The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 (2 page)

“
Read the email again,” Pearson said firmly, passing the phone back across the table, “and tell me where it says he has killed anyone. All it says is that they know where this Abdul fellow is. There is no crime in that. OK he says they’re going to dish out some form of justice, but again that’s an unspecified threat.”

“
So what do we do?” Matt asked with a frustrated sigh.

“
We go and see your Editor, right now and give this nutter something to read.”

Chapter 3

The Daily Mail Offices, London: 10:00pm.

“
With all due respect gentleman, you must think that I’m absolutely stark raving mad,” declared Howard Ballantine, the paper’s night time editor. The sixty year-old paced back and forth in front of his cluttered desk. Pearson and Matt Gerradine seated on an uncomfortable brown leather couch, “Do you realise how much trouble we could all be in if this were to backfire? I am due to retire in less than a year. You, Matt, would be out of a job as well and as for you Assistant Chief Constable, I dread to imagine the consequences.”

“
Mr. Ballantine, I would ask you to consider the situation we have here before you make a final decision. We are currently conducting one of this country’s biggest ever manhunts and this new information may cast a shadow of doubt over the whole thing. We may be wasting our time looking for a victim and not the real killer. There are lives at stake here, Mr. Ballantine. I’m sure you can appreciate that,” said Pearson.

“
Not to mention, if I may?” Matt added sheepishly, “If we are correct in what we think is actually going on here, it will be the story of the year. Imagine it, if you will,” Matt wrote the letters with his finger in the air, “Exclusive: Britain’s Biggest Manhunt...For The Wrong Man.,” he was on his feet now, “Sir, this isn’t the Yorkshire Ripper, a man killing for sick kicks or deluded fantasies. This is a man avenging his murdered wife and daughter, a man failed by our very own justice system. This story could split the nation. If Dermot Madison is the Facebook Killer, there is every likelihood he could wind up a folklore legend.” He took his seat again.

Both men sat in silence, waiting for the editor’s decision.

“
Ok, ok,” relented Ballantine, “we go to press with it in one hour, and by God, I hope you two are right about this, or we’re all going to be in it up to our necks.”

Chapter 4

The Avari Hotel, Lahore, Pakistan.

When I awoke the next morning, my first thought was, “No I didn’t, did I? What the fuck did I say?” Needless to say I couldn’t recover the email to check exactly what I’d written. Damn that Norman and his drinking, damn him to hell!

I felt physically sick, my cheek began to throb and paranoia started to creep in. What if the email
could
be traced? What if the Pakistani Police were on their way to the hotel at that moment?

I checked the bedside alarm clock, 10:00am, which would make it 7:00pm in London. I couldn’t face it immediately, so I showered before partaking of a leisurely breakfast in the privacy of our suite. After several refills of strong coffee, I had gained the courage to take a peak.

The laptop remained on the desk, where it had been used the night before, Norman was fast asleep next to it. I had even forgotten to put them back in the safe, yet another rule broken. I was nervous as hell when I lifted that screen open, half expecting the police to be hiding inside, jump out and grab me. I’d heard about post-alcoholic depression but this felt like the precipice of insanity.

I checked The Daily Mail website. Scrolling down through each headline, nothing seemed relevant. The strangest thing was the absolute lack of stories covering the hunt for Devoy. There were normally three to four separate articles on a daily basis. This looked bad. They were updating their stories, I knew it, this was the only explanation. Devoy wasn’t the killer, I was and they were going to announce that to the world. Why in God’s name had I made contact? Now they would be bribing some hospital secretary somewhere to obtain photographs of how I look now, after the fire. Every Police Force in Britain will be having emergency meetings, all overtime cancelled. They’ll put a reward on my head. Who says Serge or one of his comrades won’t grass me up over the false passports? Christ, if they find out about Norman, they’ll come straight for us.

