The Facebook Killer (15 page)

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 they’re
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 has been put off the scent for a while. I hope.
With all evidence eradicated, I’ll be the first to admit, 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 become scared. He needed to be flushed out of
hiding sooner or later. I decided it was time to start taunting. I
almost enjoyed the reaction generated by Kalif and Dmitris’ last
expedition. The nation seemed shocked. I hope that Steven Neilson,
barrister was shocked. I hope the police officers that 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 are all fucking
shocked. I hope the police have found Abdul Hamid and informed him
that they think some psycho killer is picking off all of his
friends, one by one and that he is probably coming for him at some
point in the not so distant future.

Adrian Devoy listed his gainful employment as
a landscape gardener, but since this was also his hobby I presumed
he was lying. 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 have 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 starting 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
& Bryants’ 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
National Subterranean Association. He wanted to make a one-hour
documentary about the underground rivers of London, with its main
focus on the River Fleet. His walking stick and limp were the
excuse for being without transport but Devoy had agreed to drive to
London together to visit the sites and discuss the project
further.

“We will require a feasibility study payment
Professor Chamberlain,” 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,” Devoy replied.

“No problem. I’ll pay you just as soon as
we’re done. I am 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 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?” Albert asked
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.”

“Oh. Eh? Yes. Do me a favour young man can
you park on the very top level? I want to see if we can get any
shots from that high up.”

Albert was starting 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. He struggled to maneuver himself out of the
Jeep, Devoy waiting impatiently to set the alarm. Remembering to
limp Albert approached the parapet, producing a small pair of
birdwatching 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 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,” Albert gushed.

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 tubestation.

Devoy pointed his key fob toward the Jeep.
The lights flashed, the alarm beeped and the doors unlocked. He
climbed in. Albert held back. He struggled to get down on one knee
to tie up his shoelace. When he looked up again his driver was
asleep. The odourless aerosol he had 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 that they’d
used back in 2002 when the Chechen Rebels laid siege to some
theatre in Moscow. I can 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 and he was then allowed
to pass.

The lock-up was hidden away in an old factory
in Croydon. From the outside the redbrick building looked 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 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 officially licensed 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 that 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 had asked the guard behind the gate to
allow the Doctor in when he arrived. Somehow I wasn’t surprised
when he told me that there was a £200 visiting fee. As he counted
out the twenties he smiled and said that he would escort him
personally to our unit.

He punched the eight-digit code into the
digital lock. The light turned from red to green. The panel next to
it then illuminated with a glowing green hand. I peeled off
Albert’s latex hand and placed mine 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 still
limp body. He pulled the block level with Devoy’s waist and placed
his hand onto the butcher’s block, his 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 started to heat both ends of the pipe. He
didn’t want to cauterize the wound completely, just to stem the
flow of blood. Albert repeated this procedure on Devoy’s other 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 like 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,” he started prodding Devoy’s stomached, “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 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 had to go back to work on Monday. He may as well make use
of his 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 it. 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 got the lady at the information
desk to page him. When Farooq called the desk, Kalif made out that
he had been given his name by a mutual friend named Muhammad who he
had met on his recent visit to Pakistan whilst visiting family.
Farooq obviously fell for it as he agreed to meet him for a coffee
in one of the airport café 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 obscured by large wheelie industrial
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 weren’t any cameras.

Albert went into the supermarket and
purchased a quarter bottle of vodka, a carton of orange juice and a
ceramic mug. 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.