The Dungeon & Christmas With the Executioner Read online

  Penny gestured at the downstage mic. Lot One coughed daintily into her fist—good—and introduced herself. Emma wasn't her actual name. She didn't hesitate, reciting a Blake poem and smiling when she finished. She spoke like someone born into money. Sonia's team produced top of the line specimens. A process refined over many years. Two decades, mused Winter, realising the anniversary of his taking on this part of his business had passed earlier that year. It took a careful, methodical approach to maintain such consistency. The candidates needed to be weaned off any substances before being introduced to the particular melange of drugs that would make them pliant, dependent, and desperate to please.

  The bidding got busier, but Winter knew square twelve was committed. Lot One fetched a hundred-and-fifteen thousand. Not a bad start. Not a bad start at all.

  Winter's auctions, featuring candidates hand-picked by Rhoda and groomed by Sonia, were the only game in town for top-end sex slaves. Not that Winter would ever use that phrase in front of his clients. To them, he provided companions. Permanent companions. Once they left the premises, they became the property of the successful bidder. What happened after that, Winter neither knew nor cared.

  The rest of the auction went well. A tall brunette woman sold for a disappointing sixty thousand after bursting into tears during a poor rendition of Adele's Hello. But the loss was more than made up for by a young Indian lad, whose limpid eyes caught the attention of squares nine and three, pushing the price into high six figures.

  All in all, a successful night. Rhoda's swan song, thought Winter, as each square winked out, unaware that their host had been capturing their details for years, to prepare for their eventual blackmail.

  Winter's phone rang. Unknown caller. It would be Blüthner. Winter had expected this. The German, now living in America, was, even in this evening's company, the richest by some margin. He'd started out as a pimp in Berlin, setting up shop and aggressively expanding his territory in the months after the Wall fell. He moved into heroin supply, as trade routes opened up following the fall. These days he bought and sold corporations. Tonight, he paid three hundred thousand dollars for Lot Six, a tall blonde Danish girl whose muscled body didn't suit Winter's taste. Blüthner often bid on lots who showed signs of spirit. Perhaps he preferred to complete the breaking-in process personally.

  "I heard about Miss Ilích. Unfortunate. How will you replace her?"

  Not much of a one for small talk, Blüthner. That suited Winter. The German's mention of Rhoda's surname and her fate was a demonstration of power. Rhoda's body had been identified by the false name from the passport in her Paris hotel room. No one ever referred to her surname.

  "There are one or two possibilities."

  "Really." Blüthner's sceptical tone was understandable. Rhoda had been exceptional at identifying promising candidates, befriending them, and abducting them without a trail for the police to follow. She learned her trade from the woman who developed it, and, over the years, the disciple became more successful than the teacher. Winter had always been alert to the danger of being too reliant on one person, and tried—without Rhoda's knowledge—other procurers, other methods. Nothing else came close to her consistency.

  Winter's thoughts turned to retirement. He could hand over the cocaine side to Gregor. Strickland might take on the munition smuggling. That left the most lucrative product - humans. The bread-and-butter part of the business remained steady - mostly Syrians now, already displaced, easy to lure into the back of a lorry with the promise of fair pay and a new home. But margins tightened every time a lorry was searched, or a spoiled shipment arrived because some idiot didn't remember to include air holes. Then there were the high-end 'companions' that went to auction, valuable not just for the excellent return on investment, but also for Winter's longer game - his retirement.

  "Yes. Short-term, we'll see a dip in supply, but I expect to have the operation running smoothly again by early summer. Some people say anticipation provides much of the enjoyment."

  "Some people are fools." Blüthner rang off. Winter wondered if he'd been insulted. Blüthner was hard to read. It would be a pleasure to blackmail him.

  Blackmail would provide Winter with an excellent income during his retirement. As a young man, Winter found the notion of extorting money sordid, and beneath him. Not so now. The clarity of thought which had seen Winter build his own criminal empire also revealed flaws in his own logic.

