes staring out from the Hellraiser mask.

"I will give you two minutes before you are begging for your life."

Dmitri began to "weld" the edges of the rubber mask to the boy's skin. Beginning under the chin, the stench of burning flesh reminded him of home. He followed the edge up to the scalp, studying his handiwork as he went. The hair melted back into the skin before fusing with the rubber. The mask was inflating and deflating as the twin fought for breath through his nose. Each time little billows of acrid smoke puffed out of the eyeholes.

"Dmitri. What's going on?" asked Kalif.

"We are just warming up my friend."

He turned the blowtorch up to full and started to waft it over the twin's scalp, blistering the skin and rubber in unison. Heating the brain. The boy was shaking. Trying to move. His brother following suit. Dmitri hit the light switch. The convulsions. The veins.

"This is your last chance you little English bastard," he waved the blowtorch slowly in front of his eyes. "Save yourself my little friend. Just nod your head if I am correct. You are not Brian, are you?"

Dmitri was nose to nose with the boy. Staring into the eyeholes, waiting for the sign. B just closed his eyes.

"Aaaagghh!" the giant grabbed the mask and ripped it off his head, skin and lips still attached. He hit the light switch again. Enraged, he turned it on an off. On and off. Convulsions. Veins. Burned flesh. Faeces. Urine. On and off.

As Kalif listened, the rage was way past boiling point. He could hear them fry again and again as the light switch was turned on and off. This was going nowhere, he thought.

"Dmitri, they're not going to talk, are they?"

Two taps on the microphone meant no.

"Okay, change of plan. Take one of them into the bedroom, take your tools with you and keep them both gagged. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Kalif was incensed. He sped out of the car park and headed to 46 Grampian Avenue.

She was reluctant to answer the door at that time of night but after she'd seen his police ID and heard his explanation she got into the van.

"Undercover," explained Kalif, as she glanced around the camper van.

He parked up in the pub car park again before leading her by the hand to the dirty blue door.

"Come on, keep up, he's been badly hurt. There's no time to waste."

As she opened the flat door she stopped in her tracks, a horrified gasp. She covered her mouth in revulsion. She started shaking her head.

"Oh my God! Who did this to you Michael?"

His eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets as he tried to move his head. She was sobbing.

"Okay, Mrs. Bridgewater, I'll take it from here," said constable Kalif.

"But where's Brian? They live together you know?"

Michael was almost breaking his neck now. Trying to shake his head. Their mother opened the door of bedroom number one before Kalif could stop her. The knife hammered into her chest before the door was even halfway open. She fell forward, hitting the floor with the full weight of her body, driving the blade in up to the hilt.

Kalif just stood and stared at her. He felt nothing. No guilt. No remorse. He looked at her twins, one by one. They looked like they were ready to explode with every emotion possible. As their mother bled out on the floor Kalif turned to Dmitri.

"The one in the bedroom's Brian. Make it good and you might as well finish this one off as well while you're at it," he paused. "In fact I'll give you a hand."
Chapter 17

I made Kalif sleep in the camper van that night. I couldn't bear to see his face, let alone have him in Laputa with me. In a way I was angry with him, the way he'd just taken over. Disregarded the plan and decided to do it _his_ way. However, on the other hand I understood his principle and reasoning.

The whole family bloody had seen his and Dmitri's faces. More poignantly they'd slaughtered an innocent mother and child. Just like Anna and Laura had been. On the drive home Kalif had tried to justify his actions, he called it divine retribution. I couldn't help but disagree with him but I could see his point.

The next day, Albert picked his way through the forest on the twenty-minute journey to the campsite. He was going to make us something to eat in the van's kitchen. I'd made myself a solemn promise that when this was eventually all over I would never ever eat baked beans or tinned Spam again.

After a quick shower Albert decided to pay a visit to the site's bar, just to show his face.

"Oh, good afternoon Albert. How's your census going?" asked the landlady.

"Sorry?"

"Your census? The bird life."

"Oh that, yes, fine. A lot of work though. Some of those little buggers keep strange hours, believe me."

"You don't have to tell me. It's worse if there's a storm coming in, they keep you up all night and then they just seem to sleep during the day. Just like babies they are," she laughed.

Albert finished his vodka and orange and got up to leave.

"Oh, go on have another one," said the landlady. "On the house."

He glanced around the deserted bar and then sat back down on his barstool.

"Alright then, you've twisted my arm," he replied. "So, how long have you had this place then?"

"It was Mike's parents. When his father passed away it became too much for his mother and she asked us if we wanted to take it over. Must be about eighteen or nineteen years now."

"Tell me, I'm having trouble monitoring the lesser-spotted warblers in this area. They're a very skittish breed. The sight of a human and you won't see them for dust. Do you know if there are any birdwatcher's hides around here where I can watch them without being seen?"

The landlady considered Albert's question. Albert's test.

"No, not that I know of. There used to be a few I believe but after that last murderer, I forget his name, hid out in the forest for months. The police got a court order to have them all removed and destroyed. There's nothing up in them trees now apart from bird nests and leaves."

"Shame," replied Albert, knowing now that Laputa was even safer than we'd first thought.

He felt a little sorry for Helen, that was the landlady's name, whenever he visited the van he would see her working. Whether she was cutting grass, sorting out the rubbish or running the little shop they had, and now she was here running the bar until midnight. He decided to keep her company and throw a few quid over the bar to make it worth her while.

Albert reckoned he could do with a bit of human company. He'd been spending a little too much time with Norman and Kalif lately, it would do him the world of good to talk to a real person for once.

Two hours later and he was onto his sixth vodka, he decided that would be his last. He had work to do. We hadn't even checked the news to see if the Bridgewater family had been found yet. As it turned out, there was no need.

"I don't know what this world is coming to," said Helen's husband, as he stomped into the bar breathless.

"What's up now love," she asked.

"It's just been on the news, they found a mother and two kids murdered in Bermondsey."

"Shit that was quick," said Albert before he could stop himself.

Helen and Mike both looked at him.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mike.

"I mean, I just saw you chopping logs and you had a massive pile. You must have finished them quick."

They both laughed when they realised what he had meant.

"They're dry as a bone, split like butter."

"Anyway dear, what were you saying about this family? To be honest I don't know why you let it bother you anymore. It's happening every week nowadays."

"Yeah but not like this, Helen. This was horrific. Even the news woman was holding back tears when she was reporting it."

"What channel was it on?" asked Albert.

"Sky News."

"I'll make sure to avoid that then. I'm very squeamish about that sort of thing."

"I'll give you the details when he's left then, love," Mike said to his wife.

"Okay, dear, but I'm not really sure I want to know myself now."

Albert drained the glass, made his excuses and left. Twenty minutes later we were back at Laputa. The tree house in the sky, which didn't exist. I lowered the rope ladder, climbed inside, pulled it up and locked out the world.

Laputa. A place I could be myself. I threw Albert onto the bed, cursing him for drinking so much. I took a cola from the fridge, checked the solar power meter and went online.

Fuck me! The entire Sky News web page was taken up with the latest apple picking, a photofit of Kalif was in the top right hand corner. Breaking News scrolled across the screen. "Barbaric Insanity" read the headline. Jesus Christ, what had he done?

My cheek was pulsing. My head was spinning. The only thing I could compare the feeling to was that time at university. I'd gotten blind drunk and smoked a spliff or two before going out to a bar. The next thing I remembered was waking up on my bed, my knuckles bruised and cut, my shirt torn and covered in blood. But it wasn't my blood. I couldn't remember a thing. I never did find out what happened. That was the last time in that life, my last life, that I ever got drunk.

I clicked on the big white arrow to play the news report.

"Good Morning this is the midday Sky News. I'm Clive Barnstaple. The main story this morning, a triple murder in Bermondsey, London, which the police have described as an act of barbaric insanity. The coroner, Mr. Roger Bell, said that in forty years, he has never witnessed such a horrific crime scene as this..."

I paused the video. Jesus, what had those two done? I opened the shutters. I needed air.

Play: "We're going to go live now to Bermondsey where Sky reporter Glenda Dodd is at the scene. Glenda can you here us?"

"Yes, Clive."

"Can you please bring us up to date with what's happening down there in Bermondsey?"

"Well, the bodies were discovered at around seven o'clock this morning by another resident in the same building who says he noticed the door to the flat had been left open. The police have confirmed that as a result of what he discovered, he is now under sedation in a nearby hospital."

"And can you tell the viewers at home just what this act of "barbaric insanity", as the police are calling it, exactly was? "

She was taking deep breaths. Blinking.

"Well Clive, the..erm.. what we've been told so far by the police is.. erm.. that the deceased are believed to be a mother and her two twenty-one-year-old sons, their official identities haven't been released yet but local sources name them as the Bridgewater family, Marie, aged forty-five, and her twin sons Michael and Brian," she paused for breath. "It appears the two boys were tortured prior to their deaths and their mother died of a single knife wound to the heart. But what has really shocked the police, and in fact the nation, is the way the boys were killed."

She didn't want to say it. She couldn't say it. "Police say both the boys appear to have been skinned whilst they were still alive.. erm.. they also believe that parts of their mother were actually cooked and force fed to them..."

She was holding back the tears. Choking. "...We've been told that after the twins were...erm...skinned, they were strapped to chairs. Back to back. The killer or killers then covered them in salt."

She was breaking down. A wipe of the left eye. Something being said in her earpiece. A nod of the head. "The boys were given a button each. These buttons were reportedly wired into the flat's electricity supply. It's believed the killer must have told them that the only way to end their suffering was to electrocute the other. We know this because Michael's button was connected to the wiring inserted into Brian's chest and vice versa. One of the cruellest twists to this murder is the fact that Brian's wiring ran through a step-down transformer reducing the voltage to one hundred volts, not enough to kill a person. It's believed that it took him approximately five hours to die in agony after having killed his own brother."

That was it, game over, she broke down entirely. "I'm sorry...I can't.."

