The Facebook Killer (19 page)

Pearson introduced the two men to Wendy.

“This is Rob and this is Roy. They’re the
ones I told you about. They’re making videos about people like us
having fun and getting to know each other.”

They looked younger than Pearson; I would
estimate late teens, early twenties. They were dressed casually in
gaudy surfing-type shirts and jeans.

“Hello, I’m Wendy”, said the voice of
innocence, extending her hand.

They ignored her and began unpacking their
camera equipment. Rob, or was it Roy? pulled the curtains closed
while the other fitted his video camera onto the tripod.

“Wendy”, said the cameraman, “can you do me a
favour please?” he asked as though talking to an adult.

“What is it?” she replied.

“Do you know how to wear make up?”

“Well I’ve seen Mum put it on so I suppose
so”, she said hesitantly.

He passed her a small case.

“It’s just for the camera, that’s all. If you
don’t have your eyes and lips highlighted then you’ll look all
washed out on the final film.” he said reassuringly.

She looked at Pearson, who nodded and smiled.
She took the case to the bathroom. Locking the door behind her.

Rob and Roy motioned for Pearson to come to
the far side of the room.

“Is she gonna be ok?” asked one.

“I mean have you got anywhere yet?” said the
other.

“Business first”, laughed Pearson, “have you
got the cash?”

They opened the camera case and removed the
interior. Underneath was the root of all evil.

“Five grand?” asked Pearson.

“No mate. Fifteen.” Smiled Roy.

“What the…I thought the fee was five.”
Pearson appeared shocked.

“It
was,
but the boss wants to
expand.”

“What the hell do you mean, expand?”

“He wants a snuff.” Rob smirked.

“You are having a fucking laugh here”,
replied Pearson. He was running his hands through his lizard mohawk
looking up at the ceiling, “a snuff, a frigging snuff film. So let
me get this quite clear. You’re boss wants me to make out with this
eleven year old girl and then kill her on camera.

Rob and Roy stood silently, nodding and
smiling. The key in the bathroom lock turned and Wendy stepped out.
She reminded me of a contestant from one of these sick American
pageants you sometimes see in the papers. Little kids dressed like
whores for their parents’ gratification.

“Here she is”, crooned Roy, “and doesn’t she
look all grown up. Oh I nearly forgot, honey, can you get changed
into this as well?” He through a bag at her and she obediently
returned to the bathroom after reassurance from Pearson that
everything was going to be alright. “Fun! Remember beautiful,
fun!”

I had to call again. “Lomax! Where the hell
are you?”

“Five minutes away. Is she alright?” he
asked.

“For now.”

I could hear the car that Lomax was in
blasting its horn. The engine racing to save his daughter.

Rob was taking a light
meter test in the room. He had the video camera powered up and it’s
flashlight turned on. Pointing directly at the bed. Roy was loading
a new memory card into his Nikon SLR camera. Wendy was still
changing. Wendy’s father was still battling traffic. Laura’s father
was trying to control the rage
and
the bile, which were rising
simultaneously.

I checked the clock on the dashboard. 3:35pm.
I checked the screen. No Wendy. Pearson was lying on the bed now.
They were doing some sort of screen test.

Then I heard it. The horn blasting. The
engine screaming. Still no Wendy. Please God; make her stay in the
bathroom. Keep her safe. The horn was louder now. People running
for cover. Cars mounting the pavement to get out of the way. This
was it. Game on. Lomax was just like me, like every father
everywhere. He had the rage in him. The revenge. The primeval urge
to protect ones own.

“Get her out of there will you?” demanded
Rob.

Pearson’s arrogance seemed to have vanished.
He had lost control. He knocked on the bathroom door.

“Hey beautiful are you ready to have some
fun?” he asked enticingly.

A muffled reply came from behind the
door.

“I can’t hear you sweetie.”

“I said I don’t want to!” yelled Wendy.

Pearson shook his head in disbelief.

“Come on now honey. It’s only a film
remember. When it’s finished we can watch some more movies and I’ll
take you for something to eat afterwards. You like ice cream don’t
you?” He was nodding at the other two. A quick wink. The key
turned.

