Deadly Pretty Strangers

  Deadly Pretty Strangers

  Max Thorn

  “HELP ME FIND OUT WHO KILLED MY SON. PLEASE.”

  A REASONABLE REQUEST. A LITTLE MONEY INVOLVED.

  A young Polish lorry driver is found dead. An unremarkable man killed in a strange way. The police investigation stalls. The dead man’s mother intervenes and, finding little sympathy from the authorities, she persuades an unassuming desk worker, Zav Fox, to ask a few questions.

  Soon Zav meets Christmas Pendle, a beautiful girl with more pistols than credit cards. She is gleeful in her planning, fearsome and relentless in execution, and tenderly compassionate. Though Zav doesn’t like guns, his fearless ally thinks they’re the best way to dispense fast justice. But her lethal power comes from a dark secret which could make her friend or foe.

  Zav seeks answers from the ever present web of surveillance, while haunted by strange dreams and attacked by brutal villains. The answer to the mystery death is somehow connected to a long forgotten military research program. But in trying to find one killer, an ordinary man must confront an existential crisis greater than anyone’s worst nightmares.

  Deadly Pretty Strangers

  Copyright © 2017 Max Thorn

  Max Thorn asserts his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the UK in 2017

  With the exception of the events describing well-known historical fact, all characters and events described in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to my friend Carley, who said, “Can I read it yet?” more than once, like a restless child on a long journey.

  Thank you to everyone who helped me with this novel. In particular, I’m very grateful to Ben, Stephanie, Curmudgeonly Steve, Graham, Shani and of course Carley, who all read drafts and made helpful suggestions. Also, my heartfelt thanks go to Pam Bertram who diligently scoured a late draft for errors and inconsistencies, and Magda who caused the spark that ignited my urge to write this story.

  About this text

  This edition of Deadly Pretty Strangers is a light-touch adaptation of the UK original, to enable US readers to enjoy this story without having to look up unfamiliar terms. The text contains US standard punctuation and spelling. Some words and phrases have been changed to terms which are more familiar in the US. However, the British English structure of the text has largely been retained. Some words and phrases specific to the UK are unchanged where the meaning is likely to be obvious to most readers. If any of it is truly confusing, I’d be very happy to hear from readers via email; [email protected] to enable useful updates. If you prefer to read the story in its original version, the UK edition is available on Amazon.

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  END

  PROLOGUE

  In 2012, the BBC broadcast a documentary which reported on the creation of spider-goats. According to the documentary, the goats’ genes incorporated an element of spider DNA. The spider DNA allegedly enabled the goats to produce milk which included the protein used by spiders to produce silk.

  Spider silk is proportionally stronger than steel by weight and has a unique elasticity which can withstand high stress without permanently deforming. Apparently, the spider-goat creators hoped to enable the production of industrial quantities of spider silk through the processing of the goats’ milk. This method of spider silk production would be more efficient than the traditional process, which involves dragging silk from a trapped spider, onto a small spool turned slowly enough to allow a continuous thread to be drawn from the spider’s spinnerets, creating a spool of thread. A very small spool.

  It is unclear at the time of writing whether a commercially viable, industrial-scale production process for spider silk will result from the spider-goat innovation.

  ONE

  “This will sting a little.”

  Doctor Lopa stared intently at my forehead as she pushed a needle into the wound.

  “I don’t like needles.”

  “Don’t worry Xavier. This won’t hurt as much as the gash you’ve already got. Just two more.” She leaned close, pushing the edges of the wound together, her green face mask just inches above my nose. The fabric puffed in and out with her words.

  Antiseptic odor wafted over my face. I closed my eyes against the bright glare of the examination light above the bed. Another sting.

  “You won’t be able to arch your eyebrows for a while.”

  “Why not? It’s not a problem. Just curious.”

  “I’ve anaesthetized a couple of muscles. It’s fine though; the other forty-one are still working.”

  “Forty-one in my face?”

  “Yep. Forty-three altogether. In most people.”

  “That’s an odd number.”

  “Indeed it is. In fact it’s a prime number. Hold still while I clean this out.” She used a large syringe to squirt water into the wound. The cold liquid ran across my forehead and soaked into the paper towel under my head.

  “No, I mean it seems like an oddly large number.”

  She stood upright for a moment in thought. “I suppose it must seem large. Your hand has thirty muscles. But some of those are in your forearm.” Bending again to the task, she put the first stitch in.

  “I’m not surprised by that, considering what the hand can do.”

  “You’re underestimating the importance of the face,” she murmured. “It’s the ancient communication system. Far older than spoken language. The face has a lot to do.” She turned my head slightly to one side. “Hold still.”