  Winter's phone pinged with notifications, as money arrived in one of his offshore accounts. He took a hip flask from his pocket and toasted a good night with a mouthful of fine Calvados. He was in a reflective mood.

  With age came wisdom, as the ideals of youth were variously tested, found wanting and thrown away. Respect, obedience, adherence to laws. Tolerance. Empathy. All drummed into individuals through education in their formative years, to protect the prevailing economic and political system. And, mostly, it worked, churning out unquestioning cud-chewers who did as they were told, thought as they were taught, and voted to keep the creaking control apparatus functioning.

  Most citizens played the game without ever questioning their lack of agency, but society needed rebels. Those who flouted, or broke, the rules, were crucial to maintain the very system they attacked. Punishing criminals shored up confidence in the restrictions on freedom that the majority bought into.

  Which left a gap for the Winters of this world. Truly free, autonomous individuals who broke the rules but got away with it. There were plenty of pragmatic politicians, and police officers on the payroll, prepared to look the other way.

  This was as good a time as any to get out.

  The means by which he captured his blackmail information was so simple, Winter had laughed when Penny first explained it.

  "And you think they'll fall for that?"

  "Most of them are men. I know they will." She'd been proved right.

  A simple hack meant the video link cut out for individual bidders at a crucial moment. The 'reconnect?' dialogue that appeared didn't offer paranoia-level anonymous access through 4freeker, but they clicked it without thinking. Or, at least, eight of them had, so far. Including Blüthner. Meaning Winter had evidence of the bidders' involvement with a sex-trafficking ring. And a means to fund his long and comfortable retirement.

  If he died, they were exposed. If they failed to maintain their quarterly payments once he claimed them, they were exposed.

  Rhoda Ilích inadvertently provided the clincher when it came to blackmail. She taught Winter a lesson, too. Because she had handed him the Lewis family, and because she had taken on the procurement role efficiently, without complaint, he had let himself trust her. Not for the first ten years. He wasn't a fool. But who could have guessed Rhoda would have the patience to appear loyal for so long? Eighteen years after joining his organisation, she'd used her mobile phone to record him ordering the execution of a mayoral candidate.

  She wanted money, but—more than that—she wanted out, and for him to leave her alone. Rhoda proved more resourceful than he had expected. His only big mistake in forty years. Winter had suspected she was bluffing about the recording being emailed to journalists if she didn't log in to a certain website and prevent it, but the risk had been too great. She was dead now, and her bluff had been revealed. A good bluff. Well played. Unfortunately, the manner of her death meant the recording was in the hands of an unknown quantity. Well, he wouldn't be unknown for much longer.

  Winter watched the guests depart, each square on the laptop going back to white.

  His phone buzzed again. The Twins.

  "Well?"

  "Got him. One of Henderson's boys runs a construction company. Your guy worked on one of their sites. Hod carrier. Big, bald, scars on his head."

  "What about his records?"

  "Yeah, you were right. Not much to find. A bank account, wage slips. Nothing from his childhood at all. No permanent address. We ran his name, filtered out everyone over forty and under twenty, then filtered again to get r
id of anyone with a permanent job. That left—"

  "Do you have a point?"

  "Sorry. Yeah. Found him. Working at a warehouse in Hounslow. He's the right age, he always keeps his head covered. We took photos last night, checked them against the screenshots you sent."

  Winter had supplied the freeze-frames from Rhoda's murder that offered the best view of her killer. It wasn't much to go on - but there was no concealing the height and bulk of the man.

  "And?"

  "Yeah, the build fits. He's big enough."

  The Twin—Winter had never bothered differentiating them—sounded unsure. Winter pressed him. "What aren't you telling me?"

  "You said he was dangerous. Not this guy."

  "Explain."

  "He's slow. Learning difficulties. Severe. Can't read or write. We found someone who worked with him two years ago. He said this guy can barely speak."