Refresh! Refresh! Still nothing. No news. I checked The Times Online; they were still carrying stories about Devoy. So were the Observer, Guardian, Sky News, BBC, every bastard except The Mail. What was going on? Should we run? Where? Back to England? That
would
be insane. We could move to somewhere else. There was plenty of cash left. But then what? Live like a recluse for the rest of my life? Leaving the job unfinished? The job
had
to be completed.

It was no good. I couldn’t think clearly, panic was starting to set in and I knew that if we panicked, more mistakes would happen. I had to get out. I donned the hijab and burka; put Norman and the computer back in the safe and headed out.

Wearing the burka gave me an incredible sense of, not only anonymity, but also focus. I felt a little like a blinkered-horse. I walked and I thought. Yet another cocoon, of which I had grown so used to living in. Be them hotel suites, Laputa or the camper van. My only social interaction in over a year had been performed from behind one form of mask or another, the conversation belying the fact that someone was about die. I began to refocus my thoughts. The apples. Don’t forget the apples.

And so I walked the streets of Lahore for the best part of four hours, unnoticed and more importantly, undisturbed. I barely noticed the colonial architecture, the high police presence on what seemed like every street, or the crowds. I was alone again. No Norman, Kalif or Albert. Just me.

I thought about Hamid’s favourite aunt, Fatima, a tour guide at Badshahi Mosque. I thought about the near impossible task facing me and the total lack of contacts or equipment to help carry it out. Several ideas flashed through my head. Kill one of the apples and wait for the other four to attend the funeral. But then what? It was crass stupidity. These apples had to be picked very cleverly. One by one; without a trace.

Chapter 5

I felt the anxiety return as the laptop powered up. It was now 11:33 pm in London. The Daily Mail site showed it had been updated half an hour ago. The headlines were back. Devoy’s face and updates on the manhunt. As I scrolled down, past inane drivel regarding William and Kate and some phone-hacking scandal, I started to realise that maybe the bastard hadn’t taken me seriously after all. Nerves began to give way to a feeling of elation. Gerradine had probably just deleted the email as being from some crank, or it may have gone straight to his spam box and would never see the light of day again.

Then I saw it. I could now imagine how a prisoner, strapped to the electric chair, feels when the switch is flicked. My nervous system went into shock. I was blinkered again. I could only stare, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Dermott Calum Madison: Obituary.

[email protected]

Former London banker, Mr. Madison, passed away during surgery in the United States of America on January 17
^th
. He was a widower of Anna and beloved Father of Laura-Jane.

Mr. Madison was cremated, as per the request of his last will and testament, in Florida County, where he had been resident for the past year.

To say I was confused would be an understatement. What the hell was he playing at? This was
not
what I had expected. Even though I couldn’t clearly remember the content of the email I had sent, I’m bloody sure it had nothing to do with me dying. Christ, they had even spelt my middle name wrong.

I read that obituary over and over again. Probably looking for some hidden code, some message maybe, but I couldn’t find anything. What in God’s name was Gerradine trying to do? He had just cleared me of any wrongdoings. After all he had just declared me dead. Did this mean he wanted to play ball? But, hang on; didn’t this make him an accomplice?

Whatever the reason, I didn’t have time to concern myself with it now. The hotel had booked Norman a ticket for the guided tour of Badshahi Mosque, the last one of the evening. The taxi would pick him up from the lobby in an hour.

The gridlock that was Lahore’s traffic, meant that Norman’s cab ride developed in a frustrating ninety minute ordeal. “Sometimes quicker to walk in this city,” the driver had remarked after forty-five minutes. When he eventually arrived Norman jumped out of the cab before it had barely stopped, tossing a tip at the driver, the hotel would settle the rest of the fare.

