The Ultimate Selection: Be Careful Who You Talk To (12 page)

‘Horrified,' McFarland added.

‘Have you any idea of the magnitude of a case like this?' Terry continued. Sharon's solicitor acted embarrassed, avoiding eye contact with either men.

Terry was not going to allow himself to be drawn. ‘Good day Mr Barnford.' The young inexperienced rookie solicitor left.

‘What do you think now? Now you've had chance to talk to her, to meet her,' McFarland asked Terry.

‘That smell I couldn't identify, that was pepper-spray. Someone else was there at the time, a third person was involved. Who and what the connection is I'm not sure of at the moment. Her solicitor won't help her. He was far too quiet – waste of money.'

‘Fresh out of his nappies. Are you going to talk to her again?'

‘Yes, we are. I'm going to have to see what develops first though.'

‘You're fucking nuts. We can't afford to sit on this Terry,' McFarland could not believe his ears.

‘I need her to ask to speak to me – allow her time. She's the only credible witness.'

‘She fucking did it Terry.'

‘Her hand was forced.'

‘Do you think that she planned to kill him? Do you think the third person may be her lover?'

‘No, I don't think she planned to kill Brian. Her story is not elaborate enough, though, it's also slightly fractured. Where's that fucking hammer? Someone took it. We only need to find out who that was – simple really,' Terry said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Where do we look next?'

‘Listen, my Scottish friend, you know that I already think that Sharon is telling the truth. We have a massive fucking problem roaming our streets. Yes, we've got a fucking psycho walking the streets of London and we haven't got a fucking clue how we're going to stop him!'

‘We need a lucky break. We must have missed something.'

‘The only thing we don't know is who the fuck he is going to choose next.'

‘So you think this wasn't a one-off?'

‘No way – the planning was far too immaculate for it to be a one-off.'

‘Right, I'd better go and report where we are with this case to our lord and master.'

‘OK, mate. I'm going to go home. Try and make sense of all this.'

‘I'll see you later,' McFarland said, trying to remain positive.

***

Terry got home and drifted off into a world of his own, lost within his own thoughts. He remained completely baffled by Sharon. Why had she not asked about her baby? Terry had checked that she had not been placed on any medication. And the state of her mental health had proven that she was completely, without question, compos mentis. He continued to read his notes, scribbling and adding to them as he did.

Chapter Sixteen

It had been seven weeks since Sharon had killed Brian and the media frenzy that had surrounded the case had all but died down. New Scotland Yard had reached a dead end and had nothing new to report. A single tabloid newspaper reporter had decided to keep a hold of the story and kept writing about how the police had tried to dilute the events that had taken place on that horrific evening – provocatively telling his readers that the police needed a fresh killing in order for them to find the mysterious man in the black suit. New Scotland Yard had unsuccessfully applied for a gagging order, stating that the reporter was trying to ignite a fire that they were trying to keep under control.

***

Greg had kept his relationship with Karen on an even keel – seeing her regularly and treating her well. On a couple of occasions they had double dated, making up a foursome with Martin and his girlfriend. Greg needed to be seen socially with Martin and Martin would not be suspicious if he asked him to go for a drink without their girlfriends.

***

Greg had been busy formulating Hector's abduction and subsequent demise. A disused multi-storey car park, located just on the outskirts of London, well out of the way, was going to be the venue.

Greg had decided to leave as much distance between his victims as possible – though only in a geographical sense. Once everything was in place, he would strike – no time limits, no calendar to work to. Greg did not want to leave the police any clues as to the where and when. No habitual trail was going to lead them to him.

Greg had visited the venue on more than one occasion, keeping an eye on any activity in the area. He also wanted to make sure that everything was in place. The multi-storey car park had been sold to developers and was due for demolition. Greg researched the demolition planning consent application on the internet. There were not any immediate plans to demolish the structure as fresh building plans had neither been passed nor rubber stamped. He had time, enough time.

The car park had five levels but only the lower level had been used by drug users and alcoholics. Vandals had also left their mark. Now the place was all but deserted. Greg had selected the fourth level for Hector's final resting place.

He decided that he was going to grab Hector a day earlier than Martin, as timing was everything. If he rushed it, he risked being seen and blowing it and there was a big chance of both men getting away. If that happened, he would have to stop – abort, for risk of getting caught.

With his stopwatch running, Greg had completed his own time trials to calculate how long it would take him to cover the distance between Hammersmith and the disused car park. He was thorough and tried out two separate routes at the approximate time of his planned abduction. He carried out this exercise from his own flat too. He would use the AA's online route planner on both evenings in order to assess whether roadworks or diversions affected either of his chosen routes, just in case he needed alternative options.

Hector had proved to be a creature of habit. Every Friday, he would frequent a well-known gay bar in Hammersmith. The Penny Farthing was a nice friendly place in the centre of Glenthorne Road – a detached building with a large car park at the rear of the building, perfect for Greg.

