The Facebook Killer (17 page)

There were only three Hamids listed as living
in Brighton. Norman visited each address posing as a canvasser for
a local councillor. He updated the electoral role records on his
clipboard at each house. It was the last address which contained
Ahmet Hamid. Just him, his father and a “lodger” who allegedly
didn’t want to vote. Norman was pleased to see no sign of police
protection. They obviously didn’t know he was here. He sat in the
bookies across the road most of the day making one and two pound
bets, watching the races and watching Hamid’s hideaway. At 7:15 pm
he saw him leave the house. The rise of fury was one hundred times
greater than he would have ever imagined. An almost uncontrollable
urge to charge through the plate glass window and bite him, tear
him apart and devour him but that wasn’t the plan. We had to be
disciplined, more so now than ever before. Norman let him walk
away. The wrecker of lives, the killer and rapist that made poor
little Laura squeal like a baby. He just let him walk. Let him get
on with his life. His safe little life where nobody knew where he
was. Norman knew that we had to keep him there, where he felt he
was out of danger’s way; we didn’t want him returning to London. So
on the way back to Laputa Norman made a detour and petrol-bombed
Hamid’s old house.

Two hours later he was parked outside of Gary
Pearson’s house in Ealing, or to be more precise, Pearson’s
parents’ house.

So delicately named as you would expect from
the Russians, the “Vampire Intruder III” was a piece of hardware
which basically hacked into any computer which was logged onto a
wifi connection, as young Mr. Pearson’s was now. The only giveaway
to the innocent user was that their system slowed down eighteen
percent as the device sucked the data blood from them. Whilst
Pearson’s most intimate secrets were escaping through his bedroom
window into the camper van Norman decided that he’d better tinker
with the engine to avoid raising any suspicions. That’s when we met
our first policeman face to face.

A “beat bobby” as we used to call them when
we were kids. Back then there was every chance that he would have
rolled up his sleeves, pushed Norman out of the way and got stuck
into the engine himself. Not now. Looking more like Batman than a
copper, the good old days of bare necessities, handcuffs and a
truncheon were gone apparently. Norman noted the extending,
skull-fracturing baton, a taser, some canister he could only assume
was CS gas and his stab-proof vest, or were they bullet-proof
nowadays?

“You do realise that you’re parked in a
residents’ only space?” said Batman. Not giving a shit that we
might actually be experiencing genuine engine problems.

“I’m dreadfully sorry officer,” replied
Norman without even looking up from the engine, “but she just
started to cut out a few miles back and I have to get to Swansea
tonight to see my mother. She’s been very ill you see.” Norman
looked up from his work, “It all started back in 1989 when my
father passed away, he’d been a coal miner all of his life and she
swears that’s what killed him, anyway, after he was gone she began
to suffer terribly with depression. Her sister, Mary, also had it,
so maybe it ran in their side of the family,” Norman started to rub
his chin, deep in thought, “my goodness! does that mean that I’m in
line for it as well?”

He glanced towards the policeman for some
sort of reaction but he had gone. His flashlight trying to
penetrate the blacked-out windows of the van.

“Is this your camper van, Sir?” he asked.

Norman started to feel nervous. Surely it
wouldn’t end like this. A routine traffic offence and this little
superhero would have us bang-to-rights for a dozen deaths and one
in the process. That’s what happened to the Yorkshire Ripper,
wasn’t it? Shit! We didn’t even know who the van was registered to,
we just knew that it was legitimate, or Serge had promised. I can’t
believe I hadn’t even asked him whose name it was in. Wait a
minute. He’d said that the papers were in the glove box.

“Just one second officer and I’ll get you the
paperwork,” Norman said with an air of confidence.

Fuck. Was it here? He looked at the copper.
About six foot tall, mid-twenties, no chance of overpowering him or
outrunning him. He glanced up at Pearson’s bedroom window, light
still on, no one looking out. His files, Internet history,
passwords and death certificate still streaming into the van.
Norman rummaged through the glove box. Beneath a can of anti-freeze
and windscreen sponge he found a brown manilla envelope.