"Thank you Glenda," the screen cut back to the studio, the anchorman raised his eyebrows. "Well, as you can see, a crime that has shocked not only the police but the nation as a whole. We're going to go live to our Thames studio where Assistant Chief Constable Peter Burgess joins us. Mr. Burgess, thank you for your time. I have just one question for you. Why?"

"Well, Clive, at this point in the investigation that's the question we're all asking ourselves. Having said that, even though it's early days we already have a few solid leads, which we are vigorously following up."

He went on to describe Kalif, as his photofit flashed up on the screen. He explained how he'd posed as an insurance investigator blah, blah. Then a photofit of Dmitri came on the screen. Luckily he'd been wearing a baseball cap in the café. He was probably halfway back to Latvia by now anyway.

The next piece of the puzzle caught me unawares.

"The main focus of our investigation at this early stage is focussed on the owner of the apartment, whose son was recently acquitted of murder and rape charges brought against him. We understand that at least one of the tenants was a friend of his."

"So what you're saying Assistant Chief Constable is that this could have been a revenge killing?"

"I'm not saying that but at this point we can't rule anything out of this investigation."

FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

I opened Hamid Properties website and there it was under residential lettings. Hawksley Road, Bermondsey. The dirty blue front door. FUCK!

Chapter 18

Since my family, hopes, dreams and life had died. I hadn't really said goodbye to any them.

When Laura and Anna were buried I was already in hiding. I knew now that the Kill Family Robinson might not be as clever as we'd first thought. It was time for me to pay my last respects. After all their graves were the only fixed points in my new life. If the Apple Police got their act together they would start watching them.

I decided not to use the camper for a while. What if someone recognised it from the pub car park? So for the first time in my life I caught a bus, or rather Norman did.

It took what seemed like hours for us to get to the cemetery. A bus here, a connection, a bus there, and then a taxi. Throughout the whole journey I searched deep into my soul for some remorse, something to make me feel human, but I found nothing. Only darkness. When I looked inside myself, which I tried to avoid doing, I could see only smouldering ashes, like my house, my home. Only desolation; but a fire still raging beneath. A fire that no man could extinguish. A fire, which would only burn out when its time was up.

*

Saint Gregory's cemetery, London. Full of dead people and plastic flowers. We didn't even know where Anna and Laura were. I assumed, unaccustomed as I was to the layout of graveyards, that they worked on a similar principle to housing estates. The first built, or buried in this case, would be at the front. All I had to do was find the shiny new ones with digging equipment and piles of soil surrounding them. A theory that worked. We moved from the 1890s to the 2000s in a couple of minutes.

It wasn't like I'd expected, to see my darling wife's name etched into a gravestone next to my beautiful daughter. To see the vicar standing over them with the police officers. To see the fire still smouldering on top of their graves. To see Anna's headstone smashed. To see the word "whore" sprayed over Laura's.

Norman did the right thing and walked past, head down, nose clean. Mr. Nobody. Inside, though, the time bomb had just started ticking.

Norman could hear it, smell it, and taste it. The fury. The rage. He could feel it in his cheek. Pulsing like battle drums on the march to war and this is where we were heading. No holds barred. No mercy. No surrender. The apples had struck back.

I swore to myself there and then, on that gravel path, beneath the shade of the old oaks, that no matter what it took I would finish this quest. I would probably go to Hell for it, but I'm fucking sure I'm taking Abdul Hamid with me.

*

We'd whittled Hamid's loyal band of merry men down from thirteen to just four remaining. Four of his worst devotees. It had to be quick. The news reports said the police were looking over the twins' computers. They were bound to find the questionnaire I'd sent out as Neilson, Hamid's barrister. Sooner rather than later they would link all the deaths, be it suicide, accident or murder. Damn it, I should've told Kalif to destroy the boys' computers or at least get them out of the flat. It would've given us extra time.

Things were starting to go wrong. I knew that. I wouldn't be able to use Kalif again. His mock-up was on the front page of every newspaper in the country, probably half of Europe as well. He was finished. I just hoped that the people who made Kalif didn't recognise their own handiwork, surely not.

I had to do something. My mind was going over the worst-case scenarios. If the police linked the apples together then they had a list of who was to come. They would put them under police protection. Alert the Pakistani authorities. The farmer would come looking for me with two hundred of his mates, pitchforks, shotguns and hungry dogs.

There was only one option. I had to get rid of the list. I had to close Abdul Hamid's Facebook page. But how? I could try and find him now, jump the gun, but that would ruin everything, or, I could call Serge.

*

"My friend," answered Serge, "your boss must be one pissed off mutherfucker," he chuckled.

"This is his boss," I replied. "Kalif is dead."

"Oh shit, I'm sorry to hear such bad news, Sir, and such a polite young man. Anyway, how can I help you?" he asked.

"Did all the shopping arrive?"

"Yes, Sir, it's safely locked up in your supermarket."

"I need one more thing."

"Name it, but remember the odds have been raised. There will be a lot of worried people out there. The prices will be raised."

"Whatever! I need a computer expert."

"A hacker?"

"Yes. The best, and I want him now. Today."

"I have someone in mind for you but this is enough talk on the phone. We should meet. Do you know where your little friend used to come?"

"No, not there. Somewhere he's never been. I have to be very careful now."

"I agree, Sir, you're very famous at the minute."

"Do you know the tunnel under the Thames at Greenwich?"

"I am not familiar with it but I can find it, Sir."

"Meet me there at four o'clock this afternoon and please, bring your man with you. I need this done today."

"We will be there but I warn you, Sir, you will need to bring some pictures of the Queen with you. Oh, and by the way, how will I know you?" asked Serge.

"Don't worry, I'll recognise _you_."

"But we have never met before?"

"I've seen the video Kalif made of you during negotiations. Don't be afraid, he said we can trust you implicitly anyway."

Serge was silent. His honour had been put into question.

"My friend, believe me, what you have done is nothing compared to what I have seen back home. Anyway I have the same blood on my hands, I am the one that supplied Mr. D; remember? "

"I'll meet you at Greenwich. Four o'clock and by the way, don't tell your man anything."

Serge laughed out loud.

*

I remember being dragged through the Thames tunnel once when I was a young boy. I was terrified, claustrophobic. I thought it was never going to end. My father could only laugh at my plight. I felt like I couldn't breath. The echoes made things even worse. When we eventually got to the Isle of Dogs at the other end, I felt so silly for being scared. I swore there and then that I would do the same walk again one day, and today was the day, the day to bury those demons.

Serge was five minutes early. He had with him a gentleman probably in his mid thirties. Well dressed, looking every bit the city worker with his suit and briefcase. Norman approached them and shook both their hands.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said Norman, shaking their hands. "The apartment we have for sale is just on the other side of the river. It's much easier to park here and walk through the tunnel. Follow me if you will."

They followed Norman through the cast-iron tunnel, not a word was said between the three of them. Norman would stop every few hundred feet and watch the pedestrians behind him, to make sure none of them stopped at the same time. He could feel the childhood memory of fear returning but this time he knew there was only a short distance left before they reached Island Gardens.

Upon arrival at their destination, Norman had an overwhelming feeling of success. He'd just done something that he'd been promising himself for forty odd years, but now he had something else in which he had to succeed.

The three of them sat on a park bench looking all the world like three colleagues taking time out from their hectic, air conditioned office lives, breathing some fresh air and enjoying the park.

"What is it exactly that you need me to do?" asked Serge's man.

No introductions, no pleasantries, just business.

"I need you to hack into a Facebook page and delete it. Delete every trace of it and everyone that was ever part of it."

"I don't quite understand," his voice still had the faint trace of Eastern European influence. "You say you want me to delete a Facebook page and what? Remove all history linked to that page, yes?"

"That's exactly what I want, and I need it done now."

"But this can take a very long time. We need the user ID and then we have to _brute force_ the password just to get access. That's before we even start to erase anything."

"Serge, I thought you promised me the best."

"My friend, he _is_ the best. Nothing is secure from him. He has worked for us in the past but like he says, it takes time and I don't want to be rude but I don't think a public park is the best place to do this."

Norman acknowledged the fact and stood up.

"Come with me please, gentlemen," he said. "Let us find somewhere more...appropriate."

They walked for five minutes, again, in total silence. Norman knew the area well. He guided them between the luxury apartment blocks, up hill and down dale as his mother used to say. They finally came to an Italian restaurant Norman had visited in a previous life.

"Wait here for me please," he asked Serge and his nameless hacker.

Norman went inside. The minimalist décor indicated expensive. He remembered a time when this sort of restaurant would have been an innovation in London, now they were everywhere. Expensive-chic.

"Can I help you sir?" enquired the jolly looking headwaiter.

"Do you have any tables for tonight?"

"How many would you like Sir?" he joked.

"All of them!"

"I'm sorry, Sir?"

"I said I want all of them. All night until we're finished."

"But, Sir, we have tables reserved for this evening."

"In that case unreserve them."

"But, Sir, what you are asking is..."

"Get me the manager please, no, better still get me the owner."

The not-so-jolly-now fellow shuffled off to the house phone, behind the Maître d's desk, and began to dial.

"Good afternoon. I'm sorry to bother you, Sir, it's Giuseppe here. I have a small situation. There's a very nice gentleman who wants to book the whole restaurant for tonight. I've already explained to him that we have reservations but...."

He thumbed through the large diary.

"Twelve, Sir...okay I shall tell him. Just one moment," he lowered the receiver from his ear. "Sir, the booking fee for the exclusive use of the restaurant would come to twenty thousand pounds, excluding food and drinks. Only ensuring privacy."

Norman handed him two envelopes. Giuseppe began to count it on top of the diary. He put the receiver back to his ear.

"Erm... the gentleman has just paid me in full, Sir. What should I do now?...okay, okay. Leave that to me, Sir. I'm sorry for disturbing you."

He hung up the phone and turned to Norman.

"Alright, Sir, everything is arranged. I must just point out though that we are only six people in the kitchen so there will be a waiting period between serving the courses. One hundred and twenty meals will take some time to prepare at such short notice."

"There are only three of us."

"Sorry, Sir? There are only three of you?"