  “So, what do these forty-three muscles do then, apart from smiling and frowning?”

  “Well some of them,” she spoke haltingly while she concentrated on the stitching, “move your jaw up and down. And side to side. While you’re eating. Blinking, to keep your eyes clean and lubricated.”

  “I mean the communication part.”

  “Oh that. They gossip away with any other face that looks in your direction, telling the world your innermost thoughts whether you like it or not.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Our voices and minds are constantly talking over the forty-three muscles, trying to drown out those indiscreet messages. Otherwise we’d never get through a day without getting fired, losing partners, falling out with our friends and fighting with our neighbors.” She tied off another stitch.

  “So faces expose true thoughts.”

  “If you watch carefully.”

  “I’m not sure I’m any good at reading faces.”

  �
€œYou are. We all are. It’s instinctive. Hold still. One more stitch.” Her hands worked more quickly now. “That’s good. It’ll be just a small scar. It won’t make you look any less handsome.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or insulting.”

  “It’s intended to be reassuring. Sit up now.”

  I swung my legs over the side of the examination bed, feet not quite touching the floor.

  “So tell me properly. Exactly how did you get this wound?”

  “Are you investigating?”

  “Not my job. I’m just checking for signs of concussion. Confusion, disorientation, inability to concentrate. Tell me what happened.”

  “I came back to my apartment this morning, in the early hours. A little after three o’clock I think.”

  “Drinking?”

  “Gambling. Poker.”

  “Lose lots of money?”

  “No, I made a little. It was raining, so I was in a hurry to get in the main door to my building. I unlocked the lobby door, stepped inside and then bang! It felt like a car hit me. I saw a bright light and then I was out. I woke up on the cold tiled floor, inside the main door, a loud hammering in my head. The lights had gone off in the lobby and stairway. They came on as I got up. I saw my blood on the floor. And on my raincoat. That was a strange thing.”

  “Getting knocked out?”

  “Yes, obviously. But my coat. It was rolled up like a pillow under my head.”

  “A kind hearted attacker,” she said ironically. “How long were you out for?”

  “Minutes rather than hours.”

  “Were you robbed?”

  “No. I had five hundred pounds in my pocket—mostly winnings from the card players. All there. Phone, watch, wallet, keys, all still in my pockets. There was no one around. I looked outside the main door. No lights on in any of the blocks. No footsteps running away. No one in the lobby or stairwell. All the doors to the apartments in my block were closed. I staggered upstairs to my door, holding the stair rail most of the way. I thought maybe my place had been burgled.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes, but I hadn’t been burgled.”

  “Did the police attend?”

  “No. I told them someone had knocked me out, almost on my doorstep. They asked for a description. I’d seen nothing. Then they asked me if I knew who’d done it. I’ve got no enemies that I know of. The people in the other five apartments are a family, two are pensioners, one’s a friend and there’s a quiet couple. I get along fine with all of them. When I told the police that I hadn’t lost anything, they asked me what I wanted them to do. I said, be on the look-out for someone knocking people out. They said they had hundreds of officers working on that every night in central London. They told me to call back if I got any more information and they advised me to get medical attention.”

  “Why didn’t you go to accident and emergency at the hospital?”

  “I was tired. I took painkillers and went to bed. I hadn’t realized how big the cut was until I woke up hours later with a sickening headache and a blood-soaked pillow. Then I came down here and waited for you to open.”

  She gave me a list of concussion symptoms that she’d printed while I’d been talking. “If you get any of these, call me or go straight to accident and emergency at the hospital. If you need painkillers, don’t use anti-inflammatories. I think you only have a mild concussion, despite what seems to have been a hard blow. Take a rest for a few days. No driving or violent exercise for a while.”

  “I don’t do much of either.”

  “Come back in five days so we can take the stitches out.” Lopa sat up suddenly and leaned back, staring at my forehead. “Is it possible someone hit you with a Scandinavian fridge?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Come and look in the mirror.”

  I got down from the bed and stared into the full length mirror on the consulting room wall. A short row of neat nylon-like stitches held the vertical split in my forehead closed.

  “Looks monstrous.”

  “Look at the marks around the injury.”

  My forehead was swollen. I looked closely at the skin on either side of the stitches. There was an impression in red and purple. Turning so the light cast a better shadow on the bumps and ridges in my skin, I saw a triangle inside a circle. Beside it were indentations that looked like a capital S. Beside this I saw a lower case c, followed by an a and something resembling an n, fading against the curve of my temple. “Did someone try to stamp graffiti on my face?”

  Lopa pointed to the handle of the fridge next to her desk. I’d only seen it opened when I was getting vaccinations. The handle showed the geometric logo in sharper relief. The name beside the symbol said “Scanlux”.

