Finders Keepers Read online

  Text copyright © Kris Lillyman 2014

  The right of Kris Lillyman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means without permission.

  For Netty, Scarlett and Dexter

  Finders Keepers

  By Kris Lillyman

  PROLOGUE

  - 1 -

  Berkshire, England 2003

  By the time the party was over and the last of the stragglers had gone it was four in the morning but Peter Bearing, whose party it had been, was still clear-headed and focused. He, sipped a glass of ice cold Perrier as he wandered casually around his private gallery in his enormous home, trying to appreciate the great works that hung on the walls but, frankly, just not getting it. Peter was a refined, articulate and intelligent man but try as he might, art just didn’t do it for him.

  He was killing time as he waited for the staff to finish up and get off home before he went upstairs. Normally he would let them see themselves out but tonight, or this morning as it now was, he needed to be certain that the house was empty. For what he had planned, there could be no witnesses.

  The gallery was sparsely decorated with just two very uncomfortable but extremely stylish black leather sofas placed back to back on the polished, black marble floor in the centre of the large airy room. It had been designed to allow the ideal viewing experience, lots of open space in which to sit or stand and admire Peter’s priceless collection.

  It was comprised mainly of contemporary pieces, or ‘modern art’ as Peter rather disparagingly referred to it, by artists such as Pollock, Lichtenstein and Warhol. There was also a Matisse, which he thought was vile, a Monet, which was just about bearable, and a couple of extremely hideous Picasso’s which Bearing just couldn’t understand. There was a Lowry too which, in his considered opinion, might as well have been painted by a child. Hanging uncomfortably alongside these, and much to the chagrin of Peter’s art advisor, he had a Rembrandt, a Vermeer and a Constable, which he thought of as ‘proper art’. The advisor felt that even though these were masterworks, they did not sit well with the rest of the collection, giving it a haphazard appearance. Peter disagreed, if Rembrandt was considered ‘haphazard’ then the art world really was beyond his comprehension.

  In truth, Peter didn’t really care about any of the paintings or the names of the artists they were painted by for that matter. All he knew was that they were highly valuable, very sought after and, most importantly, his. And it pleased him very much to have things other people wanted.

  Of course, no one from the party that night had been allowed into the gallery as this was reserved for only the most influential guests, those who could appreciate the value of the collection or those he was trying to impress. Mostly those he needed something from in return for his hospitality. Only one person fell loosely into that category tonight, but a look at Peter’s paintings or indeed a weekend at his fabulous home wouldn’t be enough to secure what he needed from that one. Other, more extreme methods were required for that. Bearing glanced at the shiny silver Breitling on his wrist and judged that by now, those methods should be well and truly underway.

  The party had not been arranged for fun, not for Peter at least. It had been purely for business, the key part in a plot he’d been hatching for several years and tonight’s entertainment had been for the sole purpose of achieving his goal. This was the moment when everything finally came to fruition.

  He drank the remains of the glass of water, pressed his right palm against the small screen of the digital palm scanner by the door then, after hearing an approving ‘beep’, punched in his four digit security code. After that, he snapped off the light in the gallery and shut the thick metal door behind him as he entered the wide hallway that ran adjacent to it. He waited a second for the whir of the heavy-duty locking mechanism to kick in. A second ‘beep’ and three short red flashes of the tiny light above the handle told him the gallery was now completely secure.

  The hallway was again very sparse with scrubbed wooden floors, plain white walls, conceptual leather seating and abstract sculptures. Very desirable pieces is how they had been described. Ugly monstrosities is how Peter saw them but again, they were highly valuable and greatly sought after, so he liked them.

  The head of the catering company, who doubled as the head waiter for the evening, passed by and collected Peter’s glass. “Nearly done now, sir,” he said, “They’re just finishing off in the drawing room and then we’ll be off - shouldn’t be long.” Peter nodded his approval and the waiter went on his way.

  Bearing gave the man and his team a little longer than had been estimated, just to be certain, but after ten minutes he took the stairs down to the kitchens to check that they had finished.

  Years ago, the area ‘below stairs’ used to be the old staff quarters but only a couple of the small rooms had escaped the complete remodelling of the lower level when Peter took over the house. The huge kitchen had been entirely redesigned and modernised and now instead of staff quarters there was a full size swimming pool, a luxury spa and a private cinema that could seat over fifty people. The staff quarters, if ever any were required to stay, were now in the converted stable block at the back of the house. Modest accommodation but comfortable nonetheless.

  However, Peter only hired staff by the event now, very few ever stayed the night, unless the occasion specifically required it and even then only those who were absolutely necessary such as maids and kitchen staff. However, Peter always hired the same people, from the same agency who had all been scrupulously checked out and who he paid very well to ensure their complete discretion.

  The only permanent staff were the husband and wife team who stayed at the house whenever Peter wasn’t using it, just to manage the day to day running of the place and the ten strong security force who had a permanent base in the grounds - even though the house itself had a state-of-the-art security system that made it as impregnable as Fort Knox.