"That's what I said. All we'll need is the door to remain locked and the curtains drawn. You can send most of the staff home. Just keep the chef, yourself and the bar open."

"Very good, Sir."

Norman, Serge and the nameless one took the table in the far corner of the restaurant, furthest from the kitchen and bar. The hacker started to empty his briefcase onto the table. Hard drives, cables, discs and his laptop.

"I'm sorry, but we haven't been formally introduced, I'm Norman," he said, offering the hacker his hand.

"Bill," he replied, giving a limp handshake. "Now, will you please open the web page which you would like erased?" he asked, sliding the laptop across the table to Norman.

Serge walked over to the bar, admiring its black granite counters and, more importantly, its fine array of imported vodkas.

Hamid's Facebook page was open.

"Who is this Charles Gray?" asked Bill.

"Oh, nobody, that's the account I used to get access. That has to go as well."

"No problem. Now, what I must first do is try and log in as this Abdul Hamid. He right clicked Hamid's user name and the properties gave him the ID number. I hope it's his username and not email address. Do you have that by the way?"

"No, I couldn't find it, sorry."

"It's not a problem."

Bill connected one of his hard drives up to the laptop and proceeded to attack the keyboard at lightning speed. "Ah! Good, his login is his user name. Okay, so all we have to do now is use brute force on the password."

"Come again?" said Norman.

Bill was attaching a second hard drive. Serge was still drooling over the bar.

"Hallo!" called Bill. "Any chance of having some drinks over here?"

Serge struck the countertop bell and Giuseppe came running from the kitchen, followed by a crew of smiling employees, grateful for the night off.

"What we are going to do, Mr. Norman, is

use this software to enter every possible password. This hard drive will try what is called "dictionary". It does exactly what it says, it enters every word in the English dictionary, one at a time, at a rate of two thousand per hour. The other device is what we call "Brute Force" it is an algorithm it will enter every possible password known to man at a rate of ten thousand per hour. You will see I have six of his pages open now. This should cut down on the time it takes. This way each system is attacking three times faster."

"How long will it take?" asked Norman.

"Oh, anywhere up to eight hours. But I don't think his password will be too complicated. His page is public after all. All we can do now is have a few drinks, maybe something to eat and wait."

Serge brought a bottle of Russian _Stolichnaya Elit_ vodka to the table along with three small glasses.

"This is the very best vodka my friend," he told Norman. "Eighty percent proof. Some people back home would kill you for this."

Serge poured the drinks, just like he'd done for Kalif. They clinked glasses in the air and then threw the contents down their throats.

"Anyway, Mr. Norman, I'm sorry," said Serge, "but we haven't discussed the price for this service."

"How much?" asked Norman.

"If Mr. Bill can do this for you we believe it's worth...no. Let me stop there. You have already spent a large amount of money with us. How much is it worth to you, Sir?"

Norman was taken aback slightly. Jesus it was worth a million or more to him. It would eradicate the list. It would hopefully stop the police in their tracks and allow us to finish the job, unhindered.

"Fifty grand," said Norman, unabashed.

"For fifty thousand, I stop now," said Bill. Placing his briefcase back on the table.

"Okay, let's say one hundred and fifty?" offered Norman.

"Let's have another drink and we can all think about it," suggested Serge, refilling the glasses as he thought of his percentage.

And so it went on. They got drunker. The price went up. Giuseppe brought them the meals that they eventually ordered, and then suddenly the laptop made a pinging noise like a microwave. It was 9:30pm.

"We have it!" announced Bill.

"Are we in?" asked Norman.

" _Oh yes_."

"What was the password?" asked Serge.

"Oh my goodness. You will never believe this."

"What?"

"guilty_as_charged."

Norman looked between Serge and the hacker.

"Why do you find that so unbelievable?" he asked. "He knows doesn't he? Serge, you told him what this was all about, didn't you?."

Serge put his hands in the air.

"I watch the news Mr. Norman," said Bill. "My usual employment is hacking hi tech security systems, banks, prisons etcetera. So when someone asks me to hack a Facebook account. I can put two and two together," he stared Norman in the eye. "We are all on the same side here, Mr. Norman. We are in this as deep as you are. You have to trust us."

"I told him everything, Mr. Norman," said Serge. "That is the way we work. That is the way we have always worked. We are here to help you."

"Then let's get back to work," snapped Norman.

Bill typed away. Pages opened over pages, over more pages. He remained silent as he worked. Five minutes maybe more passed.

"Perhaps this is a reason for you to trust us, Mr. Norman." said Bill eventually.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you create an account under the name of one Steven Neilson?"

"Yes."

"I see that you used an anonymous IP system to do so, but entry into their database shows that you were within a triangulation point in the Kings Cross area when you did this. Is that correct?"

Norman nodded.

"If I was the police I would be looking at the hotels in that area right now. I would also have a team checking all CCTV footage over the last few weeks. I would also have a court order to seize all private footage," he tapped away again, started to nod his head, his lips curled into a smile. "And there we have it, Mr. Norman."

He turned the laptop around. It was clear video footage of Kalif getting into the VW camper and leaving the hotel car park.

"Where the hell did you get that from?"

"Courtesy of the Metropolitan Police, camera number....let me see," he squinted at the screen, "1109B. Now, Mr. Norman. It will take me five minutes to eradicate this Facebook page and all trace that it ever existed but let me ask you this. Is that enough? Or do you want me to erase your entire careless trail. Give you a fresh start as it were."

"How much?" asked Norman.

"For five hundred thousand pounds, Mr. Norman, I will set you free. I will place a worm in this page before deleting it, that will very quickly find it's way to all of the related sites and within three hours every page linked to this one will be gone without a trace. Now, this may sound like a lot of money but bear in mind some of the things I will have to do make me an accessory to murder. But by tomorrow morning, you will never have existed.

"Will the police know these things have been erased?" asked Norman.

"Of course, that's the fun part. I can even leave messages for them if you like."

"No thanks," Norman paused, looking towards the London skyline, "on second thoughts. Leave them this message, "It is close, the day of their ruin, their doom comes at speed."
Chapter 19

Adrian Devoy

Age: 38. Location: St. Albans. Films: Leon, Alice in Wonderland, Lolita. Authors: Stephen King, James Herbert. Music. Slipknot, Slayer, Marilyn Manson. Hobbies: Gardening.

This one seemed like a strange apple, but who am I to judge? I just pick them, I'm not here to analyse their compulsion for films featuring little girls, am I?

Devoy was obviously close to Hamid. A lot of his pictures featured them together. Drinking, laughing, oh, the good times. Before I came along that is.

The bottom branches of the tree were bare now. I would have to start using a stepladder soon. At least the farmer had been put off the scent for a while, I hope.

With all evidence eradicated, I'll be the first to admit that I was becoming cocky. I know, I know, that's how they get caught. I said cocky, not careless. It was time we received some publicity. We needed Hamid to start getting scared. Sooner or later he needed to be flushed out of hiding.

I decided it was time to begin taunting. I almost enjoyed the reaction generated by Kalif and Dmitris' last expedition. The nation seemed shocked. I hope that Steven Neilson, his barrister was shocked. I hope the police officers who searched Hamid's apartment and car without the correct warrant were shocked. I hope the Tube staff who were on strike that day and the bastard who sent the email from New York that night were all fucking shocked. I hope the police have found Abdul Hamid and informed him they think some psycho killer is picking off all his friends, one by one, and that he's probably coming for him at some point in the not so distant future.

Adrian Devoy stated his gainful employment as a landscape gardener, but since this was also his hobby I presumed he was a fucking liar. I soon found him listed as one of two managing directors of a firm called Devoy & Bryant Media Limited. The Companies House website gave their office address free of charge and for a small fee, which I settled with my untraceable, pay as you go Travelex credit card, I downloaded their last year's accounts and a list of any "sleeping partners" which unsurprisingly included my little bastard Hamid.

The business wasn't doing too well and if I were still in my former banking job I would've advised them to go into voluntary liquidation. In my new career however, there would be no voluntary about it.

I had plans for Devoy. Big plans. You know the term "the long con" well this was going to be "the long pick". A two stage kill. My cockiness told me it was time to stop just picking apples but start making cider out of them.

Albert took the train from Oxford Street to Saint Albans. His appointment was for ten in the morning. Devoy & Bryant's' website offered filmmaking and editing services. When he reached their "Head Office" he got a pretty good idea of the sort of films they were used to making.

Sandwiched between a sex shop on one side and a strip club on the other, the door to Devoy's first floor office bore a simple plaque, "Devoy & Bryant. Discreet Video Services."

Today, Albert was Professor Chamberlain of the National Subterranean Association. He wanted to make a one-hour documentary about the underground rivers of London, with its main focus being on the River Fleet.

His walking stick and limp were the excuse for being without transport, so Devoy agreed to drive to him to London to visit the sites and discuss the project further.

"We'll require a feasibility study payment, Professor," explained Devoy, as they set off in his Jeep Cherokee.

He looked much younger than his years. Tall, skinny with died black hair, tied back in a ponytail. Albert could see the scars from long ago, removed piercings and what looked like the head of a snake peering over his white shirt collar.

"How much young man?" enquired Albert.

"Well, a site inspection in London will be two hundred and fifty," replied Devoy.

"No problem. I'll pay you just as soon as we're done. I'm really quite eager to make this film as soon as possible. I've heard tell that an old rival of mine from the association is planning the exact same thing. He hasn't approached you, has he?"

"No. Let me assure you, this isn't our normal type of media work."

"Oh? Then what is?" asked Albert, innocently.

Devoy shot him a glance.

"Well, most of our clients are looking for something a little saucier shall we say."

"Oh dear. I hope it's all legal. I have a reputation to protect amongst the members you know."

"Don't worry, Sir. It's all above board and what isn't gets filmed in Holland," he replied, seeming proud of his grubby little global business.

Albert pretended to fall asleep. He couldn't listen to Devoy's bullshit without feeling the urge to strangle him there and then. He was nudged awake as Devoy pulled into the car park on Shoe Lane.

