I'm getting nasty headaches from being at this laptop for long periods...and have one now. Makes it hard to focus and get any writing done. I think I'll change things up, tomorrow and use my art table, which is a bit higher; see if that helps any. If not, it's to the ophthalmologist.
Good thing is, my knee is not damage or worn out; I'm just getting arthritis. Great.
I am not going to whine any more about my aches and pains, like some old fart. Here's some of what I've been working on, today, in UG. Dev thinks he's going to jail for assaulting Reg but instead...
----------------
I was released on bail, meaning they kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything else was returned to me. In a complete mess but there. Except for my phone. When I asked that and about my passport, a clerk said, “The Boss has them.” Then he handed me a receipt, adding, "If anyone asks to see your documents, give 'em this." Then the great Boss, Sir Monte, himself, drove me away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.
My plan was to ride in silence and let my brain settle down, but my seat-mate opened a folder and a surveillance photo was shoved in front of me; it was of Savile Row in another snazzy suit, goatee, hair wind-blown as he got into the back of a car. Even from a distance he radiated wealth and calm. A man the size of a tank and built just as strong was holding the door open for him.
“He is what you normally talk into your bed, correct?” Four-buttons asked in a way that needed no answer.
I sighed and nodded. “That’s the guy I saw on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”
“How unfortunate you didn’t. His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim, and has a connection to all four dead men.”
I shrugged. “Then bring him in.”
“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has...diplomatic protection.”
“He’s young to be an ambassador.”
“That’s not what he is.”
“Okay...so why’re you tellin’ me this?”
“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”
Four-buttons took the photo back. “We have discussed some rather...incredible claims you made, whilst being interrogated. Claims which, if we read the prior accusations against you, carefully, do not...actually...sound improbable.”
I nearly laughed. “So what -- you want me to be Mata Hari? Take him to bed, whether he wants it or not? See if he has a diary on his nightstand that details his fun time? Sneak it off in the dead of night?”
Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever you can to get information we cannot.”
“C’mon, don’t you have a gay cop who can do that?”
“We tried.”
“He was the same physical type as the victims,” said Four-buttons, “but al Qasimi proved...uninterested.”
“Like he did with Reg.” I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”
He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing him for a while.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill anybody?”
“We began our surveillance after the third victim,” said Sir Monte, “and realized the one other consistency between them. He‘s the only male in the embassy whose whereabouts cannot be accounted for on the nights of the murders.”
“Oh, come on, you guys watch this country so tight, you even know when somebody doesn’t wipe his ass. So how could he get to Perriman and you not stop it?”
“When Thornton vanished, that put the entire Met on alert. The two additional men we had on your train were met at Hatton Cross and brought straight back as al Qasimi transversed the A30 and continued on towards Perriman's office. They wanted to follow him, still, but they had seen you so could help search for you while we scoured CCTV. We thought we were mistaken about whom to suspect. Obviously, we were wrong.”
I let a breath escape me. “I dunno about that. This guy’s awful damn neat to be plannin’ to kill anybody. Tell me -- your gay cop, is he out and proud?”
“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.
“Then this guy wouldn’t want him. He’s deep in the closet. He wouldn’t want anybody who might talk about him.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “You already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin’ their interest, too?”
“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”
“But hasn’t this guy been with other guys -- ?”
“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Home Office. And MI5. They’ve already raised questions regarding the surveillance focused on this embassy. They don’t know who we’re keeping an eye on, yet, but they will find out. Sooner than later. Once that happens, who knows what obstructions will arise?”
“But if he has a connection to four murdered men...”
“A tenuous one...”
“How tenuous?”
Sir Monte and Four-buttons exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror, then Sir Monte nodded and my seat-mate pulled more sheets from the folder, including good photos of the victims.