  Winter was silent.

  "Boss? You still there?"

  "I'm here."

  "What do you want us to do?"

  Whoever killed Marty and Tay and planned the Montparnasse Tower murder didn't have learning difficulties. He was capable and dangerous. One way to find out if this was the same man.

  He'd chosen the Twins for their physical talents.

  "Hurt him."

  Chapter Three

  Tom liked working at the Hounslow warehouse. He enjoyed being indoors when it was so cold outside. At Christmas time, everyone became more friendly. Tom noticed this every year and made sure he always worked in December. The holiday itself meant little to him, having no one to celebrate with. Television programmes showed families, which made him feel like his insides had been scooped out. But the week before Christmas was still his favourite time of year.

  The warehouse job paid cash, with fair wages, and Tom helped himself to free cups of tea whenever he wanted as long as he washed up his mug afterwards. Sometimes the boss left a packet of biscuits or cake in the canteen. The biscuits were broken, but they tasted the same. It was like getting a present.

  It must be close to Christmas because everyone wore red hats, and the radio stations played the same few songs. He hummed along to some of them. Tina said he had a good voice. Tom blushed at that.

  Mr Cracknell, the manager, offered overtime tonight. A big delivery, delayed because of an accident on a motorway. Tom volunteered. The same amount of work for more money sounded good, and the warehouse was warmer than the attic room he rented, where any heat from the two-bar electric fire rose straight up and out of the uninsulated roof.

  At ten o'clock, Tom—muscles aching from stacking pallets—clocked out and put on his heavy black coat. Viv called it a donkey jacket, but Tom thought it must be a joke because you didn't make jackets out of donkeys.

  At the door, he stopped when Mr Cracknell called his name. If a boss wanted to see him at the end of a shift, it usually meant they didn't need him anymore. They called it 'letting him go,' which confused Tom, as no one had locked him up and he didn't want to go anywhere.

  "Mrs Cracknell's Christmas cake, Tom."

  The warehouse manager held out a brown paper bag.

  "Mm? Cake?"

  Tom took the bag and looked inside. A rich aroma emerged, white icing on a dark slab. He tried to remember the last time someone had given him a gift.

  "Thank you." Tom didn't get stuck on either word, and smiled while looking at his boss's face, rather than his feet.

  "You're welcome. See you tomorrow."

  "Mm. Tomorrow."

  The night turned icy cold, a thin wind sending scraps of paper tumbling along the front of the warehouse. Tom buttoned the jacket and turned up the collar. He pulled his wool hat over the bandana, making sure it covered his ears, then set off towards the path that cut through Lampton Park to the shops and houses.

  It took two minutes for the contented glow to fade. Mr Cracknell was a kind man. The other workers - Viv, Tina, Ali, Manu, even Terry, who called him slow, treated him well, but it was nearly over. Tom never stayed long. All his jobs ended after a few weeks; a couple of months at most. He needed to keep moving. Tom waited for the urge to leave, to find somewhere new. Impossible to ignore, like a sneeze.

  The urge hadn't come yet, but he had been working at the warehouse for ten weeks. Tom woke up every morning expecting it to be there. Its absence confused him.

  And Bedlam Boy was missing. No trace anywhere. Tom was alone, anxious, and scared. He worked all the hours he could to stop himself thinking about it.

  The Boy had called twice in the summer. After the first time, Tom had woken up injured, a stitched cut on his right side. The second time, he had slept for weeks, waking on a London railway platform with no memory of where he'd been.

  But, unaccountably, he buzzed with an optimism and joy he couldn't express. Bedlam Boy's recent visits left behind a sensation of fierce happiness like the scent of strong perfume in a small room. Tom worked the usual menial jobs, kept his own company, stammered when spoken to. But something had been set in motion, he knew, and it brought Tom a temporary sense of peace he'd never experienced before.