“I’ll just be a second,” Norman called to the
far side of the van.

Batman was now trying the passenger door.
Norman checked his watch. Almost six minutes since the download
started. It should complete in ten. He tore open the envelope while
he had a few seconds privacy. God! Serge was good. The camper was
registered to a company called “One For The Road” Specialist Car,
Camper and Truck Hire. The insurance and test certificates were
there. At the bottom of the pile was a simple folded paper, which
said, “Dear client, if you are stopped by an officer of the law
please present them with this leaflet.” Norman did so.

Batman took it with a look of condescension.
He read the cover, opened it and began to study the contents.

“Just wait here,” he told Norman as he walked
a few yards up the street. After a short radio conversation he
returned, “OK Sir, everything seems to be in order but I have one
request.”

“Yes?”

“Could I have your permission to take a quick
look inside the vehicle?”

Shit! What was going on? What was in the
letter he just read? Should we let him or not? The bedroom light
was still on. Norman checked his watch. Nine minutes. Not long
enough. Refuse and there could be trouble. Let him and it might
just be game over. Norman’s mind raced. What tools were in the van?
What if he let him in and then finished him off and then drove
off?

“Well, Sir? I’m sure you’ve got nothing to
hide,” said Batman with a fist-deserving grin.

Norman slid open the side door to allow him
entry. It was then that he saw it. A fraction of a second, it
couldn’t have been any longer. Christ! She must have only been
about twelve or thirteen. Then the screen turned black. A blue
rectangle flashed up momentarily. “Download Complete” and then the
system shut down. The slowing of the fans matched Norman’s exhaling
breath to the tee. Batman stepped inside, briefly looking at the
computer and attached equipment.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked a
still-shocked Norman.

“Erm, solely for emails and weather reports,”
he replied.

“Nice little camper. I’ve always fancied one
of these,” he smiled dreamily, “I could take the wife and kids to
Truro to see her family and I could sleep outside,” he turned to
leave, “you should really get this carpet cleaned professionally.
What is it? Soil?” he asked bending down to inspect the floor,
“Man, that’s gonna stink the place up if you’re not careful.”

And so Batman went on his way to harass
someone else. Norman closed the engine compartment and the light
went out in Gary Pearson’s bedroom.

Now if I was to tell you about the things we
found on young Pearson’s computer you would probably be as sick as
I was that night and the next day and the day after. I actually
wrote a full chapter about it. The photos, the videos. Posing as a
schoolboy to lure them in. I philosophised about it being an
incurable illness. The sufferers devoid of any feelings of guilt.
Then I screwed it up into a ball and threw it across the room. The
rage stamped on it until it was as flat as tin foil. The rage
almost broke a floorboard. The tree rocked. Then the tears came.
The tears for my baby Laura. None of us left Laputa for four days.
None of us ate. We didn’t plan. We knew what had to be done.

Chapter 23

Daily Mail Online. Main story.

EXCLUSIVE
:
Can 450 Detectives, 52 Police Forces and Interpol all be
wrong? THE FACEBOOK KILLER: Matthew Gerradine asks the unthinkable,
“Are they looking for the right man?”

Adrian Devoy. The name on
everyone's’ lips. The face on the front page of every newspaper in
this once green and pleasant land. The alleged perpetrator of such
horrific crimes as last week’s Bridgewater slaughter and the murder
of Imran Farooq in Clapham. The proverbial bogeyman.

In the past six days the
nation has become obsessed with the hunt for the man we have come
to know as “The Facebook Killer“. Allegedly picking off victims one
by one from a list of “friends” displayed on the world’s biggest
social networking site. As a result the site has reported a 25%
loss of its UK user base alone. That’s the equivalent of six and
half million accounts having been voluntarily closed through fear
of attracting his attention.

But the question remains.
Whose friends? Police have admitted that so far they have only
managed to link two out of thirty three recent deaths which they
are investigating, the Bridgewater family and that of Renee Walton,
who was poisoned by Ricin in a Camden restaurant almost three weeks
ago.