“The restaurant Etan Conescieu worked for catered an affair at the Embassy,” he said. “He helped move everything in, but he was not one of the servers. Liam Hanlon worked for a broker who was handling a business matter for a corporation al Qasimi’s connected with, however he was not part of the team controlling it. The livery company Stuart Goughan drove for often collects visitors and diplomats, for the embassy, from the airport or wherever, but al Qasimi, himself, does not use them; he has his own car and a bodyguard who drives him.” I pointed to the guy holding the car door in the photo and Four-buttons nodded. “Abdel Naifeh. He’s a third generation bodyguard to the family.”
“Nonstop money,” I snarled. “That’s the world, for some. But if Tafiq’s got his own car, why take the train? Especially at rush hour?”
“It is faster, though not as convenient.”
“But it’s not like he’s drivin’. Sit in the back. Have some Dom Perignon. Contemplate ways of screwing more people out of more money. Think about how good life is.” Then I kicked myself. “Except he doesn’t want even his bodyguard to know what he’s up to, with guys. Get a grip, Dev.”
“Yes, that would make for a potential witness,” Sir Monte snapped. “One who might not agree with his...peculiarities...”
Four-buttons continued with, “Last night’s victim, Martin Perriman, owned a courier service used by the embassy. Normally it was one of his drivers who transported the diplomatic pouch, but on two occasions he brought the pouch, personally, when a driver was unavailable. There may have been other deliveries he made; we are still researching his records.”
“Yet none of them had direct contact with this guy.”
Four-buttons nodded. “Which makes it damn near impossible to anticipate his actions...without him telling us.”
I hesitated. Four-buttons was watching me like I was something under a microscope, while Sir Monte kept his eyes on the road. It had started to rain, not hard but steady, and the windshield wipers ticked to the same rhythm as my heart. I looked out the window, barely able to breathe. I could now picture their whole sordid operation.
They’d followed al Qasimi till it looked like he was sneaking away from his bodyguard, then had offered Reg up, to see if he’d jump. But he was focused on someone else. That was obvious, now. Martin Perriman. Didn’t matter how lovely Reg was, this guy was locked and loaded and not willing to deviate. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.
The hell with Mata Hari; they wanted me to be fucking James Bond, pun not intended.
I noticed we were stopping in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before, the rain still pouring. Sir Monte had me check back in and then he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it. I had nothing to say because my mind was still bouncing against every corner of my head at how fucking crazy the whole idea was. Then Sir Monte made it worse.
“I dislike asking this of you, Pope,” he said as I opened my door, “but Herries-White thinks it’s our best chance to -- “
“Herries-White?”
“The gentleman in the rear seat with you,” he snapped. “He pointed out that when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”
I smirked. “And you think I’ll be your evil slut.”
Sir Monte’s glare would have sliced through steel. “You’re a gamble I’m willing to take, within limits, in order to try and save another man’s life. I’m realistic, Pope. Serial killers tend to get away with their crimes for years, even decades, before they make enough of a mistake to end their slaughter. I don’t want to wait for luck to play a hand, and have to face God knows how many more dead men’s families, in the meantime.”
“But...can’t you just keep him under surveillance?”
“That will not be possible for much longer, not without tipping our hand. Were he anyone else, he’d have been in that room, instead of you, long ago. Now? I would like to have something more than mere supposition to counter any objections raised by the Home Office.”
“Who else knows about you pimping me out?”
“You, me, and Herries-White. And that is how it remains.”
“And if I get killed?”
He almost smiled. “If your death helps us stop a killer, you will be given a hero’s burial.”
“What if I tell you to fuck off?”
“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Crown’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And...we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. Find some excuse for him to have business at the embassy. He is what this killer likes -- straight, good-looking, fair-haired. It wouldn’t be much trouble to provide al Qasimi with a tenuous connection to him. This time, since you won’t be around to interrupt, we might be successful.”
Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed.
I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you...because you really are one mean-assed, cold-blooded, motherfucking son-of-a-bitch.”
This time, the smile filled his face. “Nice to have that understood. We’ll be in touch.” He handed me my phone. “We have your number.”
