The Facebook Killer (5 page)

“Unfortunately neither,” Norman replied, “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,” she replied.

“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?” Renee
asked.

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 that’s 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, nevermind 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 had 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,” he said gratefully.

“But there are about six different sets
here.”

“It doesn’t matter, she’ll have plenty more
birthdays,” he replied.

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,” she said, “that’s going
to be one hundred and eighty five pounds and ninety seven
pence.”

He started to count out the cash.

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

He had 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 gameplay.

“A car accident a few years back, that’s how
I ended up a widower,” he replied.

“Oh poor you,” she replied 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 he 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
would like that,” she replied shyly, “I finish at five. I could
meet you across the road at The Trafalgar, if you like?”

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

“Excellent. I’ll meet you 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.

He 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 of 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 just before it’s independence from the Soviet Union back
in ‘91, under dubious circumstances.

He wasn’t your stereotypical Russian mind
you. Six feet 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 combover
and half-rimmed glasses. Never let appearances deceive though;
rumour had it that 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 it’s way down to his stomach. It was the first
time he had 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 was 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 moped pulled up outside, tooting the horn. Serge went outside and
returned with a small envelope.

“Is that it?” Kalif asked.

“Yes my friend, this is it,” he said 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?” Kalif asked 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.

“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,” Norman replied pointing.

“OK that’s number three,” he replied.

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.

“Oh 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?”

“Oh 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 handing 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?” Norman asked
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 was nodding, her mouth full. She was
waving 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 correct. 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 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 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 on the shop for his parents. He seemed like a
nice lad. 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?” Norman
interrupted.

“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, as I was
saying..”

“Sorry.”

“That’s alright, Norman. 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 little girl.”

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

“When I heard what he had done, I felt sick.
I thought that if I had gone to the police about what he did to me
in the shop then it might never have happened to that little
girl.”

Norman felt the rage rising.