  Now that peace was threatened. The Boy was silent.

  Tom walked into the alleyway that cut behind the backs of the warehouses and led to the park. He was hungry. He considered opening the bag and eating the cake. No; it would be more special back in his room with a cup of tea.

  Halfway down the narrow, poorly lit passage, he heard footsteps behind him. Tom looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouetted figure of a man.

  Tom kept walking. He reached the halfway point of the long alleyway, and the security light on the warehouse wall came on. Another five steps and he was back in darkness.

  A second man appeared, this time at the far end of the alleyway, walking towards him. Tom was acutely aware of the wall on one side and the high wooden fence on the other. Boxed in. Constricted.

  He looked back again as the light was triggered by the first man, seeing him clearly for the first time. Tall, about Tom's age, maybe older. His stare a challenge. Tom hurried forwards. The other man was twenty yards away. Fifteen, ten… Tom stopped. It was the same man. How could the same man be behind him and in front of him?

  He stopped, not sure what to do. It was dark here.

  "The Boy, mm, loves the dark," he murmured, but no one watched him from the shadows. No one responded.

  The two men were close now. One of them took something from his coat pocket. Some kind of truncheon. Tom spun around. The second man held an identical weapon, and the two men looked exactly the same.

  Tom moaned, backing up until his spine was pushed up against the warehouse wall.

  The first blow caught his upper arm and he cried out, instinctively hunching over. The second man's truncheon cracked on the base of his skull and he stumbled forward.

  The first man stepped in close, punching Tom in the stomach. He coughed and retched, grabbing his attacker's jacket to stop himself falling over.

  Where are you?

  Even as he thought it, the familiar fade came over him, and he welcomed its embrace, falling away into unconsciousness.

  When Tom came back, and opened his eyes, there was time for him to register a sick sense of horror and despair before another blow from a truncheon sent him to the ground.

  He was still here. The men were hurting him.

  It was a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. Bedlam Boy had come, he was sure of it. But he hadn't stayed, he hadn't helped. And now Tom was on the floor as they punched and kicked him. He curled into as tight a ball as he could and started to cry.

  He heard the men leave. They were chatting to each other as if nothing unusual had happened.

  When Tom rolled onto his back, it hurt to breathe all the way in. He ran his fingers along his ribs, pushing carefully and wincing. His arms and legs hurt, his cheek ached where a boot had caught him. When his fingers encountered something soft and warm on his side, he recoiled. It didn't feel like blood.

  He sat up a
nd looked at his hand, coated and glistening. It was Christmas cake.

  Back at the rented room, Tom didn't even get undressed. He rinsed his hands and face, kicked off his work boots, and laid on top of the sheets, sore, scared, and empty.

  "John, let me put you on hold for a second. I have to take this."

  Winter looked out of his first-floor study towards the moonlit lake, where a fish flipped out of the cold water, sending ripples across the surface.

  He didn't have to put Strickland on hold. He could just as easily call the Twins back. But small reminders of their respective positions was never a bad idea.

  "What happened?"

  Winter didn't use names when talking to the Twins. He assumed they had first names, but they only ever referred to themselves—collectively, and individually—as the Twins.

  "We did as you asked. He'll be sore for a few days."

  "What about you?"

  "What about us?"

  "Your injuries." Winter had sent the Twins in without any prior information about their target. If Tom 'Brown', the itinerant manual worker with the scarred head, was actually Tom Lewis, this so-called Bedlam Boy, he doubted the Twins would be unscathed.

  "Injuries?" A low chuckle followed. "He didn't even try. He's never been in a fight before."

  "How do you know?"

  "His first reaction. You can't fake it. I was watching him when he clocked us. I came in swinging and he practically shat himself. No idea how to defend himself. He was crying."

  "Maybe he was faking it."

  "No way. He was bloody hopeless, Mr Winter."

  "Yes, so you said. Give me some supporting evidence for your assertion."