  “That’s us done, sir. Goodnight!” Called the head waiter, who now had his white jacket off and his anorak on.

  “Right. Thank you,” said Bearing, “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sir,” hopefully see you next time.” Said the waiter as Bearing locked the door after him.

  Bearing’s house was magnificent, built two centuries earlier in over three hundred acres of beautiful Berkshire countryside. Its landscaped gardens and lakes were breathtaking with a mile long driveway that meandered its way leisurely through the estate from the grand gated entrance to the grandly designed eighteenth century residence that stood regally at its end. On the outside the house was very much of its period, rich and exquisitely ornate, but on the inside it was a hi-tech, ultra modern palace with every luxury money could buy. No expense had been spared in creating the chic clinical lines and smoothly elegant curves that were a running theme throughout the highly contemporary inner space which made it an utterly breathtaking vision of style, design and elegance. The perfect advert for success, power and wealth that Bearing intended it to be.

  The house had become Peter’s after his father, Teddy, passed away seven years earlier. Back then, the place had been just another drab stately pile; an antique-filled throwback to the Georgian era it was built in. But, as soon as Teddy’s funeral was over with, Peter brought in an architect who gutted and completely redesigned the place. The future was what Peter was concerned with, not the past.

  But the house was not Peter’s home. He actually lived in a fabulous townhouse in Mayfair that overlooked Hyde Park, with his young, soon
to be ex-wife and their three pampered children who very rarely visited the house in Berkshire. Although most of the time Peter, himself, stayed a short distance away at his spectacular apartment in The City, either on his own or with one of a stream of mistresses.

  The Berkshire house was primarily reserved for events, such as hunting, shooting and fishing weekends. It was where he entertained business associates, corporate fat cats and visiting leaders from various foreign states who could indulge themselves to their hearts content.

  Peter’s Palace, as the house had become known was a discreet place to play and Bearing laid everything on that his guests could ever need. It was not just the facilities or the fabulous food and drink that was on offer, but also women, or men too, if that was their preference - in fact whatever they desired.

  But this particular weekend was for just one business associate by the name of Jonathan Wallace. Wallace had become a supremely irritating hurdle that stood in the way of Peter’s meteoric rise to power and Bearing didn’t like things getting in his way one little bit.

  The party guests had been chosen purposely to complement Jonathan, there were none who would outshine him and none he would feel inferior to. The girls had been hand picked by Peter to cater specifically to Wallace’s tastes and one in particular, who Bearing knew Jonathan could not resist, had been primed and paid to deliver exactly what was required. All of which Jonathan Wallace was completely ignorant of. He just assumed he was being wined and dined by a friend and colleague. A few drinks, a bit of relaxation and a nice party - ending the weekend on a high before returning to The City on Monday.

  Back upstairs, in the main house, Peter now made his way up the grand marble staircase to the first floor. He was thirty-five, good looking in an intellectual kind of way with brown hair and slate blue eyes. Tanned and fit, Bearing took good care of himself, he didn’t drink excessively, didn’t smoke, apart from the occasional cigar and was the product of an excellent education. He had a beautiful family and enough money for several lifetimes but for Peter none of that was enough. He wanted more. Much more.

  At the top of the staircase, Peter paused for a moment to listen for the sound of any stray guests that may have escaped his watchful eye but there was only silence. He glanced out of the window, just to double check that the driveway was completely empty and the last of the revellers had indeed gone. The only cars still remaining were a Renault Clio and an Aston Martin Vanquish. The Clio belonged to the girl on Peter’s payroll, the Aston to Jonathan Wallace, her companion for the evening.

  Peter then carried on up to the second floor and walked along the wide landing to the farthest bedroom. Outside the door he listened again but once more heard nothing. He knocked softly and waited. A moment later the door opened and a striking blonde wearing very expensive, very sexy, green satin lingerie with stockings and garters ushered him in.

  On the bed, next to her discarded Vera Wang cocktail dress, lay Jonathan Wallace. He was completely naked, his flaccid penis as limp and lifeless as the rest of him.

  “I trust he’s just sleeping?” Bearing said.

  “Like a baby,” said the girl, her voice prim, very English public school. “He’ll be out for hours darling - you could drop the atom bomb and he still wouldn’t wake up.”

  Bearing made no reaction. “It all went to plan? No problems?” He asked.

  “No, it was easy-peasie. I slipped the liquid you gave me into his whisky when he went to the loo and ten minutes later he was dead to the world.”

  “Not before—” Peter began.

  “Oh, no. He managed that, darling - just - but I seriously doubt he’ll have any memory of it. I certainly won’t let’s put it like that. He collapsed half way through so I just rolled him off and left him where he is.”

  “Good.”

  “Do we really need to carry on with the rest of it?” The girl asked quietly, “I mean, I’ve done my bit - he won’t remember anything and I know what to say if anyone ever asks.”