"This is about the closest I can get, Professor."

"Eh? oh, yes. Do me a favour young man. Would you park on the very top floor? I want to see if we can get any shots from that high up."

Albert began to feel ill as the Jeep corkscrewed through the levels until they couldn't go any further. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see that theirs was the only vehicle on level seven.

Devoy jumped out of the Jeep and waited impatiently to set the alarm as Albert fumbled for his walking stick from the back seat.

Remembering to limp, Albert approached the parapet, producing a small pair of bird watching binoculars from his pocket.

"Hmm, doesn't look too hopeful," he said scanning the surrounds. "I was hoping we may have seen the buildings on Fleet Street following the course of the old river, but it's not apparent from here."

What _was_ apparent was the lack of CCTV cameras covering the top floor of that car park. We weren't going to make _that_ mistake again.

Devoy could smell the scent of money on Professor Chamberlain, so was eager to please. He followed Albert around listening to his lies and grand ideas. He feigned childish enthusiasm when Albert pointed out the sound of the River coming from a grate in the middle of Charterhouse Street.

"In some places, the river runs forty feet beneath street level," gushed Albert.

Five hours later they had agreed a price, decided on the locations and set a date to begin work. Devoy agreed to drop the Professor off at Chancery Lane Tube station.

Devoy pointed his key fob toward the Jeep. The lights flashed, the alarm beeped and the doors unlocked. He climbed in. Albert held back, struggling to get down on one knee to tie up his shoelace. When he looked up again his driver was asleep. The odourless aerosol he'd sprayed as he struggled to get out of the Jeep had worked as well as Serge had promised.

"Weaponized Fetanyl" he had called it, the same shit they'd used back in 2002 when the Chechen Rebels laid siege to some theatre in Moscow, he'd said. I still remember the glint in his eye when he talked about it.

*

It took almost ten minutes of wrangling before they would let Albert anywhere near the storage facility. They were used to Kalif coming and going in the camper van. Eventually he persuaded the guard to call Serge. Albert spoke to him briefly before handing the phone back to the meathead, a short nonsensical conversation took place and then he was allowed to pass.

The lock up was hidden away in an old factory in Croydon. From the outside the redbrick building looked just like any one of the numerous disused factories scattered throughout the city. A small sign on the solid steel gates gave the only clue to its Russian links. Berozovich Holdings.

The entire perimeter wall was festooned with skin slitting, blood letting razor wire, giving the property an ominous prison-like feel. Inside, the place was patrolled twenty-four hours a day by four guards complete with dogs, tasers and sub machine guns.

The building had been subdivided into different sized units, each one with solid steel doors of a different colour to the next. No numbers, no identification, just colours. Our unit was the one with the light green doors. The exact colour of an apple skin. We were paying five thousand pounds a week for what Serge had promised was an "unbreakable and untouchable" little piece of Russia in the city of London. I assumed by this he meant there was some diplomatic immunity scam going on. I dreaded to think what was being stored in my neighbours' garages. I bet it would make my box of tricks look like a kid's toy box.

Albert asked the guard behind the gate to allow the doctor in when he arrived. Somehow I wasn't surprised when said there was a £200 visiting fee. As he counted out the twenties he smiled and said he would personally escort the doctor to our unit.

Albert punched the eight-digit code into the electronic lock. The light turned from red to green. Then the panel next to it lit up with a glowing green hand. I peeled off Albert's latex glove and placed my own hand on the panel. A beep sounded and the steel doors began to part.

Albert then reversed Devoy's Jeep inside and hit the red button to close the doors behind them. He was pleased to see that Kalif had prepared everything before his sudden demise.

The machines were all set up next to the hospital bed. He dragged Devoy from the boot, threw him over his shoulder and dumped him onto the bed.

The butcher's block was the perfect height. It sat level with the mattress. Albert picked up the four pieces of copper tube, which were lying on the block, and put them into his pocket. He moved the lump hammer and dropped it onto Devoy's limp body. Then he pulled the block level with Devoy's waist and placed his left hand onto the butcher's block, the palm facing upwards. Removing the first piece of pipe from his pocket he lined it up in the centre of Devoy's palm and drove it through the skin and bone with one hefty blow. Tilting the hand to one side, Albert twisted and pushed the pipe until it protruded through the other side at an equal distance. He then took the blowtorch from the shelf beneath the butcher's block and began to heat both ends of the pipe. He didn't want to cauterise the wound completely, just to stem the flow of blood. Albert repeated this procedure on Devoy's right hand before moving onto his feet.

Ten minutes later the pipes were cool enough to remove. It had worked perfectly. The holes through Devoy's hands and feet were the size of a large coin. Albert picked up his right hand and peered through the hole as if it were a telescope.

"I spy with my little eye something beginning with..." he twisted the hand until he could see Devoy's face through the hole, "U," then he started prodding Devoy's stomach. "Have you got it yet? No? Well I'll tell you the answer. It's the Unluckiest bastard on the face of the Earth at the minute. There you see. Simple, wasn't it?"

The butt of the machine gun rapping on the door put an end to Albert's silly games. His visitor had arrived.

The doctor knew exactly what was required of him. Albert wasn't going to waste any time going over it again. Devoy was to be put into a drug-induced coma for as long as was necessary. He was to be kept alive, fed and watered.
Chapter 20

Imran Farooq

That night, Albert left the storage unit and headed straight out for the next apple. There were only three left from the unlucky thirteen and no one would notice Devoy missing until he didn't show up for work on Monday. Albert thought he may as well make use of Devoy's Jeep in the meantime.

We had decided not to push our luck, we would only use the Jeep for one picking and then get rid of it, until Albert came up with his brilliant idea that is.

Farooq was a quiet one. He didn't appear to trawl the Internet and plaster his life all over it. In fact, I hadn't been able to find out anything about him apart from the fact that he was married, to someone that looked scarily like him actually, probably a first cousin and that he worked at Heathrow airport as a baggage handler. That was all we could find out about him. The proverbial brick wall.

Weeks earlier Kalif had spent a couple of days at the airport trying to spot him. But his untrained eye wasn't up to the job. Eventually, he persuaded the lady at the information desk to page him. When Farooq called the desk, Kalif made out that a mutual friend named Mohammad, who he had met on his recent visit to Pakistan whilst visiting family, had given him his name. Farooq obviously fell for it as he agreed to meet him for a coffee in one of the airport cafés when he finished his shift.

Farooq was very suspicious of Kalif, who, by the way, found out exactly zero with regards to Farooq's address or in fact anything about his life whatsoever. What he _did_ learn though is that at six foot three, the bearded Farooq would certainly stand out in a crowd.

At the end of their wasted conversation Kalif went to the toilet, re-emerging as Norman, who in turn followed Farooq on the Tube from Heathrow to Clapham and directly to his flat.

The entrance to Farooq's home was up a dimly lit side street. The doorway was obscured by large industrial wheelie bins, presumably belonging to the shops on the main street.

Albert double parked in front of a small gift shop and unloaded two large cardboard boxes from the Jeep. He placed them next to the wheelie bins and then drove off. Norman had briefed him on the set up and location earlier, recommending he park up in the supermarket car park about three streets away. Albert found it right away. Norman had been right, there were no cameras.

Albert went into the supermarket and purchased a quarter bottle of vodka, a carton of orange juice and a ceramic mug. Then he sat in the Jeep swigging his concoction, the ratio biased towards the vodka rather than orange if truth were known. After thirty minutes of medication and meditation, he made his move.

It was one of those horrible downstairs flats where the front door opened directly into the living room, no entrance hall. Before Farooq answered the knock, Albert could hear some foreign news channel blaring out from the other side. When the door opened Albert didn't mess about, he shot Farooq in the neck. When his wife came out of the kitchen to see what the fuss was about he'd already reloaded and he shot her point blank in the chest. As she hit the floor on top of her husband he felt a little guilty noticing her pregnancy bump.

Albert checked the flat, the bedrooms and bathroom. There was nobody else, thank God. He pulled the bodies into the living room and threw them onto the couch. He felt his back go as he tried to lift Farooq, but the adrenalin, rage and vodka gave him a helping hand. He made sure the curtains were firmly closed and lowered the lights, then he quietly opened the front door, checked the alley was clear, pulled the two boxes inside and started to unpack. One for the kitchen, one for the living room.

*

Farooq's wife was the first to come around. Bound, blindfolded and gagged next to her husband.

"Enough to knock out a Siberian tiger for six hours," Serge had bragged.

But the tranquilliser dart only lasted two hours on Mrs. Farooq. Her husband soon followed suit. Albert waited for them to start struggling, then he would know the effects had truly worn off.

Farooq was violently jerking one way then the other, crashing into his wife each time, trying desperately to wriggle free. Albert loaded another dart into the gun. If this bloke got free he knew he would have a job on his hands.

"Good morning, Mr. Farooq," Albert said quietly. "I do hope you slept well."

Farooq kept struggling. Grunting. The veins on his neck and arms were bulging.

"Now, now, Mr. Farooq. Please calm down, after all, you're not going anywhere."

The struggling was turning ferocious, the grunts animal-like.

"Mr. Farooq!" said Albert, more sternly this time. "If you insist on carrying on like this I'll be forced to kill your wife and your unborn baby."

Albert was smiling.

The struggling stopped. Farooq slumped back on the couch in resignation. His wife didn't even flinch at Albert's statement, a good indication that she didn't understand English, he thought.

"Mr. Farooq, I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth in a moment but I feel I must warn you that if you make so much as a squeak I'll shoot you again, but this time it won't be with a tranquillizer, but industrial-strength cyanide. Are we clear?"

Farooq nodded. Albert approached him. He stuck the muzzle of the gun firmly in his forehead and began to peel off the duct tape. Not a sound came from that man, not a word, even though half of his moustache came off with the tape.

Farooq gasped for air. "What do you want with us?" he asked. "We have nothing. No money. Nothing. I only work at the airport."

"And that is the reason, Sir, why I'm here," replied Albert.

"Who are you?"