Then he left...and I was stuck trying to figure out what the hell kind of shit I’d just got myself into.
-->
Good thing is, my knee is not damage or worn out; I'm just getting arthritis. Great.
I am not going to whine any more about my aches and pains, like some old fart. Here's some of what I've been working on, today, in UG. Dev thinks he's going to jail for assaulting Reg but instead...
----------------
I was released on bail, meaning they kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything else was returned to me. In a complete mess but there. Except for my phone. When I asked that and about my passport, a clerk said, “The Boss has them.” Then he handed me a receipt, adding, "If anyone asks to see your documents, give 'em this." Then the great Boss, Sir Monte, himself, drove me away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.
My plan was to ride in silence and let my brain settle down, but my seat-mate opened a folder and a surveillance photo was shoved in front of me; it was of Savile Row in another snazzy suit, goatee, hair wind-blown as he got into the back of a car. Even from a distance he radiated wealth and calm. A man the size of a tank and built just as strong was holding the door open for him.
“He is what you normally talk into your bed, correct?” Four-buttons asked in a way that needed no answer.
I sighed and nodded. “That’s the guy I saw on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”
“How unfortunate you didn’t. His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim, and has a connection to all four dead men.”
I shrugged. “Then bring him in.”
“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has...diplomatic protection.”
“He’s young to be an ambassador.”
“That’s not what he is.”
“Okay...so why’re you tellin’ me this?”
“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”
Four-buttons took the photo back. “We have discussed some rather...incredible claims you made, whilst being interrogated. Claims which, if we read the prior accusations against you, carefully, do not...actually...sound improbable.”
I nearly laughed. “So what -- you want me to be Mata Hari? Take him to bed, whether he wants it or not? See if he has a diary on his nightstand that details his fun time? Sneak it off in the dead of night?”
Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever you can to get information we cannot.”
“C’mon, don’t you have a gay cop who can do that?”
“We tried.”
“He was the same physical type as the victims,” said Four-buttons, “but al Qasimi proved...uninterested.”
“Like he did with Reg.” I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”
He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing him for a while.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill anybody?”
“We began our surveillance after the third victim,” said Sir Monte, “and realized the one other consistency between them. He‘s the only male in the embassy whose whereabouts cannot be accounted for on the nights of the murders.”
“Oh, come on, you guys watch this country so tight, you even know when somebody doesn’t wipe his ass. So how could he get to Perriman and you not stop it?”
“When Thornton vanished, that put the entire Met on alert. The two additional men we had on your train were met at Hatton Cross and brought straight back as al Qasimi transversed the A30 and continued on towards Perriman's office. They wanted to follow him, still, but they had seen you so could help search for you while we scoured CCTV. We thought we were mistaken about whom to suspect. Obviously, we were wrong.”
I let a breath escape me. “I dunno about that. This guy’s awful damn neat to be plannin’ to kill anybody. Tell me -- your gay cop, is he out and proud?”
“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.
“Then this guy wouldn’t want him. He’s deep in the closet. He wouldn’t want anybody who might talk about him.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “You already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin’ their interest, too?”
“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”
“But hasn’t this guy been with other guys -- ?”
“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Home Office. And MI5. They’ve already raised questions regarding the surveillance focused on this embassy. They don’t know who we’re keeping an eye on, yet, but they will find out. Sooner than later. Once that happens, who knows what obstructions will arise?”
“But if he has a connection to four murdered men...”
“A tenuous one...”
“How tenuous?”
Sir Monte and Four-buttons exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror, then Sir Monte nodded and my seat-mate pulled more sheets from the folder, including good photos of the victims.
