The Facebook Killer (4 page)

“Yeah, why are you interested?”

“I could be.” He said walking around the
car.

“Any chance of a test drive?” Kalif
asked.

“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?” Kalif
asked.

“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?” Kalif laughed.

“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,” he paused as though thinking, “Robert. That’s
your name innit?”

“Yeah,” He replied looking a little
bewildered.

“Man that was the best smoke I’d had in
years,” he said clapping again.

“Well I don’t do that shit anymore,” he said
sternly.

“Man, do you ever see Abdul? I ain’t 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 ain’t 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 layby.

“Yeah man. Why not?”

The driver got out and Kalif took 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 Hamid’s main supplier of
drugs. I had seen him at the trial, sitting along from me in the
public gallery, giving the thumbs up to my family’s murderer. I had
always assumed that 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.

“OK but you’d better be back in half an
hour,” he said.

“That’s all I need,” Kalif smiled.

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

I had 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!

“Sorry man but it doesn’t feel so good the
second time around,” Kalif said as he handed the keys back to
Chapel.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean I ain’t gonna buy it man, sorry.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Take it out yourself man, there’s a rattle
coming from somewhere. It don’t sound good brother.”

Chapel looked angry when 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 had 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 OK.”

“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?” he screamed.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Kalif replied, “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 had kept the phoneline 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 have 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.”

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

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.”

I waved the apple goodbye as his car
accelerated at break neck speed. I will 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 92 mph.

Status: Deceased.

Chapter 5

Renee Walton

I had 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 liked 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 an impact, which accident investigators estimated at close to
100 mph. I felt good. The absence of skidmarks 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 of 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 yogurt, 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, shops or
maybe 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
tomorrow.

The three properties owned by the Hamids
weren’t difficult to find. They were included in their very
informative website, imaginatively named “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.