Greg witnessed Hector leave with his quarry and walk around to the rear car park. The area looked as though it had been tailor-made, out of sight from the big brother – CCTV. Hector and his boy would fornicate before Hector would get violent, though this would never last more than a couple of minutes. This was followed by an exchange of verbal abuse and then Hector would leave.

Greg had decided to snatch Hector on the following Friday evening and Martin on the Saturday. Greg had previously arranged to go out on a heavy drinking session with Martin.

Chapter Seventeen

Greg stood waiting in the darkened shadows. He had no idea of the time, but he knew it was late. He must have been standing there for almost an hour. His heart raced; his stomach acid danced. He could taste the bitterness at the back of his throat. Trying to calm his breathing, he counted slowly in his mind and attempted to sing a slow melody. His adrenalin had already kicked in. Recalling his utter hatred for the South African, he pumped himself up, raising his aggressive side and calling his alter ego to surface.

As predictable as ever, Greg noticed two men leave The Penny Farthing – one of them was Hector. Both men were staggering, holding each other up whilst kissing. Greg watched patiently – waiting for his time to pounce. He followed both men with his eyes as they engaged in a sexual activity. Greg waited for the men to finish. He saw his signal when Hector started to hit the young man. Screams came from the young man, begging his attacker to stop. Greg heard Hector's laughter in between verbal abuse. Hector's time had arrived.

Greg sprinted over to where the two men were. Pushing the young man out of his way, he hit Hector with a forceful punch to the side of the head, sending the overweight man crashing to the floor. Greg turned and faced the young gay man, who had got back to his feet.

‘Go,' Greg told him, using a middle class tone to his voice – the voice of his alter ego.

‘Don't hurt me. Do what you want to me, but please don't hurt me.' The young man was terrified by what he had just witnessed, although he saw the man in the shiny black suit and mask as his saviour.

‘Go. Fuck off and clean yourself up!' Greg ordered with an aggressive tone.

‘Thank you,' the young man replied, not knowing what to say as he made his getaway.

As Hector raised himself to a kneeling position, a lightning kick removed the air from his lungs. He coughed and spluttered, fighting to find the stolen air as his eyes filled with tears. He crashed back down onto his stomach, wincing with the pain and clutching his chest.

‘STOP, STOP!' he pleaded, still trying to replace the oxygen missing from his lungs. ‘What do you want?' he pleaded.

Greg walked slowly around the overweight South African and waited until the man was on all fours. From behind, Greg released a pulverizing kick which landed perfectly, crushing the man's genitals.

‘I want you,' Greg answered bluntly.

‘What do you want?' Hector begged, as he winced in agony.

‘I applaud you Hector, you take a beating well – like a man, but you're not a man, you're an insult to all men.'

‘What are you on about?' Hector asked, trying to get to his feet.

‘Don't get up!' Greg warned.

Hector decided to listen to his attacker's advice. He stayed on the ground adopting a sitting position as this guy did not look like he was joking.

‘What do you want?' Hector asked, in a sheepish manner.

‘I want you. I have to deliver you to someone.'

‘Do I have a choice?'

Greg appreciated the sarcasm in Hector's question. ‘Everything begins with choice, Hector. Yes, you have a choice to make and that choice will shape the rest of your life. You can choose to resist – bad choice in my opinion, run – another bad choice – or surrender. Whatever you choose, you need to make it quick. Time is of the essence Hector. One thing is certain though.'

‘What's that?'

‘You are coming with me.' There was a definite authority in his voice. Greg was already holding a leather-bound, tightly stitched cosh which he swung, striking Hector on the back of his head.

‘Lights out Hector. We'll talk later.'

Staying in the shadowed boundaries of the car park, Greg dragged Hector to his van. The back doors had been deliberately left unlocked. Greg bundled the slobbish oaf into the back of his van, used zip-ties around Hector's wrists and ankles, placed duct tape over his mouth and a cloth hood over his head before closing the rear doors firmly.

Once in the front, Greg removed his mask, started the engine and drove away in an unhurried manner in order not to attract any attention. During the journey to the disused multi-storey car park, Greg could hear the dull sound of movement in the back of his van.

‘Good, that will make things easier at the other end,' Greg thought with a smile.

The journey time matched Greg's calculations exactly. Greg slowed the van, applied the handbrake and got out. He needed to open the gate that the building contractor had erected to keep trespassers out. On a previous visit, Greg had swapped the padlock provided by the building contractor, for his own. The padlock snapped open and the gate followed the momentum. Greg got back into the van and drove, exiting the van to close the gate behind him. The van stopped on level four. Greg opened the back doors with caution. Hector remained still.

Greg hit Hector with a thunderous blow. The crunch he felt under his knuckles confirmed that two of Hector's ribs had crumbled under the force. Hector coughed, his mouth filled with blood.