The black Mercedes spun around the corner so
fast I was sure it was going to hit the hotel’s foyer. I don’t know
which one was Peter Lomax but none of the five occupants was under
six foot and almost as wide. All of them wearing black suits, white
shirts and black ties as they stormed the entrance they started
pulled what appeared to be ski masks from their pockets. The driver
remained in place, speeding off when they were inside. The
passenger doors slamming shut as he accelerated.

Pearson was still trying to coax little Wendy
out of the bathroom.

“Don’t be silly. You look absolutely
gorgeous. None of the girls at my school are half as beautiful as
you.”

The camera in the plant pot covered the room.
I could see her little face, terrified, degraded, confused. Mascara
running down her cheeks. Crying. Sobbing. Trying to catch her
breath. The door of the room was visible on the right hand side of
the screen. Nothing. Shit, maybe he had gotten the wrong room. He
should be here by now.

Pearson pushed open the bathroom door and led
her out by the hand.

“Look at my little princess everyone”, he
declared.

She was trying to smile amidst the sobs. Rob
and Roy gave a little clap. The black minibus couldn’t break in
time. It hit the entrance with a squeal of tyres, masonry flying
over its roof. The second minibus managed a handbrake turn but
still clipped the back end of the first. This was parental control,
Lomax-style. As another twenty men stormed into the Scotland Road
Hotel Wendy was still crying.

She was lying on the bed now, next to
Pearson.

“OK”, snapped Rob, “Scene
one,
and
,
ACTION!”

The camera started to roll. Pearson rolled
over to face little Wendy. He gently touched her face. “It’s all
going to be alright”. The door came clean off its hinges. Peter
Lomax stared at his little daughter for what seemed like an
eternity. Trying to comprehend what he was witnessing. The make up.
The red lingerie. The naked man in bed next to her. The camera. The
boy in the surf shirt cowering in the corner.

Her screams of “Daddy! Daddy! Help!” were
soon drowned out by Pearson’s own, “Operation Sweetshop! Operation
Sweetshop!” he hollered, hands raised in the air, “Undercover!
Undercover! Metropolitan Police!”

Whether the men waiting in the corridor
couldn’t hear his surrender or whether they chose to ignore it is a
case for speculation. What is a certainty is that when the glass
shards hit the pavement from five floors above followed by Roy, Rob
and a naked Gary Pearson, the world was a safer place for children
like my little Laura and Wendy Lomax.

Gary Pearson. Status: Deceased. Location:
London Central Mortuary.

Norman and I still had some time on the
parking meter. I must admit I was intrigued to see how the
“professionals” would get out of this situation, surely someone
would have called the police by now, so Norman put the kettle on
and we waited.

It didn’t take long. The black minibuses
returned, minus their number plates, and the men in black suits
filed out of the building still wearing their ski masks. As they
filled the vans, the last one to leave carried Rob’s video camera.
He stormed towards the gathering crowd and proceeded to film the
onlookers. Sweeping the crowd he ordered, “You don’t know who we
are but we can find every last one of you and your families. Anyone
of you speaks to the Police and your dead”. That seemed to work
quite effectively as they all ran off rather quickly just as the
Old Bill turned up, but still no sign of Lomax or his daughter.

“Peter, where are you? The cops are coming in
now.”

“Do you think I’m gonna take my little girl
out of here looking like a fucking whore?”

“Room 515.”

“What?”

“It’s the one across the corridor. It’s
booked until tomorrow. The door’s still unlocked. Get in there.
You’ll be safe.”

I could hear police radios, shouts, doors
banging, Wendy crying again.

“Listen”, it was Lomax, “whoever the fuck you
are. However you got my number. I owe you a big favour.”

“I know.”

It was on the long drive back to Epping
Forest that I first saw the placard next to the news stand. We were
on the outskirts of London.

“DAILY MAIL: Are we hunting the right
Facebook Killer?”

Screeching to a halt Norman got out to buy a
copy. I must have read that blasted article four or five times
before it began to sink in. Who the fuck did this bastard Gerradine
think he was? And where the hell did they get that photograph?

STATUS: End of Part One:

Part Two available for
purchase August 31
^st
, 2011.