The link? Rashid Hamid. A
London businessman and property developer who came here from
Pakistan in 1956. The Bridgewater's were slayed in one of his
rented properties; Ms. Walton was employed as manager in a shop,
which operates from one of Mr. Hamid’s commercial properties. The
evidence? In this reporter’s mind, purely
circumstantial.

An embattled Chief
Constable of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Brian Bailey, admitted
last night that leads were few and far between. He confirmed that
an operation was underway in Scotland but declined to elaborate on
the situation. He also, reluctantly, confirmed that there was no
actual DNA evidence on the disguise or documentation discovered in
Devoy’s vehicle after an anonymous tip-off.

Therefore, with so little
to go on, what makes Sir Brian so certain that Adrian Devoy is
Britain’s Most Wanted? And if not, then who is?

A senior source, close to
the investigation, is so concerned that the current Europe-wide
manhunt will prove to be in vain that he contacted me personally to
air his doubts.

My contact’s primary
concern is the “absolute lack of any incriminating evidence, be it
forensic or otherwise, linking Devoy to any criminal act.” That
having been said, Devoy appears to be no angel. He has a string of
low level convictions mainly related to his company, Devoy &
Bryant Media Limited. These mostly come under
section 2 of the Obscene
Publications Act, primarily importing banned pornographic material
from The Netherlands. He has no violence-related convictions and to
quote his business partner of ten years, Clive Bryant, “Adrian
doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. This is obviously a malicious
set up.” Indeed at every turn it is beginning to look like it.
Bryant has provided me with evidence that Devoy had a meeting with
a mystery client on the day he is alleged to have detonated the
bomb in Farooq’s home. A nationwide appeal has so far failed to
shed light on the identity of this client.

The Composite C4 explosives
used to destroy Imran Farooq’s house, along with his neighbours
either side, is estimated to have cost in the region of £15,000 on
the black market. A sum, judging by Devoy’s annual tax returns, he
could never afford. With a business teetering on the brink of
bankruptcy, mortgage arrears and a heavily overdrawn bank account,
is it further possible that he could have afforded to supply the
sophisticated surveillance equipment discovered in the Bridgewater
twins’ apartment? Let alone the fees of, what the police are
calling, a professional torturer.

And what of Rashid Hamid?
Described by the few that know him as a fiercely private man. One
cannot dispute the tenuous links between the two cases already
mentioned but the major factor that flies in the face of this
investigation is that Mr. Hamid doesn’t even possess a Facebook
account.

A disgruntled tenant?
Vengeful business associate? My source tells me that neither can be
the case. Firstly, Hamid is well known for his generosity towards
his tenants, be it in his residential or commercial lettings,
always paying 50% of any renovations they wish to carry out by
their own incentive, be it new kitchens or carpets. As for business
rivals, Hamid appears to have none; he is well respected in his
small circle and deals exclusively with Pakistani financial
institutions. His empire is valued at a little under £40 million
and last year alone he donated almost £5 million to community
charities in the UK and back home in his native
Pakistan.

So the question begs, if
Mr. Hamid is not the target, who is?

Now it is not the job of
the press to point figures and initiate rumours. Having said that,
my high level source, mentioned, on more than one occasion, a
certain Abdul Hamid, son of Rashid, recently acquitted at the Old
Bailey on charges of rape, arson and a double murder on grounds of
a technicality. Due to an injunction we can’t print any further
details, except that his whereabouts are currently unknown and a
matter of concern to his family, who are under 24 hour armed guard
themselves.

So let us assume for one
moment that the “friends” are those of Hamid Junior and not his
father. Police enquiries have revealed that Hamid Snr. is
unfamiliar with his son’s social circles. Yet my source reveals
that he was known by at least one of the Bridgewater twins and,
more revealingly, actually has financial interests in Adrian
Devoy’s company. This leads to the further question, if, God
forbid, Adrian Devoy is not the Facebook Killer, then who
is?