‘Just to let you know where we stand,' Greg said.

Hector tried to reply but it was no use, the duct tape covered his mouth and muffled his words. The hood hid the tears of pain in his eyes.

Greg dragged Hector forward.

‘I'm going to free your legs. Don't do anything foolish that might make me regret my generosity.'

Greg sliced through the plastic zip-tie, freeing Hector's legs.

‘Stand up and walk,' Greg ordered.

Hector did as instructed – still walking, staggering and stumbling. Once they had reached a previously designated area, Greg threw Hector to the ground. Handcuffing both Hector's wrists and his ankles, Greg sliced through the zip-tie that had bound Hector's hands then removed the hood that covered his head. Hector squinted, trying to focus, navigating his vision through the darkness.

‘Where's your mobile?' Greg enquired, ripping the duct tape from his quarry's mouth.

Hector winced against the sting of the adhesive being forced from his lips.

‘In my pocket… it's in my trouser pocket, front pocket,' Hector replied.

Greg placed his hand in the pocket he had been directed to and removed Hector's mobile phone. ‘You won't need this anymore,' Greg told him assuming his alter ego's voice.

‘Where are we?' Hector enquired.

Greg moved close – the big South African was truly petrified. The fear set deeply through his eyes, the window of the soul.

‘You can ask me as many questions as you like,' Greg prompted.

‘Who wants me here?'

‘I do.'

‘You said that you were delivering me to someone,' Hector was confused enough already and this was not helping him make sense of his predicament.

‘I want you here, but the truth is, he doesn't know you're here yet.'

‘I don't understand,' he said confused and dazed. ‘Am I going to die here? Is he going to kill me here, God damn it?'

‘No not yet. Let me explain. You are a married man, your wife, bless her, defends you to the hilt, even though, in her heart, she knows what an absolute bastard you are. You treat her like shit. Tonight, after fucking that guy, you would have gone home and smacked your wife around a bit, and then you might have decided that you wanted to fuck her too. You didn't even wear a condom when you fucked that guy and you wouldn't even wash your cock before shoving it up your wife, you piece of shit!' Greg was beginning to lose his temper, he paused, gathered himself. Control was everything.

‘How do you know so much about me?' Hector enquired.

‘I know everything Hector.'

Hector cursed to himself.

‘You would have beat that guy up if I hadn't intervened. Have you not heard of AIDS? Your wife may have contracted the virus because of you, your kids could even have it. All the people you have had sexual contact with may have contracted the aids virus from you. You, Hector, may be responsible for all their deaths. Do you give a fuck? No you fucking don't.' Greg stopped abruptly, as he felt an overwhelming power of dominance.

‘You're going to kill me aren't you?' Hector blurted out in panic.

‘No, I've already told you I'm not, that's the job of the person you'll be meeting tomorrow. That's if he decides to do it. We'll have to leave that for tomorrow.' Greg stopped speaking and walked away. He felt like a giant, no more than a giant, a god.

‘Where are you going?' Hector's fears grew.

Greg returned a couple of minutes later, holding a bottle of vodka.

‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? What is that for?' Hector rambled.

‘It's for you Hector – I'm going to help you drink it,' Greg decided to only answer Hector's last question.

Greg then broke the seal on the screw cap on the bottle. He grabbed Hector's head, pulling it back sharply. Hector opened his mouth, gasping for air in order to soften the shock. ‘Drink up,' Greg said whilst pouring the transparent liquid down the South African's throat without concern. The liquid oozed from the corners of Hector's mouth. Hector desperately fought for air, swallowing the alcoholic spirit seemed the only answer, but the more he swallowed, the more the burning alcohol flowed. Greg forced Hector to finish the whole bottle – a whole litre of vodka was now racing its way around the South Africans bloodstream.

‘Stop, please!' Hector choked, before vomiting.

Greg did not reply. He quietly stepped back, avoiding the substance that had projected its way from Hector's intestines. Hector's eyes glazed over, his head throbbed; the pain from the rest of his body had diluted. His vision wobbled, his surroundings shook and everything seemed to vibrate. The back of his throat stung; the acid contained in his vomit stuck. Coughing, he tried to clear his airways. His eyelids started to feel heavy. Unconsciousness followed.

Greg crouched over the unconscious South African and rolled him over onto his stomach. Greg removed a small tube of Super Glue and emptied the contents along the crease that ran down the centre of the seat of Hector's jeans. Rolling Hector's completely limp body onto his side, he placed the empty vodka bottle in the crevice, forcing the crease into Hector's anal crack. The Super Glue served its purpose. Greg smiled, deciding not to replace the duct tape, in case Hector was to vomit again. The South African choking to death on his own vomit was not part of the plan.

***

Greg arrived home carrying his sports bag. He quickly had a shower. Sitting in the living room he checked the time. Almost five-thirty, time had escaped him; he was exhausted. His bed begged for his company.