"Anti-Terrorism Squad, Mr. Farooq."

Farooq burst out laughing. "Anti-Terrorism Squad? I think you've got the wrong house, mate."

"Oh, I don't think so. You are Imran Farooq, are you not?"

"Yes, but I don't think I'm the one you're looking for."

"I'll be the judge of that," snapped Albert. " Now, tell me, Mr. Farooq, do you know the current whereabouts of one Abdul Hamid?"

"Abdul? No, I haven't seen him for months."

"Well our intelligence indicates to the contrary. In fact, we have footage of you two together only a few weeks ago."

Albert was guessing but after all he was in a position to do whatever he wanted.

"Yeah, okay, I went to that party his folks threw when he got off."

"Got off?"

"You know, when his court case got chucked out."

Albert had visions of the jaccuzi filled with the best bottles of champagne. Probably caviar and all other manner of exorbitant luxuries. The congratulations, the backslapping, fun and jokes. He crept forward and leaned down next to Farooq's ear, pressing the gun to his neck. The rage was surfacing again. Bubbling, like magma.

"Where is he?" demanded Albert.

"Honest, I don't know."

"But you can find him, can't you?"

Silence.

Farooq knew he was innocent of any crime except attending a party. Why should he tell the police anything?

"Fuck off! I want my lawyer and I want him now!" he screamed.

The exact reaction Albert had expected. We'd gone over Farooq's thought process for two days. We put ourselves in his position, his reactions, and he'd just proved to us what a worthless piece of shit robotic society we were living in. Well his preconceived ideas of the way things work were about to be radically altered.

"I think you'll _need_ a lawyer, Mr. Farooq when my colleagues see what you've been up to in your flat."

"What are you talking about?"

"Stand up!" ordered Albert.

Farooq bounced forward on the couch a couple of times to gain momentum then managed to get to his feet. Albert took the balaclava from his pocket and pulled it over his head. We'd already lost Kalif I couldn't risk having another one identified. He reached behind Farooq's head, which made the man flinch, and pulled off his blindfold.

Farooq could only stare in disbelief.

Above the fireplace was strung a Jihadist banner, a video camera on a tripod was set up ready for Farooq to film his martyrdom message before the bombing. Paperwork and laptops were on the sideboard and coffee table. Albert took him at gunpoint into the kitchen, which now resembled a bomb factory. Chemical tanks, packages, wires, a mobile phone and detonators.

"What the fuck?" cried Farooq.

Albert forced him back into the living room.

"Sit down," he ordered. "Now, let me explain. You have enough C4 in this flat to blow up two Boeing 747s. You also have two laptops with blueprints of Heathrow airport and 216 emails between yourself and a mystery terrorist cell in Pakistan. Your paperwork includes downloads of radical Jihadist preachings as well as bomb making instructions. To make things worse, everything here is covered in your DNA, from saliva off your toothbrush to fingerprints, which you so kindly donated whilst you were asleep. Oh, and by the way, this evening, you just applied for a job as cabin crew for British Airways. I'd say we're looking at a minimum of thirty years inside here.

"This is bullshit, man. Get this crap out of my house," he screamed.

"Mr. Farooq. Where is he?"

"Why are you so concerned?"

"Mr. Farooq, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm the one asking the questions here. I'm going to give you two choices. Either tell me where he is or I'll make that phone call, and I guarantee you won't see your child until he's older than you are now."

All this time Farooq's wife hadn't moved.

"Does she speak English?" asked Albert.

Farooq shook his head. "No, she's only been in the country for six months."

Good, thought Albert.

"Okay, look I'll tell you what I know. Abdul started getting some shit after he was found not guilty. He told me he was going to go and stay at his cousin's house in Brighton for a while, until things calmed down a bit."

"And?"

"What do you mean, and?"

"What's his cousin's name?"

"Ahmet something. I thing it might be Hamid as well. Are you gonna let me go now? You know my wife's pregnant."

Albert took a seat opposite the Farooqs. The distant sound of sirens could be heard.

"Hear that?" he asked pointing towards the door. "That's your thirty year jail sentence on its way."

Farooq looked terrified, he began to shake.

" _Please_ ," he begged.

"Tell me one more thing and this will finish now."

"What? Anything? Just get this shit out of here, _please_ "

"Did Abdul commit those crimes?"

Albert was grinding his teeth. Even though he knew what the outcome of this scenario would be he still felt angry being so close to one of Hamid's apples. He should have been dehumanised by now. Just get on with the job.

"Well, at the party he kind of said that he..erm..was lucky."

"Lucky?"

The sirens drew closer.

"Yes! Okay, he did do it. Fuck, I don't know why I'm defending him when I'm the one sitting in the middle of the biggest fit-up in fucking history. He did it! He bragged about it and said she squealed like a baby when he raped her....Happy?"

BOOM! Albert's head exploded. He fired the dart into Farooq's chest, as close to the heart as his old trembling hand would allow. He stood up and grabbed Farooq's wife. Throwing her over his shoulder he opened the front door. He didn't look left or right, he didn't care if anyone saw him now. The magma was erupting. The first bin was full. The second had room. He tossed her in and wheeled it to the end of the alley. He pushed it across the road, ignoring the blasting horns. He wheeled Mrs. Farooq and her unborn a hundred and fifty yards down the road and left them outside a pizza shop. Then he dialled the number. The phone on the kitchen worktop vibrated. Albert felt the vibrations of the blast as shop and car alarms started ringing and the sky lit up like a volcano.

*

Albert pointed the key fob at the Jeep. The wailing alarm stopped, the lights turned off. He opened the door, grabbed the remainder of his concoction and threw the CD onto the backseat, along with Kalif's face. He then wandered to the nearest payphone and made the call to the police.
Chapter 21

Albert spent the night in the camper van. The next morning he showered, made a breakfast of beans and Spam, then walked to the campsite shop to buy some newspapers.

He looked quite pleased with himself when he returned to Laputa. It appeared his little idea had worked.

The front pages were plastered with a picture of Adrian Devoy.

"Britain's Most Wanted" said one. "The Face of Madness" read another, but my favourite was The Daily Mail. "The Facebook Killer: Is this man responsible for at least twelve murders?" it asked.

And so the game began. Cat and mouse. The police were obviously the mice and I considered myself to be the extremely smart cat.

"The Metropolitan Police have launched a nationwide manhunt for a man they believe to be responsible for the torture and murder of the Bridgewater family in Bermondsey last week.

Adrian Devoy, 38, of St. Albans is believed to have gone on the run last night after an explosion tore through a house on Hatter's Lane, Clapham. His black Jeep Cherokee was discovered abandoned in a nearby car park following an anonymous tip off from a member of the public.

A police spokesman told the Mail that evidence found inside the vehicle had strong, verifiable links to the Bridgewater slaughter as well as several other unsolved murders and suspicious deaths. The evidence includes a rubber mask, which has been identified by a key witness as the person suspected of stalking the flat on Harwich Road in Bermondsey. A computer disk was also found containing details of the planned murder amongst several others, of which the police have not yet released details.

Assistant Chief Constable Peter Burgess released the following statement: "At 11:39pm last night, an explosion occurred within a property in the Clapham district of the city. Shortly afterwards we were notified of the whereabouts of a suspicious vehicle. That vehicle belongs to a Mr. Adrian Devoy, who has since disappeared. As a result of evidence found within the vehicle, we strongly believe that Mr. Devoy may be the perpetrator of the triple murders committed in Bermondsey last week. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous and by no means should be approached by members of the public. As a result of these findings we are in the process of reviewing several other recent deaths in the city. We believe that Mr. Devoy has every intention to work his way through a list of people, who are connected via a well-known social networking site. Based on this theory we have taken twenty-nine people into protective custody...."

Yes, but they're the wrong people! You've got the lemons. The apples are still out there. Let me explain. The CD that Albert put in the Jeep had all the details and plans for picking the apples, which had already been picked. The rest of the "hit list" we'd picked randomly, the only common denominator was that they each had over one thousand Facebook friends. With Hamid and all his friends' pages erased it would take the police weeks to piece it together, if they ever could.

What's more, we mailed Devoy's mobile phone, five grand in cash and a good luck note to a house in John O'Groats, which was advertised for sale on the Internet with vacant possession. As soon as the police call his number and trace it, which they will, believe me, they'll end up wasting a couple of weeks on stake outs and searching for him up there.

*

I asked Albert to clean out the soil, which he'd left in the camper van. I decided it was probably safe to start using it again now, that the attention had been diverted. We drove to the lock up to check on Devoy. The doctor was there and confirmed the patient was being drip fed by the machine three times a day and watered five times a day. Albert noticed one of the UV bulbs had blown in the overhead lights. He found the spares and quickly changed it before saying his goodbyes. He couldn't wait to get back home. After all he had two days off.

It was Norman's shift now.
Chapter 22

Norman listened to Radio London all the way to work. They kept banging on about Devoy, calling him a possible serial killer and basically trying to scare the hell out of the whole city. Some police smart arse revealed that a lot of "vital information" had been lost, but wouldn't elaborate on the fact. He did however say they were working closely with the UK Facebook administrators to try and recover it.

Fat chance. It was gone. Bill had dispersed it into the ether, never to return.

Kill Family Robinson: 1 Coppers: 0.

*

There were only three Hamids listed as living in Brighton. Norman visited each address posing as a canvasser for a local councillor. He updated the electoral role records on his clipboard at each house.

It was the last address, which contained Ahmet Hamid. Just him, his father and a "lodger" who allegedly didn't want to vote. Norman was pleased to see no sign of police protection. They obviously didn't know he was there.

Albert sat in the bookies across the road for most of the day making one and two pound bets, watching the races and watching Hamid's hideaway.

At 7:15 pm he saw him leave the house. The rise of fury was a hundred times greater than he could ever have imagined. An almost uncontrollable urge to charge through the plate glass window and bite him, tear him apart and devour him, but that wasn't the plan. We had to be disciplined, more so now than ever before.

So Norman let him walk away. The wrecker of lives, the killer and rapist that made poor little Laura squeal like a baby. He just let him walk to get on with his life. His safe little life where nobody knew where he was.

