Free The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 by M. L. Stewart

feeling about this,” said Pearson, almost to himself, “How long will it take you to track him down again?” He asked Dick.
    “ It all depends. It’s mainly down to his credit card use. I can have his mobile phone triangulated but that takes time and it doesn’t look like he’s been using it in the past few days. We have taps on his parent’s and lawyer’s phones, but there has been no contact.”
    “ What if Madison has got to him?” Gerradine asked innocently.
    “ And how would that be possible?” Retorted Pearson.
    “ I don’t know, just a thought, sorry,” Gerradine mumbled. Pearson looked deep in thought. Dick typed away on his computer, trying to find any new evidence on Hamid’s whereabouts. Gerradine poured another round of drinks.
    “ Well why don’t we ask him?” Suggested Pearson.
    “ What?” Asked Gerradine. Dick stopped what he was doing.
    “ Let’s ask the fucker. Matt, open your emails, will you?” Said Pearson. Gerradine did as he was told, “Now bring up the last email we got from him.”
    Pearson took Gerradine’s laptop from him without even a please or thank you. He began to type. Gerradine gave him a disdainful look. The headmaster was a twat after all.
     
     
    Dear Mr. Madison,
     
    It has been some time since our last correspondence. During the interim, I have been informed by my source in the Metropolitan Police Service that new evidence has come to light regarding the recent deaths in the London area to which you have indicated a level of participation.
    Although I cannot divulge this evidence, it appears that your claims can no longer be substantiated. Unless you have something to back up said claims, neither my newspaper nor myself are willing to take part in any further communication. I can however refer a very good grief councillor and psychiatrist to help you overcome the current mental problems, which you seem to be experiencing.
     
    Regards,
    Matthew Geradine.
     
    The message was sent without discussion or agreement. When Gerradine read it, in the sent box, he was livid. An image of his mother, bound and gagged, flashed through his mind. He jumped to his feet, the kitchen chair crashing to the floor behind him.
    “ What in God’s name are you doing?” He shrieked. Pearson and Dick exchanged glances.
    “ Exactly what we discussed,” said Pearson, “provoking the old bastard into giving us something solid to work with. All I need is some evidence that Madison is the killer and then I can go over my boss’s head to the Commission. They are the only ones who can sanction a reward for Madison. They are the ones who will discipline the Chief Constable for wasting millions of pounds looking for the wrong man. The commission, Matt, will make us all very rich. Dick here will claim the reward, which will, of course, be divided equally,” he shot a stare at Dick, who was nodding in agreement, “ and both of our careers will flourish.”
    “ What if he doesn’t go for it? What if he blows us out?” Asked Gerradine, looking increasingly worried.
    “ He won’t,” said Pearson, “Remember? He got in touch with us first.”
    “ With me,” Gerradine corrected him, “he got in touch with me.”
     
     
    Chapter 16.
     
    This was the exact reason that the English Police are referred to as pigs. It’s a term that was first used against them over two hundred years ago and it has stuck. I first lost my respect for the Police back in 1991. Being in the bomb squad, we lived, worked and died together 24 hours a day for nine months. We existed in scorching Iraqi temperatures, never knowing whether we would make it back home intact. We were machines. Robots. Living and breathing the job. Not like these boys with their basic education and clean uniforms. Their shirts nicely ironed by their wives. A home cooked meal waiting for their husbands who come home complaining about the amount of paperwork he has to do.
    It was our first night back in England. We were young. We