Vampire "Unseen" (Vampire "Untitled" Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

As Corneliu listened to the ramblings of James Donovan, he began to feel the same disconnect as yesterday. How could a quiet literature student who collected second hand books from recycling bins be the same person to challenge and murder two hard men? The suspect didn’t match the crime.

“I have a list of names,” Corneliu said taking out the sheet of paper he’d prepared with Ellen King in Oxford. “I believe many may know Paul as casual acquaintances and some will be his close friends. Can you take a look at it and help me prioritise them? Plus if there is anybody else you know who should be on this list.”

“I can do that.” Donovan scanned the list. “Hey, I’m at the top of this list!”

“Yes... That’s how I found you, James. D for Donovan. It’s alphabetical.”

Donovan checked his own mobile phone and called out names of people he thought Paul knew. Most were already on the list but there were a few extras. Towards the bottom of the list Donovan said, “Nisha Khumari.”

The name rung a bell...

Nisha Khumari? Where did he know that name from?

Never mind. It was probably just a name mentioned yesterday.

----- X -----

Corneliu was almost back to the hotel when his phone rang. Blackwell, Scotland Yard.

“We have some news, Corneliu. We’ve got McGovern’s MAC address. Every time he logged on to read his email, the unique ID from his computer was recorded by the email server. We’re getting a court order now to work with all the UK’s internet providers. If McGovern logs on to the internet using the same computer, and if the internet providers detect the MAC, we’ll get a real time notice on his location.”

“That is good news.”

“It is, but we’ve got to be mindful that he may not use the internet often, or may not even be using the same computer. He has taken steps to evade detection so far and if he’s tech savvy he may have dumped his original laptop.”

“We’ll have to hope,” Corneliu said.

“We will,” agreed Blackwell.

With the call ended, Corneliu pushed his way through a tourist group to the elevators and felt a slight hope that McGovern would be captured by the British. In his dealings with British Police he’d always been amazed at how brazen and gung-ho they were. He put it down to them being unarmed. In Romania, if he came up against a criminal with a weapon he could shoot back. In Britain, the police took down criminals with batons and rugby tackles and weren’t afraid to go in with force. They were fearless in their takedowns. If they were lucky they had support from a dog, or a tazer and in rare circumstances they had support from armed officers if required. British Police were hardcore; but if Noica was to be believed, so too was McGovern. If he could take down two thugs, what could he do to two unarmed policemen?

Back in the hotel room, Corneliu took his notebooks and the crime book and laid them out on the table. He spread a large sheet of paper onto the bed and wrote Paul’s name in the centre with the names of James Donovan, Jade Conway, Ellen King and DeMarquis along with the legends, friend/London, work/London, friend/Oxford, work/Oxford respectively.

He looked through the lists of names and numbers.

Nisha Khumari’s name jumped out again.

Why the hell was her name jarring his memory?

He took his phone and dialled her number first. It rang a few times then went to a voicemail, a seductive husky female voice spoke. “Hi, this is Nisha. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”

“Hello, Nisha, my name is Detective Corneliu Latis. I’m a police officer from Romania. I’m working in London on a missing person case and I believe this person is a friend of yours.” Corneliu left his own mobile number and fished through his pockets for Blackwell’s business card to also leave the Scotland Yard number.

Hello Nisha, my name is...

Hello Nisha...

Nisha...

Why did that name strike such a chord?

Corneliu took his phone again.

“Yeah... who is it?” Donovan answered.

“James, this is Corneliu Latis again, we met earlier?”

“Oh yeah, man... did you find Paul?”

“Errr, no not yet... Look I wanted to ask you something. You mentioned a girl who Paul knew called Nisha Khumari.”

“Yeah, Nisha.”

“For some reason her name is ringing a bell somewhere but I can’t remember why. I wanted to ask how Paul knew her?”

“He liked her I think. She used to live near him up at Shepherds Bush. I think she lived there, or Hammersmith or, you know... somewhere around there. I have her number if you like.”

“No, I have her number, James. But what was the relationship between them?”