Norman knew we had to keep him there, where he felt he was out of danger's way. We didn't want him returning to London. So on the way back to Laputa Norman made a slight detour and petrol bombed Hamid's house.

*

Two hours later he was parked outside of Gary Pearson's house in Ealing, or to be more precise, Pearson's parents' house.

So delicately named as you would expect from the Russians, the "Vampire Intruder III" is a piece of hardware which basically hacks into any computer that's logged onto a wifi connection, as young Mr. Pearson's was now. The only giveaway to the innocent user is that their system slows down by eighteen percent as the device sucks the data blood from them. Whilst Pearson's most intimate secrets were escaping through his bedroom window into the camper van, Norman decided he'd better tinker with the engine to avoid raising any suspicion. That's when we met our first policeman, face to face.

A "beat bobby" as we used to call them when we were kids. Back then there was every chance he would have rolled up his sleeves, pushed Norman out of the way and got stuck into the engine himself. But not now. He looked more like Batman than a copper. The good old days of bare necessities, handcuffs and a truncheon were gone apparently.

Norman noted the extending, skull-fracturing baton, a taser gun, some canister he could only assume was CS gas and his stab proof vest, or were they bulletproof nowadays?

"You do realise that you're parked in a residents' only space?" said Batman. Not giving a shit that we might actually be experiencing genuine engine problems.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Officer," replied Norman, without even looking up from the engine, "but she just started to cut out a few miles back and I have to get to Swansea tonight to see my mother. She's been very ill you see," Norman looked up from his work. "It all started back in 1989 when my father passed away, he'd been a coal miner all his life and she swears that's what killed him, anyway, after he was gone she began to suffer terribly with depression. Her sister, Mary, also had it, so maybe it ran in their side of the family," Norman started rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "My goodness, does that mean I'm in line for it as well?"

He glanced towards the policeman, looking for some sort of reaction, but he'd gone. His flashlight trying to penetrate the tinted windows of the van.

"Is this your camper van, Sir?" he asked.

Norman began to feel nervous. Surely it wouldn't end like this. A routine traffic offence and this little superhero would have us bang-to-rights for a dozen deaths and one in the process. That's what happened to the Yorkshire Ripper, wasn't it? Shit! We didn't even know who the van was registered to, we just knew it was legitimate, or at least Serge said it was. I can't believe I hadn't even asked him whose name it was in. Wait a minute. He'd said the papers were in the glove box.

"Just one second officer and I'll get you the paperwork," said Norman, with an air of confidence.

Fuck. Was it there? He looked at the copper. About six foot tall, mid-twenties, no chance of overpowering him or outrunning him. He glanced up at Pearson's bedroom window, light still on, no one looking out. His files, Internet history, passwords and death certificate still streaming into the van. Norman rummaged through the glove box. Beneath a can of antifreeze and a windscreen sponge he found a brown manila envelope.

"I'll just be a second," Norman called to the far side of the van.

Batman was trying the passenger door. Norman checked his watch. Almost six minutes since the download started. It should complete in ten. He tore open the envelope while he still had a few seconds of privacy. God, Serge was good.

The camper was registered to a company called _One For The Road,_ specialist car, camper and truck Hire. The insurance and test certificates were there. At the bottom of the pile was a piece of folded paper, which read, "Dear client, if you are stopped by an officer of the law please present them with this leaflet."

Norman did so.

Batman took it with a look of condescension. He read the cover, opened it and began to study the contents.

"Just wait here," he told Norman. as he walked a few yards up the street. After a short radio conversation he returned. "Okay, Sir, everything seems to be in order but I have one request."

"Yes?"

"Could I have your permission to take a quick look inside the vehicle?"

Shit! What was going on? What was in the letter he just read? Should we let him or not? The bedroom light was still on. Norman checked his watch. Nine minutes. Not long enough. Refuse and there could be trouble. Let him and it might just be game over. Norman's mind raced. What tools were in the van? What if he let him, finished him off and then drove off?

"Well, Sir? I'm sure you've got nothing to hide," said Batman with a fist-deserving grin.

Norman slid the side door open to allow him entry. It was then that he saw it. A fraction of a second, it couldn't have been any longer. Jesus, she can't have been more than nine or ten. Then the screen turned black. A blue rectangle flashed up momentarily, _Download Complete_ , then the system shut down. The slowing of the fans matched Norman's exhaling breath to the tee.

Batman stepped inside, looked briefly at the computer and attached equipment.

"Business or pleasure?" he asked a still shocked Norman.

"Erm, solely for emails and weather reports," he replied.

"Nice little camper. I've always fancied one of these," said Batman in his fucking dreams. "I could take the wife and kids to Truro to see her family and I could sleep outside," he turned to leave. "You should really get this carpet cleaned professionally. What is it, Soil?" he asked, bending down to inspect the floor. "Man, that's gonna stink the place up if you're not careful."

And with that, Batman went on his way to harass someone else, Norman closed the engine compartment and the light went out in Gary Pearson's bedroom.

*

Now, if I were to tell you about the things we found on young Pearson's computer you would probably be as sick as I was that night and the next day and the day after.

I actually wrote a full chapter about it, the photos, the videos, posing as a schoolboy to lure them in.

I philosophised about it being an incurable illness, its sufferers devoid of any feelings of guilt. Then I screwed it up into a ball and threw it across the room. The rage stamped on it until it was as flat as fucking tin foil. The rage almost broke a floorboard. The tree rocked. Then the tears came. The tears for my baby Laura.

Not one of us left Laputa for four days after that. None of us ate. We didn't even plan picking that sick apple. We _knew_ what had to be done.
Chapter 23

Daily Mail Online.

EXCLUSIVE: Can 450 Detectives, 52 Police Forces, and Interpol all be wrong?

THE FACEBOOK KILLER: Matthew Gerradine asks the unthinkable, "Are they looking for the right man?"

Adrian Devoy. The name on everyone's lips, the face on the front page of every newspaper in this once green and pleasant land. The alleged perpetrator of such horrific crimes as last week's Bridgewater massacre and the murder of Imran Farooq in Clapham. The proverbial bogeyman.

Over the past six days the nation has become obsessed with the hunt for the man we have come to know as the "Facebook Killer", allegedly picking off victims, one by one, from a list of friends displayed on the world's biggest social networking site.

As a result the site has reported a 25% loss of its UK user base alone. That's the equivalent of six and half million accounts having been voluntarily closed through fear of attracting his attention.

But the question remains. Whose friends? Police have admitted that so far they have only managed to link two out of thirty-three recent deaths which they are investigating, the Bridgewater family and that of Renee Walton, who was poisoned by Ricin in a Camden restaurant almost three weeks ago.

The link? Rashid Hamid. A London businessman and property developer who came here from Pakistan in 1956.

The Bridgewaters were slain in one of his rented properties and Ms. Walton was employed as manager in a shop, which operates from one of Mr. Hamid's commercial properties.

The evidence? In this reporter's mind, purely circumstantial.

An embattled Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Brian Bailey, admitted last night that leads were few and far between. He confirmed that an operation was underway in Scotland, but declined to elaborate on the situation. Sir Brian also, reluctantly, confirmed that there was no actual DNA evidence on the disguise or documentation discovered in Devoy's vehicle.

Therefore, with so little to go on, what makes Sir Brian so certain that Adrian Devoy is Britain's most wanted? And if he, in fact, is not, then who is?

A senior source, close to the investigation, is so concerned the current Europe-wide manhunt will prove to be in vain that he contacted me personally to air his doubts.

My contact's primary concern is the "absolute lack of any incriminating evidence, be it forensic or otherwise, linking Devoy to any criminal act."

That having been said, Devoy appears to be no angel. He has a string of low level convictions mainly related to his company, Devoy & Bryant Media Limited. These mostly come under section 2 of the Obscene Publications Act, primarily importing banned pornographic material from the Netherlands. He has no violence-related convictions and to quote his business partner of ten years, Clive Bryant, "Adrian doesn't have a bad bone in his body. This is obviously a malicious set up."

Indeed, at every turn it is beginning to look like it. Bryant has provided me with evidence that Devoy had a meeting with a mystery client on the day he is alleged to have detonated the bomb in Farooq's home. A nationwide appeal has so far failed to shed light on the identity of this client.

The composite C4 explosives used to destroy Imran Farooq's house, along with his neighbours' on either side, is estimated to have a value in the region of £15,000 on the black market. A sum, judging by Devoy's annual tax returns, he could never afford.

With a business teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, mortgage arrears and a heavily overdrawn bank account, are we to believe he could afford to supply the sophisticated surveillance equipment discovered in the Bridgewater' flat? Let alone the fees of, what the police are calling, a professional torturer.

And what of Rashid Hamid? Described by the few who know him as a fiercely private man. One cannot dispute the tenuous links between the two cases already mentioned but the major factor that flies in the face of this investigation is that Mr. Hamid doesn't even possess a Facebook account.

A disgruntled tenant? Vengeful business associate? My source tells me neither can be the case. Firstly, Hamid is well known for his generosity towards his tenants, be it in his residential or commercial lettings, always paying 50% of any renovations they wish to carry out by their own initiative, be it new kitchens or carpets.

As for business rivals, Hamid appears to have none. He is reportedly well respected in his small circle and deals exclusively with Pakistani financial institutions. His empire is valued at a little under £40 million and last year alone he donated almost £5 million to community charities in the UK and back home in his native Pakistan.

So the question begs, if Mr. Hamid is not the target, who is?

Now, it is not the task of the press to point fingers, let alone and initiate rumours. Having said that, my high level source, mentioned, on more than one occasion, a certain Abdul Hamid, son of Rashid. Recently acquitted at the Old Bailey on charges of rape, arson and a double murder on grounds of a technicality. Due to an injunction we cannot print any further details, except that his whereabouts are currently unknown and a matter of concern to his family, who are under twenty-four hour armed guard themselves.

So, let us assume for one moment that the friends in question are those of Hamid Jnr. and not his father.

