The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 by M. L. Stewart Read Free Book Online Page B

Albert could hear dishes and cutlery clattering. A door closed and then silence again.
    Albert’s eyes darted around the concrete garden. The garden shed; surely there would be something useful inside, something to force his way into the house. He took a small concrete urn and, dropping the plastic flowers onto the floor, struck the rusty padlock. It fell apart at the first attempt. Albert had hoped that some of the long-redundant garden tools would still be inside, but he was wrong. It looked like daddy had found a better use for his shed. The small desk had neatly placed piles of porn magazines. The shelf above was stacked with packets of cigarettes, a can of lighter fuel, and an assortment of spirits. “Fuck me, if Allah could only see this,” thought Albert.
    He grabbed the lighter fuel and stuck a bottle of vodka in his pocket. The magazines went untouched; we had seen enough of these whores to last a lifetime. Peering through the crack he knew he had only one chance. Putting his sunglasses on, he tossed the can of lighter fuel over the fence like a grenade. It landed perfectly on the smouldering leaves. It was hard to tell how long. He ran with the concrete urn and waited in position by the patio doors. He had one chance. This would have to be a split-second reaction like all of those years ago, in Iraq. Albert’s cheek was throbbing. The urn raised high above his head, arms shaking, sweat starting to run down his back.
    The explosions couldn’t have been more than half a second apart. The fence was ablaze now. The dining room filled with shards of glass. Shouts came from the neighbour’s garden and still the bitch didn’t stir.
    That’s when it hit Albert, or so he told me afterwards. He tried to describe it but he couldn’t. Was it chemical? Neurological? or something deeper? He didn’t know. All he knew was that the rage had consumed his mind and body entirely.
    Personally, I think it was the link. The bond. The similarity, if you like. No, let me correct that. The Irony. Here he was with Abdul Hamid’s wife-to-be.
    Albert broke every single bone in that girl’s body. He thinks he used the urn but he’s not one hundred percent sure. What he does remember is her being like a rag doll before he tied her up into ball, so small, that she fitted into a rucksack he found under the stairs. He said she was like one of those balls you make from hundreds of elastic bands, like contortionists who can pass themselves through a tiny hoop.
    The violence didn’t anger me. That fucking bitch deserved everything she got. What annoyed me was that he brought her back to the hotel room in the first place. In fact that wasn’t the worst of it either. What really pissed me off was that she was still breathing.
     
    Chapter 12
     
    I’d been thinking long and hard about Matthew Gerradine and what role he could play in all this. I had decided to come clean with him. Tell him about everything. But only if he guaranteed a press blackout until I was ready. If he blew the whistle now, we would have little chance of getting out of Pakistan, never mind back into Britain. If he kept his mouth shut, he would get the biggest exclusive in the history of journalism. But I was paranoid. How did I know that he could be trusted?
    I made contact with Serge again. He said it could be arranged but would cost £30,000. And so that is how Matthew Gerradine became my confidant. I didn’t really care what conditions his mother was being kept in, as long as they kept her alive, I was guaranteed absolute discretion.
    Gerradine’s home phone number was in the public domain, so Norman called him from a pay phone inside the public library. It seemed like the obvious spot. No background noise to give away where we were. It sounded like he was going to fucking explode when Norman told him that we had his mother. I’m sure everyone in the library heard him too. We told him to email us from a private address, not to tell his police friends and wait for