“The restaurant Etan Conescieu worked for catered an affair at the Embassy,” he said. “He helped move everything in, but he was not one of the servers. Liam Hanlon worked for a broker who was handling a business matter for a corporation al Qasimi’s connected with, however he was not part of the team controlling it. The livery company Stuart Goughan drove for often collects visitors and diplomats, for the embassy, from the airport or wherever, but al Qasimi, himself, does not use them; he has his own car and a bodyguard who drives him.” I pointed to the guy holding the car door in the photo and Four-buttons nodded. “Abdel Naifeh. He’s a third generation bodyguard to the family.”
“Nonstop money,” I snarled. “That’s the world, for some. But if Tafiq’s got his own car, why take the train? Especially at rush hour?”
“It is faster, though not as convenient.”
“But it’s not like he’s drivin’. Sit in the back. Have some Dom Perignon. Contemplate ways of screwing more people out of more money. Think about how good life is.” Then I kicked myself. “Except he doesn’t want even his bodyguard to know what he’s up to, with guys. Get a grip, Dev.”
“Yes, that would make for a potential witness,” Sir Monte snapped. “One who might not agree with his...peculiarities...”
Four-buttons continued with, “Last night’s victim, Martin Perriman, owned a courier service used by the embassy. Normally it was one of his drivers who transported the diplomatic pouch, but on two occasions he brought the pouch, personally, when a driver was unavailable. There may have been other deliveries he made; we are still researching his records.”
“Yet none of them had direct contact with this guy.”
Four-buttons nodded. “Which makes it damn near impossible to anticipate his actions...without him telling us.”
I hesitated. Four-buttons was watching me like I was something under a microscope, while Sir Monte kept his eyes on the road. It had started to rain, not hard but steady, and the windshield wipers ticked to the same rhythm as my heart. I looked out the window, barely able to breathe. I could now picture their whole sordid operation.
They’d followed al Qasimi till it looked like he was sneaking away from his bodyguard, then had offered Reg up, to see if he’d jump. But he was focused on someone else. That was obvious, now. Martin Perriman. Didn’t matter how lovely Reg was, this guy was locked and loaded and not willing to deviate. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.
The hell with Mata Hari; they wanted me to be fucking James Bond, pun not intended.
I noticed we were stopping in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before, the rain still pouring. Sir Monte had me check back in and then he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it. I had nothing to say because my mind was still bouncing against every corner of my head at how fucking crazy the whole idea was. Then Sir Monte made it worse.
“I dislike asking this of you, Pope,” he said as I opened my door, “but Herries-White thinks it’s our best chance to -- “
“Herries-White?”
“The gentleman in the rear seat with you,” he snapped. “He pointed out that when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”
I smirked. “And you think I’ll be your evil slut.”
Sir Monte’s glare would have sliced through steel. “You’re a gamble I’m willing to take, within limits, in order to try and save another man’s life. I’m realistic, Pope. Serial killers tend to get away with their crimes for years, even decades, before they make enough of a mistake to end their slaughter. I don’t want to wait for luck to play a hand, and have to face God knows how many more dead men’s families, in the meantime.”
“But...can’t you just keep him under surveillance?”
“That will not be possible for much longer, not without tipping our hand. Were he anyone else, he’d have been in that room, instead of you, long ago. Now? I would like to have something more than mere supposition to counter any objections raised by the Home Office.”
“Who else knows about you pimping me out?”
“You, me, and Herries-White. And that is how it remains.”
“And if I get killed?”
He almost smiled. “If your death helps us stop a killer, you will be given a hero’s burial.”
“What if I tell you to fuck off?”
“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Crown’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And...we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. Find some excuse for him to have business at the embassy. He is what this killer likes -- straight, good-looking, fair-haired. It wouldn’t be much trouble to provide al Qasimi with a tenuous connection to him. This time, since you won’t be around to interrupt, we might be successful.”
Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed.
I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you...because you really are one mean-assed, cold-blooded, motherfucking son-of-a-bitch.”
This time, the smile filled his face. “Nice to have that understood. We’ll be in touch.” He handed me my phone. “We have your number.”
Then he left...and I was stuck trying to figure out what the hell kind of shit I’d just got myself into.
-->
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