“Nothing, I think. I mean, I remember Paul asking who she was and I know he liked her. He didn’t say anything but it was like, when we had parties Paul would ask about her. He wanted to know if she had a boyfriend, if she was single, what did she like, where did she work, what did she study. Typical for Paul I guess. He was too scared to ask her himself. She lives with Sue Lynch. I gave you her number.”

Corneliu checked through his notes. Sue Lynch. He had it. “Thank you, James. You’ve been a big help.”

He dialled the number for Sue Lynch expecting to hit another voicemail but the phone was answered quickly by an alert sounding woman.

“Hello, can I speak to Sue Lynch, please.”

“Yes, this is Susan.”

“Susan, hello. My name is Detective Corneliu Latis. I’m a police officer from Romania. I’m working in London on a missing person case and I believe this person is a friend of yours.”

“Nisha, yes. We’re very worried; but did you say you were from Romania?”

“Did you just say, Nisha?”

There was a spark of excitement. They were talking at cross purposes but something was wrong. She said Nisha, not him. He said missing person meaning McGovern. She said Nisha. The first thing out of her mouth was Nisha. From somewhere in his mind he knew that this had a connection to McGovern but for the life of him he couldn’t place what it was.

“Miss Lynch... I understand you’re in West London, Hammersmith, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Lynch, could I come and visit you right now? I think it’s important.”

----- X -----

At six o’clock Paul switched the aquarium lighting to moonlight and spent a few minutes watching the glowing fish. Little green shards against the royal blue night light. They drifted slowly then changed direction quickly, sometimes only a few degrees, sometimes a complete reversal. Tens of thousands of fish. It was hypnotic.

Nisha.

Before leaving he collected the yoke and knives from his locker and fixed them to his trousers. He decided to leave his laptop here; he knew he would be too hyper after Nisha’s death to study from home this evening.

It was raining again. He took a bus the short ride from Euston Road to King’s Cross and began walking to the squat.

Calm... Control...

Savour this. Savour and enjoy the kill.

He walked to the squat, casually checking the street for witnesses in a way he’d never done before. His heart fluttered with anticipation at what he was going to do. Was it because it was a woman? Was hurting a woman such erotic play that it caused this apprehension? There was no such anticipation and excitement in killing Nealla, Raul or Joseph Frady.

Premeditation. That was the difference. It wasn’t the gender that was important. It was the planning.

His hands trembled and his breathing was rapid.

Control... Learn to keep control.

Paul stopped walking and decided to create a buffer. Preparation time. Don’t rush in. Build the anticipation first. He reversed direction and headed back towards King’s Cross deciding to practice keeping his composure.

Keep calm. Keep cool. Don’t rush and be impulsive. Be patient. Nisha had to die just to remove her as a witness so her death was a foregone conclusion, but he should do it with the skilful technique of the Black Dahlia murder. Cut her up, slice her, torture her... but do it patiently like an expert.

He knew the ideal place to learn control. It was a pub, a grotty low-life pub that offered entertainment. As he entered he heard bad pop music from distorting speakers and pushed through a crowd of men. Workers most of them, twenty and thirty somethings, all of whom he could imagine having a trade of some kind; plumbers, carpet fitters, welders and what not. With his unkempt beard and hair he didn’t blend in against these guys. They wore gold chains and earrings, had short hair and talked and laughed loudly. The music popped and distorted. “I’ll have a glass of wi... a lager, a pint of lager.” Paul shouted above the music whilst pointing at the beer tap. He took his glass and pushed through the men into the main room and the source of the music.

There was a black girl on the stage in huge platformed heels and nothing else. She walked from one end of the stage to the other, turned, lifted her foot to a rail along the wall and bent her knees to give an almost interior view of her vagina and asshole.

The music popped. Destiny’s Child and other 90’s dance trash. The spectators stood in rows. Once they’d jostled into their positions, they stood transfixed and unmoving other than to lift the beer to their lips. Staring like zombies at the naked girl on the stage.