As he hurried across the square and into its shadow, the monolithic size of the building filled him with awe. It’s eight minarets towering over him like space rockets. The colossal white domes glinting in the evening sun. Approaching the marble steps he could see a small group of five or six tourists, waiting impatiently at the top. A small flag was being waved above their heads, a union jack on one side, the stars and stripes on the other. Norman couldn’t see the person holding the flag but he knew exactly who she was. All that remained was to find out exactly where she lived.

“
Are you the gentleman from the Avari Hotel?” Fatima asked an out-of-breath Norman.

“
Yes. Sorry I’m late. The traffic was hellish,” came his panted apology.

Fatima was an unremarkable looking woman, but without a certain attractiveness. Her profile claimed that she was only 38 but Norman reckoned she was a good fiver years older. Her skin was much darker than her nephew’s, which made her piercing blue eyes appear even brighter in real life. She was wearing a headscarf and a long flowing hijab. Her nametag read simply, Fatima. The three flags beneath her name denoting the foreign languages that she spoke. English, French and German.

Fatima’s Facebook photos had been littered with her and Abdul, some in Pakistan, one in front of this exact mosque, two in front of the Eiffel tower and, more poignantly, on the steps of the Old Bailey.

As Norman’s eyes met with Fatima’s, he felt no sympathy, nor guilt for what was about to happen to her. He felt only pure, unadulterated hatred.

“
Then since we’re all here. I would like to begin the tour, if I may?” Fatima announced.

And so Norman followed, like a sheep. Actually more like the wolf. The mosque impressed him, by its sheer scale, but in reality, he didn’t care one iota about why or when it was built. He wasn’t here for an injection of historical culture. He was here to follow the prey.

It had been Norman’s misfortune to be the only Englishman in the tour party of Americans. He was convinced that it wouldn’t have taken half as long had it not been for the inane questions that his fellow travellers kept throwing at their guide, “What are ablutions?” “Has it ever been struck by lightning?” And the best of all, “Has the Pope ever been here since it was finished?” He tried to appear interested and took as many photographs as his fellow tourists did. Although all of his featured Fatima within the picture.

When the two hours of torture were finally over, the Americans had their photographs taken with Fatima and left. Norman approached her. They stood alone in the vast courtyard, the mosque empty now; the only sound coming from the central fountain.

Fatima and Norman were looking at each other in the midst of an uncomfortable silence. Christ, we had stared at that face, those eyes, for countless hours back in Laputa. But she wasn’t smiling now, not like she smiled outside the Old Bailey, with her arm around her favourite nephew. The murdering bastard that she doted on like the son she never had. Well that smile had an expiry date and it was rapidly approaching.

“
Is there something I can help you with Sir?” Asked Fatima.

Norman felt the pulse in his cheek; he was beginning to shake, the rage rising again like bile.

“
No, no,” he stammered, “well actually, yes there is. I’m writing an article for the, em...Daily Mail in London, the travel section about Lahore and it’s history. I wondered if maybe we could go for a drink when you get off work. So I can cross-reference some points with you about the mosque?” Suggested Norman.

“
I am sorry Sir, but that would be completely impossible. Besides I have at least another two hours of paperwork to complete,” Fatima replied without a hint of regret in her voice.

A voice called across the courtyard in what Norman assumed was Urdu. A security guard emerged from the shadows; Fatima nodded her head and replied.

“
He is asking you leave now,” she explained to Norman, “they are locking up for tonight,” another burst of conversation, “he says that he didn’t realise any visitors were left inside. He says you will have to take the staff exit. You must go with him.”

Norman was lead past a security desk, to a side door. The two guards exchanged an incomprehensible joke, obviously to Norman’s detriment before he was ushered outside, the door slamming behind him.

During Norman’s gruelling tour of the mosque it had grown dark outside. He found himself wondering what to do. He couldn’t very well hang around outside. Then he saw it, across the street high in the rooftops. A stark contrast to the graceful and splendid architecture that he had just witnessed, a red neon sign, Coco’s Den, and this was where Norman would spend the next two hours sipping vodka and orange, waiting and watching.