Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘I’m not arguing with that,’ agreed McCulloch, propping his feet on the only unoccupied chair to prevent anyone’s joining them. ‘The question is: what are we going to do about it? It’s our asses in a sling.’

The Texan actually wore cowboy boots, Harding saw. He said: ‘The Europol guys know it, too. Virtually spelled it out.’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Ritchie. ‘They’re the only people who can stop him.’

‘The sonofabitch is only getting a check run on the ambassador himself!’ McCulloch disclosed.

Gaston Mehre had very roughly re-dressed the boy in trousers, although he hadn’t zipped the fly or bothered with underpants. Otherwise the body was naked to the waist and without socks or shoes. The crumpled shirt nearby was flamboyantly ruched and the shoes were patent leather, with large silver buckles. There was a dried trickle of blood from the corner of his lipsticked mouth and after-death lividity, where the blood had pooled, darkened his face despite the make-up which also failed to hide completely an emerging beardline. The nipples were rouged. The eyes were bulging and the long black hair lankly matted by gel and sweat. The lingering cologne was still quite strong.

Charles Mehre’s canopied bed was in chaotic disorder, the sheets balled up and in places torn, hanging from the bed in tendrils. Only one pillow remained on the bed, heavily indented and spotted with blood. There was also a splash of blood on a mirror set into the bedhead. Directly in front of the mirror was a pair of handcuffs and beside them a thin-thonged whip. On the floor nearby there was a black leather bag, on its side: a dildo and a set of nipple clamps were spilling out.

Felicite turned away from the body, uninterested, walking back into the main room of the rambling, two-floored apartment above Gaston’s antique shop in Antwerp’s Schoenmarkt. Smet and Henri Cool were by the window, overlooking the city’s still bustling shopping district. Freed from Felicite’s restraint, Smet was smoking defiantly. Both he and Cool held whisky glasses. Gaston was by the drinks tray, pouring for himself, when Felicite entered. She shook her head against the gestured invitation. Charles Mehre was isolated in a far corner, hunched on a very upright chair. His head was low on his chest, a child caught doing something wrong. He hadn’t been given a drink. No one was talking.

Felicite said: ‘Where did you get him?’

‘On the Paardenstraat,’ said Gaston, naming Amsterdam’s homosexual centre.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Anyone see you?’

Gaston shrugged. ‘It was the busiest time.’

‘Were you in your car?’

The antique dealer shook his head, gesturing towards his brother. ‘He wanted to choose himself.’

‘What was his name?’

‘He called himself Stefan. Stefanie.’

Felicite frowned. ‘What nationality?’

‘Romanian, he said. A lot of them have come from the East. He had an accent.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was to calm Charles down: you told me I had to. It meant getting him someone,’ said Gaston, defensively. ‘We were all together, when we got back. He was very good. He had to stay, obviously. This morning Charles said he wanted Stefan for another day: that he liked him. We fixed a price. I left them up here this afternoon, while I was downstairs in the shop.’

‘How?’

‘Pushed his face down into the pillow from behind, until he suffocated. That’s how I found him. Charles says he didn’t know he was doing it: that he was excited.’

Felicite crossed to the corner. Charles hunched down, cowering, at her approach. ‘Why!’ she shouted.

The man tried to make himself smaller, not replying.

‘Why!’ she shouted again.

‘Sorry,’ he said, mouse-voiced.

‘Tell me why.’ Felicite’s tone wasn’t so strident. It wasn’t as good as the feeling she got taking risks or partying with a group but it was close: there was a thrill making grown men cringe, nervously doing whatever she told them.

‘Wanted to,’ mumbled the man. ‘Felt nice.’

It was an inconvenience, decided Felicite, allowing the anger: an intrusion for which she had to adjust when she’d thought she had everything worked out in its logical sequence. She leaned even closer to the man who still smelled of his victim’s cologne. ‘You’re stupid!’

He looked up and as close as she was Felicite clearly saw the madness in his eyes and was momentarily unsure how much longer she could control him. Another reason for moving on from this inherited group, she thought, recalling her earlier uncertainty about Jean Smet.

‘Not stupid,’ snarled Charles.

It would be wrong to show any fear: wrong to betray it to the man in front of her, to whom she couldn’t surrender control, and wrong, too, in front of the other men who had always and unquestioningly had to accept her as their leader. ‘Stupid!’ she repeated, her voice loud again. ‘Admit to me you’re stupid!’

‘No!’

‘Say it!’

‘Stupid,’ whispered the man.

‘Louder!’

‘Stupid.’

‘Louder still!’

‘Stupid!’ Charles shouted. He began to cry.

‘That’s good,’ said Felicite, soft again, encouraging. ‘Now promise me you won’t do anything like it again.’

‘Promise.’

‘Say I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’

‘I promise I won’t hurt anyone again: won’t kill anyone again.’

‘That’s very good, Charles. You won’t forget that, will you?’

‘No.’

Felicite turned to his brother. ‘Your storage basement has a security door, right? And your own cell?’

‘Yes?’ queried Gaston.

To the head-bowed man in front of her Felicite said: ‘I want you to take Stefan down into the basement. And all his clothes. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what you’ve got to do.’

‘Take him downstairs and put him in the cell.’

‘With his clothes,’ she prompted.

‘With his clothes,’ he agreed.

‘No!’ said Gaston, still close to where the drinks were. As Felicite turned again, she saw him pouring more whisky for the agitated Smet. Charles had been straightening but now he stopped, looking for guidance beyond Felicite to his protective brother. Gaston said: ‘I’ll get rid of the body, tonight. Cleanse it with a detergent, a spirit, before putting it naked into the river. It’ll be all right.’

‘No,’ said Felicite. ‘I want it kept, for the moment.’

‘Why?’ demanded the nervous Smet from the window.

‘Because I say so,’ insisted Felicite, who had no clear idea why she’d said what she had but didn’t want to be seen immediately to change her mind. She moved away from Charles Mehre, returning to the others. ‘Gin,’ she ordered. ‘Just ice.’

‘I want to get rid of the body,’ insisted Gaston stubbornly.

‘There might be a use for it. He’s a whore, probably entered Holland illegally in the first place. No one’s going to miss him. Whores disappear all the time.’ She turned back to the hunched man in the corner. ‘I said take him downstairs!’

Charles Mehre looked between Felicite and his brother, like a trapped animal.

Gaston capitulated. ‘Take him downstairs.’

‘That’s better,’ said Felicite. She was becoming irritated by the constant challenge, from too many people. She waited until Charles had stumped from the bedroom, the body heavy over his shoulder, and Gaston had fetched her drink before she said: ‘I don’t want him around Mary any more. Not until I say so. He’s too dangerous.’

‘Who’s going to look after her?’ demanded Cool.

‘Has anyone been to the house today?’ Felicite said, to Gaston.