A pasty white girl in a backless red dress thrust a beer glass into Paul’s chest. “Alright darlin’,” she said like a pure South Londoner. She had bad acne covered in a thick layer of makeup but her breasts would divert most men’s attentions. A man leaned in and dropped a pound into her glass. Paul did likewise. She moved on. The girl on stage stopped dancing as the song ended and collected some underwear and a dress to leave the stage.

Paul stayed calm. There was nothing here to provoke him. He remained in his spot holding his drink and staring at the empty stage. He looked to the floor, bare boards and sawdust.

Control.

Learn control.

The music volume increased and the cockney girl in the red dress made it to the stage. She swayed and sashayed for a few bars then turned away to unfasten the dress tied behind her neck. She spun back holding the dress for a moment before dropping it to expose her breasts. It was a lacklustre performance. She was a whore. Ildico would never do something like this.

Ildico.

The girl on stage.

The music popped and distorted.

He wanted to slit her throat. He held the beer in his left hand whilst his right hand slipped to the left side knife handle against his chest. He gripped it in his fist. He wanted to pull it out and start killing everybody in here. This is what he knew would happen. This is what he wanted to happen. This place, this imagery, would fire his imagination. The girl on stage was crawling on her knees, the dress was off, her ass was in the air and she was pulling at her pants. Who were these men watching her? The girl on stage looked at him, eye contact for a single second.

Oh, what fun we’ll have with Nisha.

Vampire.

It was behind him. He turned to look across his shoulder and saw what was invisible to everyone else. In the far corner, the naked man with marble white skin and glowing red eyes could be seen behind all the ogling men. It watched him.

Kill her.

Treat Nisha like the whore that she is.

“Pound please, my gorgeous.”

Paul startled. He turned back. He felt the stud unfasten on the knife sheath, the blade was coming out of the yoke.

Calm. Control.

The girl on stage pulled her pants off, rolled around to face front and opened her legs to wide open splits.

“I said a pound... If you wanna see the show.” A blonde girl in front of him, the next stripper on stage, holding out her pint glass and expecting cheap payment.

Just fucking kill her.

The world seemed to spin. He couldn’t reach for the money because the knife was loose under his coat, he couldn’t fasten it to the yoke without showing it. His other hand held the beer. He stared like a rabbit in headlights.

The girl in front of him put a hand on her hip and gave him a cold stare.

“Wait...” Paul said, grasping some composure. He used his left forearm to pinch the knife under his coat and used his right hand to search his pocket. He brought out all of his loose change and dumped it all into the glass. The blonde girl smiled and began to move on. The knife was slipping. Paul grabbed it with his right hand, pulled it low, sliced it over the blonde girl’s dress by her hip and pushed it back into the sheath all in one fluid motion. He was fastening the stud when he sensed her look back at him, she had felt something, then she turned back and carried on collecting her money.

Paul waited a few seconds then headed for the door. He glanced at the girl on stage. She had gotten naked in the first minute of the song and had nothing left to do except hold her own tits and open her cunt. Paul pressed his arm between spectators to place his pint glass on the bar and pushed past people towards the door. He sensed the commotion behind him. The girl, the blonde girl collecting money was bleeding. The knife blade was so fine she had barely registered the cut when it happened but she was bleeding and people were noticing. It was a big slice but non lethal, a superficial wound through her clothing and skin but as Paul exited the pub into the wet cold air of King’s Cross he heard the commotion picking up in the back room. She was bleeding. The sounds were building quickly into panic. He had cut her by stealth and evaporated into the night.

That wasn’t the control he was trying to maintain, but at least he hadn’t killed her.

Never mind.

Now it was Nisha’s turn. He would fuck her. To hell with his idea of not having sex, of not giving her the moral high ground. He would hold her down and fuck her and take his blades and slice criss cross marks across her chest and torso and feel the blood flow onto his skin as he fucked her until death.

Ahead of him he noticed the vampire, walking silently in the rain fifty yards ahead. In Romania he had once imagined it chasing him. He’d thought it was real back then, unknowing it was just his imagination. It had walked naked through snow at night, chasing him through a courtyard under snowfall. This time it was leading him, showing him the way to the squat, to the basement, to Nisha. It would show him how to get there; and it would show him what to do when he arrived.