Police enquiries have revealed that Hamid Snr. is unfamiliar with his son's social circles. Yet my source reveals he was known by at least one of the Bridgewater twins and, more revealingly, actually has financial interests in Adrian Devoy's company. This leads to the further question, if, God forbid, Adrian Devoy is not the Facebook Killer, then who is?

Dermott Madison lost his daughter, wife and family home that terrible night in September, and he himself was badly injured. As soon as Hamid's trial ended, so did Madison. He appears to have dropped off the face of the Earth, along with the seven-figure sum he received from his insurers.

My source has enlightened me to the fact that an electronic paper trail has been removed from the social network site itself, as well as police CCTV cameras in the capital. He also assures me the cost to perform this sort of clandestine elimination, which has apparently thrown the entire investigation into turmoil, would run into tens of thousands of pounds. Another expense Adrian Devoy could ill afford.

The number of people now being held in protective custody has risen from twenty-nine to one hundred and six, with this figure expecting to rise further over the next few days.

With so many unanswered questions, it is not my job, neither in a journalistic nor a legal capacity, to attempt to answer them, but simply to initiate a "two sides to every story" discussion.

By investigative journalist Matthew Gerradine. Additional reporting by Juliette Davies.
Chapter 24

Gary Pearson

Aged 28. No obvious source of income. Lives with his parents. The Land Registry shows he owns his apartment in Brixton, purchased for £68,500 three years ago. Drives an expensive 2010 Mercedes SLK. HPI check shows no credit is outstanding on. A bit of a mystery man, or boy.

Pearson's emails were blatant. He was a paedophile with a penchant for little girls. His maximum age appeared to be thirteen but "the younger the better" to quote a sick man.

We had open access to six of his seven accounts. The seventh was highly encrypted and no matter how hard we tried we could'nt gain access. The assumption was that these emails were his salary. His despicable income. Emails to "Mr. Big". Uploading his vile photos and videos.

But, fear not, in a couple of hours all would be revealed. Pearson had been messaging a young victim by the name of Wendy Lomax. Eleven years old. Infatuated. Fully believing that the man she is going to meet at the fast food restaurant near Kings Cross is the same age as her.

"Promise not to tell your parents."

"I promise. They think I'm going to the park with my friends."

"Good. Let's keep it our secret. Can't wait."

"I still can't believe that your aunt gave you all that money for my bus fare, food and the hotel room so we can watch movies all afternoon. She must be sooooo cool."

"Yeah, she's kind of cool. My folks don't know what's going on though. They think I'm playing football with my mates, but they're all so boring now. One of them even joined the Scouts last week. "

"No way! That sucks. I think we'll have fun though. Most of the boys in my school are from other countries and they kind of speak funny all the time."

"LOL! Listen talking about school, a friend of mine might come to the hotel. He's making a film about friends enjoying themselves. He might bring his video camera so don't get freaked if he turns up."

"Cool. He can watch the movies too."

Wendy Lomax. Eleven years old. Youngest daughter of Peter Lomax. "Managing Director" of PL Security Services, London. Running the doors of fifteen nightclubs and fifty-eight pubs north and south of the river. A workforce of almost six hundred employees, both ex-army and ex-asylum.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but this isn't the sort of father I would think about pissing off. Yes? And for that exact reason he _will_ receive a phone call in approximately one hour and fifty minutes to let him know what's happening to his little girl.

*

Pearson had booked room 513 at the Scotland Road Hotel, six days earlier. Albert said it looked like a, to quote, "right fuckin' shithole". Nevertheless two hundred quid had gotten him half an hour's access to the room, prior to Pearson's liaison. Time enough to place his remote cameras. One on the windowsill, in the leaves of the dying pot plant, the other in the grimy lampshade over the bed. The other fifty quid was spent on room 515, across the hall, for the next day's rental, voyeurism and apple picking.

Albert parked the camper three streets away. A quick power up of the lap top and we had a perfect view of room 513, even from that distance. Pearson would still be in the burger restaurant, probably trying to explain why he looked seventeen years older than he should.

We were getting close. Only this one and the next to go before all hell broke loose.

Room 515 stank of mildew, sweat and lubricant. It was disgusting. A minus three-star hotel. The sheets obviously hadn't been changed since the last occupant, only a new one laid on top.

I couldn't help but wonder how low I'd sunk. My God, if Anna could see me now. I was aware that my personal hygiene levels had dropped. Christ, I used to be a two-showers-a-day man, but when you spend your time living between a tree house and a camper van certain sacrifices have to be made.

I sat on the rickety chair in front of the dressing table and looked at Norman in the mirror. I hadn't seen the real me for what felt like an eternity and I can honestly say I don't know if I ever wanted to again.

It was uncanny, Norman had my eyes. It was at that moment a wave washed over me, a wave of doubt. As I sat there thinking about Anna and Laura, I wondered whether what I was doing was indeed right. Maybe I should just end it all and go and join them in the next life so we could be together again as a family, eating olives and feta cheese, ice cream and chocolate cake.

Would they even approve of what we were doing down here on Earth? The revenge. Is it what they would have wanted?

The voice. I knew the voice. It was Laura.

"Daddy, daddy, please", she begged, "just another ten minutes, pleeeease. Mummy won't be angry with us."

My arms were already aching, I'd been pushing the swing for what seemed like hours but the butterflies in her stomach made her squeal with delight. How could I refuse?

"Alright precious, ten minutes but not a second more. You know what your mummy's like about being late for Sunday lunch."

And so I pushed her as high as she could go. She screamed with delight kicking her little legs back and forth to gain momentum. "Okay, are you ready? Over the bar!"

"No, Daddy, no!" she pleaded.

I awoke to see Norman still staring back at me in the grubby mirror. The excited squeals ringing in my ears, but not coming from the playground this time but the corridor outside the room. Pearson.

I rubbed Norman's eyes, placed the laptop on the dressing table and watched as Pearson unlocked the door to room 513. He was instantly recognisable from his online photos. The same bleached hair, spiked like a mohawk, slightly reminiscent of the lizard that he was. Dressed in an England football top and faded jeans.

Wendy looked her age. In fact she reminded me a lot of Laura when she was nine or ten. The same red hair, down to her shoulders and wearing a knee-length yellow and pink floral dress. Her eyes darted excitedly around the room. A room, which promised her an afternoon of movies and fun. The same room, which would turn her father into a murderer and probably separate them for the next twenty years. On the bright side, the by-product would make London a much safer place.

She threw herself down on the bed and scrambled around to face the television, kicking her legs up behind her, ankles crossed.

"Wow, I've never seen a bed so big. I'm sure even my parents isn't so huge", she giggled. "What's the first film we're going to watch?"

"What's the rush?" asked Pearson. "We've got all day."

"Ooooh sorry", she replied sarcastically. "Thanks for lunch by the way. It was yummy."

"Don't mention it. I'll tell Aunty Alice you said thanks. Oh, by the way, on the subject of not mentioning things. I'd prefer it if we kept my little illness between us, if you don't mind."

"What? You mean the ageing thing?" she replied, naively.

"Yeah, it's kind of embarrassing that's all. The other kids at my school have kind of accepted it now but I don't want it to get out. I don't wanna end up like some kind of freak."

Devious little bastard. Premature ageing. Premature lack of vital signs would be more appropriate.

As we watched Pearson I could feel the rage surfacing again. My cheek throbbed. Who the hell could do what he was about to do to such an innocent young thing? That was my Laura in that room. That was someone's daughter, someone big and bad who was about to receive a call that would change his life forever.

I reasoned that at least I was giving him a chance, an option. Something I never got. I wasn't telling Lomax to come to room 513 and kill these people. He could always make an informed decision and pass on the information to the police. Let them do their job, but somehow I sincerely doubted that would be his reaction. Only time would tell.

Pearson put a DVD into the player on top of the television. He flicked through with the remote control.

"What do you fancy, beautiful? The Lion King, Avatar, Snow White?"

Obviously he had a choice for all his preferred age ranges.

"Let's watch Avatar, I've seen it before but I love it. I have to warn you though I'll probably cry at the end."

"I'm sure you will, beautiful, I'm sure you will. They always do", he muttered.

Norman and I watched Pearson and his prey for an hour. An hour in which nothing happened. They didn't speak, they didn't touch. Both of them just lay on the double bed watching the film. It was only when the little girl left to go the toilet that events took a turn.

Pearson took out his mobile phone and dialled a number.

"Yes. We're ready. She's here...how long...half an hour, okay... room 513." He hung up. Then he called a second number.

"Hi, this is the sweet shop. Can you be here in an hour? The action's on...okay, bye."

Pearson then did something that made me physically wretch. He took off his jeans and t-shirt, hung them over a chair and climbed back onto the bed wearing only his boxer shorts.

I knew this was going to be hard for me from the moment I saw and read the shit on his computer. That's why we decided to leave the hotel and retreat to the camper van immediately after we called Lomax.

Firstly, if he did decide to call the cops, we didn't want to be anywhere near and secondly, I couldn't guarantee to keep my emotions at bay and at this point that was a key element to the success of our future plans.

Wendy came back into the room.

"Sean, why are you dressed like that?" she asked, an obvious look of concern on her young face.

"Oh, don't worry it's part of my condition, the doctor says it's an overactive body temperature or something. Means I get hot all of a sudden."

Wendy looked uncomfortable with the situation. She sat on the edge of the bed furthest away from him and pulled her dress down over her knees.

"When's your friend coming?" she asked.

"Soon, about another twenty five minutes, so remember we have to be enjoying ourselves."

With that he rolled over the bed and grabbed her. She squealed as he tickled her but then she pulled away.

It was time to make the call and get the fuck out of there before Norman took things into his own hands.

"Peter Lomax?" I asked.

"Who's this? Who gave you this number?" he demanded.

"Let's just say a mutual friend. Listen. Do you know where your daughter is?"

"She's with her friends in the park. Who the fuck is this?"

I decided to rile him up. Make sure that when he got there he was ready to fight like the maniac he allegedly was.