  “Yes, we do” Bearing replied firmly. “He’ll need to be totally convinced. To have no doubt about what he’s done. He’ll need to see evidence. You already know that and you’ve been paid very well.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. It’s just a bit frightening, you know. You will be careful won’t you? Like you promised - you won’t hit me too hard - I mean, my face, well it’s the first thing men see - it’s my living darling, my fortune.” She was clearly scared but knew she had entered into a wicked bargain for a very lucrative reward and there was no going back now.

  Bearing looked at her. He understood exactly what Jonathan Wallace had seen in her; early twenties, fabulous figure, stunning looks and very upmarket in a really sexy kind of way. When she arrived at the party she could have easily passed for the nubile young daughter of a duke and duchess. Wallace would have had no idea that she was, in reality, a high priced whore. Peter had paid her enough to keep her in designer lingerie for years. But now she was going to earn it.

  Bearing smiled, then picked up Jonathan Wallace’s trousers, which had been discarded on the floor, and slid the soft leather belt from the loops before throwing the trousers back on the ground. He held the belt tightly with his hands about eighteen inches apart and tugged it twice to test its strength, hearing a rewarding whip-like crack in response. It would do very nicely indeed.

  Still holding the belt, he walked over to the door and closed it as the girl looked on aghast. “Of course I’ll be careful,” he said, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Bearing, breathing heavily and standing spent and sweaty above the girl, zipped his fly and re-buttoned his trousers. Then, being careful to leave as much blood on Jonathan’s belt as possible, laid it down beside him on the bed.

  Only then did Peter move away from the girl, who was trembling and terrified. “Stand up!” He demanded gruffly. But she made no movement and no reply. “Stand up,” he said again, “Or I’ll make you stand up. It’s your choice.”

  The girl roused slightly, but still did not move. She felt weak, concussed, battered.

  Bearing stepped angrily towards her but quickly she held her hands up, “No, please, I’ll stand, I’ll stand, I promise - just don’t hurt me any more, please!” She implored. Her words were thick and slurred, her swollen lips were split and dripping blood.

  Slowly she climbed to her feet and stood shakily in front of him, terrified. Her bra was torn, her knickers completely ripped off and her stockings severely laddered. There were strap marks on her legs, buttocks and arms along with large blue bruises.

  “Come and stand under the light,” he ordered and like a foal walking for the first time she staggered into the centre of the room.

  Bearing went to the chest of drawers and pulled out an expensive Nikon SLR Camera, then turned and began taking photos of the girl, as if he were David Bailey at a fashion shoot.

  He made sure he got close-ups of every bruise, whip mark, blemish and cut. He photographed all the blood and all the semen. The semen was his own but no-one would know that other than the girl. Certainly not Wallace who would have no desire to have it DNA tested.

  With the camera whirring, Bearing made the girl bend over and touch her toes and then forced her to sit in a chair with her legs wide apart to ensure that he photographed all the lacerations on her private parts and the bite marks on her inner thighs made by his own teeth. Finally he photographed the girl’s ripped and bloodied knickers which he draped over Jonathan Wallace’s arm for dramatic effect.

  As the dawn arrived, Peter finished his work and the girl grew stronger. With her strength a little glimmer of courage returned. “You’re a bastard! You know that?” She said hoarsely.

  “It has been said more than once,” Bearing replied with a wry smile as he scrolled through the photographs in the camera’s digital view finder, mentally making a note of the mos
t compelling shots.

  “I didn’t agree to that. A couple of bruises is what we said. A light slap or two. Not that - definitely not that. Look at me!” Her lip started to quiver and her eyes flooded with tears but she held them back. “You’ve destroyed me. My nose is broken, one of my front teeth feels loose, I can hardly walk - I’m a wreck, for Christ’s sake - everything hurts. How can I work? How can I earn money? Who’ll want me now?”

  “We had an agreement and you’ve been paid. That’s all.” Bearing didn’t look at her as he spoke, she was inconsequential and their business was done.

  “No!” She said. “That’s not all and not what we agreed. That was over and above what we agreed by a very, very long way. I want more money. Another ten thousand, otherwise I’ll go to the police and tell them exactly what you’ve done. And I’ll have the money in cash, today, before I leave.” The words were said with force but there was no real conviction behind them, no real intent and it was obvious.

  Suddenly she had Bearing’s full attention and his eyes fastened on hers in an intensely threatening manner. “Now, listen, my dear,” he said, with cold steel in his steady, soft voice. “Listen very carefully. We had a deal for which you have been handsomely paid. You will not receive another pound, not another penny. If you ever - and I mean ever - mention my name or what has transpired here tonight or any part of our deal to the police or anyone then I’m afraid I will not be responsible for what is bound to happen to you. You see, whilst I am just an honest businessman I have associates who are far less gentle and far less understanding than me. In fact, the gentlemen I refer to are hardened mercenaries who kill for fun and would like nothing more than to track you down and silence you for good. It would be sport to them, nothing more. All I need to do is pick up the phone and ask, do you understand?”

  What remaining colour the girl had in her face drained as she slowly nodded. She had no doubt whatsoever that he meant what he said and was more than capable of what he threatened.