The Facebook Killer Read Online Free PDF Page B

private and I didn’t want to try and access it, that
would be the beginning of a trail. I had to do this from the
outside. Leaving no clues until I was ready.
    Every apple that fell had to appear unrelated
to the next. An accident here, a suicide there and an occasional
outright murder now and again. That was the plan. If anyone
cottoned on to the game so early, it would be over. Offline.
Status: In Prison.
    That same evening the press reports started
to filter through about Robert Chapel’s death. The car had exploded
on an impact, which accident investigators estimated at close to
100 mph. I felt good. The absence of skidmarks and absolute
destruction of the vehicle could only lead them to surmise that
somehow the accelerator had become jammed.
    I had an overwhelming urge to celebrate. I
wanted a drink. To feel the way I did when poor little Gillian was
strung up. I started pacing the room. I had to focus. I sat back
down in front of the dressing table and did my accounts. Including
the purchase of the BMW and related gadgets I had only spent
£36,500 so far.
    Now you may be thinking to yourself. Why
didn’t you just pay someone to do all of this? Like a hired killer?
Three million quid can buy you a lot of bullets. Well don’t for one
second think I hadn’t considered it. But what else did I have to do
with my time?
    Room service delivered my evening meal at
6:30 pm on the dot. A rap on the door signified it was sitting on
the floor outside. I waited until the footsteps subsided and slid
the tray inside.
    As I ate I thought about Renee. It would have
been easy for me to move on to the next one but that would be
admitting defeat. She was my first hurdle and I had to jump it. As
I ate my yogurt, I stared at her photograph. I had saved it and
enlarged it, sharpening the image slightly. The picture had been
taken indoors. It had a yellow tinge about it. The background
offered nothing, it was out of focus. Then I noticed it. Why hadn’t
I spotted it before? On the left hand side of her blouse she had a
nametag. Who wears a nametag? Either the hotel industry, shops or
maybe restaurants. That had to be the link. Her one mistake. A
fatal mistake.
    I racked my brains. There had to be a logical
answer. Hamid wasn’t a big player. Most of his friends were
homegrown apples and they were the ones I would deal with first.
The exotic apples would be dealt with later, after all most of them
were at the top of the tree.
    As I lay in bed that night it suddenly hit me
and I knew that Norman would have to go shopping in Camden
tomorrow.
     
    The three properties owned by the Hamids
weren’t difficult to find. They were included in their very
informative website, imaginatively named “Hamid Properties”. It
turned out they had quite an extensive portfolio of apartments and
houses to let as well.
    Norman had a niggling doubt in the back of
his mind that he might just be clutching at straws here. But what
the hell. It was worth a try.
    The shops stood next to each other.
Well-maintained Victorian buildings. Norman entered the first. A
greetings card shop. He wasn’t looking for a card he was looking
for a nametag. Alas, the staff barely had matching uniforms never
mind any form of identification.
    The next shop was hardly worth the visit. A
pet shop. The only member of staff, a young acne ridden rocker with
more facial piercings than he had customers.
    His last chance. Norman glanced up at the
sign over the door. “Just For Her”. As he looked at the arrangement
of lingerie and sex toys displayed in the window, he started to
regret his choice of clothing. The long brown mac fitted perfectly
with his image but perhaps not in the event of browsing a ladies
underwear shop. He was about to turn away, perhaps return as Kalif
when he heard a voice next to him.
    “Don’t be shy, Sir. Girlfriend or wife? Or
both?” she laughed.
    Renee had a lovely laugh, thought Norman,
childlike and innocent. Tall and slender with auburn hair,