"Well, Mr. Lomax I have some news for you. I don't think your parenting skills are exactly up to scratch", I ignored his rants and vulgar language. "Try and calm down, Peter. You don't mind if I call you Peter, do you?"

Deep breathing.

The faint sound of a foot tapping.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Two things, Peter. One, I want to help you save your daughter...."

"Where is she?" he screamed. "If you lay a fucking finger on her I swear half of London will be after you, you ..."

"Peter! I'm trying to be your friend here. How long will it take you to get to Clapham?"

"Clapham, fuck, I don't know, about an hour. Is that where she is?"

"Too long. It'll be too late to save her. You've to get here in half an hour."

"Where is she? Who's got her?"

"The Scotland Road Hotel. Room 513. I'd suggest you bring some back up with you."

"Don't fucking worry about that, mate."

The line went dead. A thank you would have been appreciated but at the end of the day, he was doing me the favour.

It was time to leave. To watch from afar. Norman drove the camper van to a better vantage point. There was a free parking space on the corner of Scotland Road and Market Street. After a slight altercation with a young man in a Porsche, Norman finally clinched the spot. We topped the parking meter up to give us two hours and retired to the darkened privacy of the galley kitchen. Through the windscreen we could see the front entrance to the hotel.

The signal from Pearson's room was crystal clear. Wendy was lying on the bed again, drinking something this time. A worrying addition to the scene. It had been barely five minutes before we heard the knock on the door.

I felt a mixture of emotions. Fear for the little one, my little Laura, disgust for the two men Pearson let into that room and excitement for what would happen shortly, when Lomax turned up and found his daughter alone with three strange men.

Pearson introduced the two men to Wendy. "This is Rob, and this is Roy. They're the ones I told you about. They're making videos about people like us having fun and getting to know each other."

They looked younger than Pearson. I would have estimated late teens, early twenties. They were dressed casually in gaudy surfing shirts and jeans.

"Hello, I'm Wendy," said the voice of innocence, extending her hand.

They ignored her and began unpacking their camera equipment. I don't know if it was Rob or Roy who pulled the curtains closed, while the other one fitted his video camera onto the tripod.

"Wendy", said the cameraman, "can you do me a favour please?" he asked, as though talking to an adult.

"What is it?" she replied.

"Do you know how to wear makeup?"

"Well, I've seen Mummy put it on so..." she shrugged, "I suppose so."

He passed her a small case.

"It's just for the camera, that's all. If you don't have your eyes and lips highlighted then you'll look all washed out on the final film," he said, reassuringly.

She looked at Pearson, who nodded and smiled. She took the case to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

Rob and Roy motioned for Pearson to join them on the far side of the room.

"Is she gonna be ok?" asked one.

"What we mean is ... have you got anywhere yet?" said the other.

"Business first", laughed Pearson. "Have you got the cash?"

They opened the camera case and removed the interior. Underneath was the root of all evil.

"Five grand?" confirmed Pearson.

"No, mate. Fifteen," smiled Roy.

"What the...I thought the fee was five."

Pearson appeared shocked.

"It _was,_ but the boss wants to expand."

"What do you mean, _expand_?"

"He wants a snuff," said Rob with a smirk.

"You're having a laugh here, aren't you?" replied Pearson.

He was running his hands through that lizard mohawk of his, looking up at the ceiling. "A snuff, a fucking snuff film. So let me get this clear, your boss wants me to make out with this nine-year-old girl and then kill her on camera?"

Rob and Roy stood silently, nodding and smiling. The key in the bathroom lock turned and Wendy stepped out. She reminded me of a contestant from one of these sick American pageants you sometimes see in the papers. Little kids dressed like whores for their parents' gratification.

"Here she is," crooned Roy, "and doesn't she look all grown up. Oh I nearly forgot, honey, can you get changed into this as well?"

He threw a bag at her and she obediently returned to the bathroom after reassurance from Pearson that everything was going to be okay.

"Fun! Remember, beautiful? Fun."

I called again. "Lomax! Where the hell are you?"

"Five minutes away. Is she all right?" he asked.

"For now."

I could hear the car that Lomax was in blasting its horn. The engine racing to save his daughter.

Rob was taking a light meter test in the room. He had the video camera powered up and its flashlight turned on, pointing directly at the bed. Roy was loading a new memory card into his Nikon SLR camera. Wendy was still changing. Wendy's father was still battling traffic. Laura's father was trying to control the rage _and_ the bile, which were rising simultaneously.

I checked the clock on the dashboard. 3:35pm. I checked the screen. No Wendy. Pearson was lying on the bed now. They were doing some sort of screen test.

Then I heard it. The horn blasting. The engine screaming. Still no Wendy. Please God, make her stay in the bathroom, keep her safe. The horn was louder now. People running for cover. Cars mounting the pavement to get out of the way. This was it. Game on. Lomax was just like me, like every father everywhere. He had the rage in him. The revenge. The primeval urge to protect one's own.

"Get her out of there will you?" demanded Rob.

Pearson's arrogance seemed to have vanished. He'd lost control. He knocked on the bathroom door.

"Hey, beautiful are you ready to have some fun?" he asked.

A muffled reply came from behind the door.

"I can't hear you, sweetie."

"I said I don't want to!" yelled Wendy.

Pearson shook his head in disbelief.

"Come on now honey, it's only a film remember. When it's finished we can watch some more movies and I'll take you for something to eat afterwards. You like ice cream, don't you?"

He was nodding at the other two. A quick wink. The key turned.

The black Mercedes spun around the corner so fast I was sure it was going to hit the hotel's foyer. I don't know which one was Peter Lomax but not one of the five occupants was under six feet tall and almost as wide. They leapt from the car, leaving the doors open. They wore black suits, white shirts and black ties. As they stormed the entrance they pulled balaclavas from their pockets. The driver remained in place, only speeding off when they were inside, the passenger doors slamming shut as he accelerated.

Pearson was still trying to coax little Wendy out from behind the open bathroom door.

"Don't be silly. You look absolutely gorgeous. None of the girls at my school are half as beautiful as you."

The camera in the plant pot covered the room. I could see her little face, terrified, degraded, confused, mascara running down her cheeks. Crying. Sobbing. Trying to catch her breath. The door of the room was visible on the right hand side of the screen. Nothing. Shit, maybe he'd gotten the wrong room. He should've been there by now.

Pearson stepped into the bathroom and led her out by the hand.

"Look at my little princess everyone", he declared.

She was trying to smile amidst the sobs. Rob and Roy gave a little clap. The black minibus couldn't break in time. It hit the entrance with a squeal of tyres, masonry flying over its roof. The second minibus managed a handbrake turn but still clipped the back end of the first. This was parental control, Lomax-style. As another twenty men stormed into the Scotland Road Hotel Wendy Lomax began to bawl her eyes out.

Then she was lying on the bed, next to Pearson.

"Okay", snapped Rob. "Scene one, _and_ action!"

The camera started to roll. Pearson rolled over to face little Wendy. He gently touched her face. _It's gonna be alright_ , _beautiful_. The door came clean off its hinges. Peter Lomax stared at his little daughter for what seemed like an eternity. Trying to comprehend what he was witnessing. The makeup. The red lingerie. The naked man in bed next to her. The camera. The boy in the surf shirt cowering in the corner.

Her screams of "Daddy! Daddy! Help!" were soon drowned out by Pearson's own. "Operation sweetshop! Operation sweetshop!" he hollered, hands raised in the air. "Undercover! Undercover! Metropolitan Police!"

Whether the men waiting in the corridor didn't hear his cry of surrender or whether they chose to ignore it is a case for speculation. What is a certainty is that when the glass shards hit the pavement from five floors above, followed by Roy, Rob and a naked Gary Pearson; the world was a safer place for children like my little Laura and Wendy Lomax.

Gary Pearson. Status: Deceased. Location: London central mortuary.

*

Norman and I still had some time on the parking meter. I must admit I was intrigued to see how the "professionals" would get out of this situation, _surely someone had called the police by now_ , so Norman put the kettle on and we waited.

It didn't take long. The black minibuses returned, minus their number plates, and the men in black suits filed out of the building still wearing their ski masks. As they filled the vans, the last one to leave carried Rob's video camera.

He stormed towards the gathering crowd and proceeded to film the onlookers. Sweeping the crowd he ordered, "You don't know who we are but we can find every last one of you and your families. Anyone of you speaks to the police and your fucking dead".

That seemed to work quite effectively as they all ran off rather quickly just as the old bill turned up, but still no sign of Lomax _or_ his daughter.

"Peter, where are you? the cops are coming in now."

"Do you think I'm gonna take my little girl out of here looking like a fucking whore?"

"Room 515."

"What?"

"It's the one across the corridor. It's booked until tomorrow. The door's still unlocked. Get in there. You'll be safe."

I could hear police radios, shouts, doors banging, Wendy crying again.

"Listen", it was Lomax, "whoever the fuck you are. However you got my number. I owe you a big favour."

"I know."

*

It was on the long drive back to Epping Forest that I first saw the placard next to the newsstand. We were on the outskirts of London.

"DAILY MAIL: Are we hunting the right Facebook Killer?"

Screeching to a halt Norman got out to buy a copy. I must have read that fucking article four or five times before it began to sink in. Who the fuck did this bastard Gerradine think he was? And where the hell did they get that photograph?

To be continued...

The Facebook Killer: Part 2 is available for purchase now.
The Facebook Killer series have ranked number 1 in the Amazon thriller-horror charts, as well as holding a top 10 position in the overall Apple iBook charts for over four months.

Other books by M.L. Stewart include the Sunday Club and The United Kingdom of Islam.

Email: ml.stewart@yahoo.co.uk

Twitter: @AuthorMLStewart

Blog:canisell500000ebooksbeforexmas.blogspot.com

The Facebook Killer (Part One)

Copyright M.L. Stewart 2011 - 2012

Published at Amazon

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To the best of the author's knowledge all characters and organisations contained within the work, whether living or dead, are fictional. Any similarity to existing people or organisations is purely coincidental.