  I said, “There’s no fridge by the main door.”

  I trudged home, legs heavy from lack of sleep. I’d intended going back to bed. Patryk, a neighbor from one of the first-floor apartments, stood by his open front door, dressed for winter in a long dark coat.

  “You’re back,” I said, “How was Warsaw?”

  He glanced at my head but didn’t answer my question or comment on the square white dressing on my forehead. “Come quick. My friend Aleksy is ill.”

  TWO

  Patryk is ten years my junior and looks to me to help him solve tricky problems. Up until this point, sick friends hadn’t been one of them.

  We hurried inside his apartment, passing through the living room where Patryk’s luggage stood unopened, crossing a small hallway and then into the main bedroom. The rooms were dark. The apartment smelt clean and the tidiness made me think I should employ a cleaner.

  In the bedroom I saw his friend, a dark-haired man under a quilt on a double bed, with just his head showing. Facing away from the door, toward the windows, he lay very still on his side, as though in a deep sleep.

  There was no bed-linen on the mattress, pillows or the quilt. A harsh sterile odor followed us in. The room was quiet, the rumble of traffic outside muted by the double-glazed windows. I could hear my own breathing.

  I moved briskly around the bed and pulled back the curtains, throwing light on the man in the bed.

  Patryk stood at the end of the bed, hands clasped anxiously, “I’ve tried to wake him.”

  He was in his mid-twenties, about Patryk’s age. His brown eyes stared straight ahead from under a thick head of short hair.

  I might not be great at reading faces but even I could tell that this face was saying something loud and clear, despite the fact that it was definitely not revealing any innermost thoughts. His facial muscles had given up the day job entirely, letting his stubbled jaw fall slack.

  No encouragement from my hand would make his mouth stay closed. I checked for breathing and a pulse all the same. The cold and clammy feel of his neck made me take my hand away quickly. I checked properly. There was nothing. I kneeled and put my ear close to his mouth. No sound, no breath. He smelt strongly of bleach; like he’d been drinking it. That was as far as I was going. I put the curtains back the way I’d found them.

  “I’m sorry Pat. I think he’s past being ill. I’m pretty sure he’s dead. Have you called anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Come up to my place. You can call the police from there. Probably best not to touch anything in here. Call an ambulance too. I think he’s long gone but I’m no doctor.” Then I jumped on seeing a monstrously large spider, shiny black and dark brown. It was bigger than the palm of my hand, trapped in a clear plastic box on the table next to the bed. “Whoa! Is that yours? Is it real?” I thought I recognized it as a bird-eating goliath spider.

  “Not mine. Must be Aleksy’s,” he said quietly, looking at the figure in the bed.

  I peered through the end of the box, my eyes level with the spider. It backed away as far as it could and raised itself up on its back legs, waving the front pairs at me and displaying its black fangs. I looked over at Patryk. “Sorry. I know it’s not the priority. Such a strange
thing to see here though. Let’s go up.”

  Patryk closed the front door quietly and we started up the stairs briskly.

  I asked, “Who is he?”

  “Aleksy is my school friend. He’s visiting from Rybnik.”

  “What’s he doing in your bed?”

  “I said he could use my apartment while I was away. He’s supposed to be in the second bedroom.”

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Patryk called 999 from the phone in my living room. I washed my hands carefully. Infection was on my mind. I made tea. After Patryk had drunk it, he went downstairs to wait outside his door for the ambulance and the police.

  The shock of finding a dead body had my sleep-deprived mind fizzing. I tried to do some work. I was reading the end of year accounts for a company that made artificial hip-joints and trying to work out how much money they were likely to make next year. My client was thinking about investing and wanted to know if he should be buying their shares or their competitor’s shares.

  But I couldn’t concentrate. The meaning behind the numbers slipped away every time I thought of the pallid, slack-jawed figure two floors below. Lack of sleep and the dull ache in my head didn’t help either. I went downstairs to see what was happening. It had been about two hours since I’d seen the body.

  White light blazed from Patryk’s doorway across the lobby floor tiles. The low hum of serious voices filtered up the stairs. A uniformed police officer stood outside Patryk’s door. As I looked through the doorway he put a hand up to stop me.

  “Is Patryk still here?”

  “Do you know the people here sir?”

  “I’m a neighbor. Xavier Fox, top floor.”

  He leaned in through the doorway.

  “There’s a neighbor asking for the resident here.”

  Another uniformed officer came out, took my name and address and told me that Patryk was busy right now. Someone would be up soon to speak to me about the incident. He eyed the dressing on my forehead and told me to stay inside until I’d been seen.