The Samsara Project by David Burgess (romantic books to read .TXT) 📕

who took two plain chocolate digestives. Andrew thanked Geoffrey then asked if he had any news for him.
“Yes, but not as much as I had hoped for,” replied Geoffrey. “And that bothers me.”
”Why’s that?” asked Andrew.
“Finding out about someone’s background is straight forward these days. Provided you know what you are doing and where to look there is information overload about all of us.”
“I thought that’s what the Data Protection Act was for, to stop people from finding out about you.”
”It may stop Joe Bloggs from down the road checking up on you, but I’m not Joe Bloggs, and you are paying a very good fee for my expertise.”
“Point taken,” replied Andrew feeling as though he had just been told off for being a naughty boy.
“First things first, I have no idea who that woman was that was murdered on the Common the other day but I am absolutely certain that she was not Suzie Reeves. I am still working on the ‘who’ bit, but that’s proving to be a bit difficult and will take a while longer. I will find out but please be patient for a day or two.”
“How can you be so certain that it was not Suzie Reeve who was murdered?”
“Four and a half years ago, Suzie Reeves, the real one, went abroad on an extended backpacking holiday. She left the UK by ferry and headed for France. From there she went to Belgium, Germany, Czech Republic, Poland, Ukraine and then Russia. At this point the trail goes cool. Not entirely cold but cool.”
Andrew was busy taking notes. They both took another drink of their coffee. Geoffrey continued; “Up until that point Suzie’s mother had received regular post cards from her daughter and a phone call at least once a week. All of a sudden the post cards stopped and the calls went from one a week to one every month, then six weeks eventually to none at all.”
“You’ve spoken to her mother?”
“No, she died last year a very kind neighbour, who was a very good friend of the family, though was more than happy to talk to us.”
”Any idea what happened in Russia?”
“I would guess, and it is only a guess but a good one, that Suzie was kidnapped almost as soon as she entered Russia. The local Mafia was probably tipped off by the border guards who get paid very well by the Mafia for such information. I believe that the current rate is the equivalent of two to three months wages providing the information is good.”
“In Suzie’s case it was,” said Andrew.
“It would appear so.”
“If she was kidnapped, was there a ransom demand?”
“No, no demands at all. There never is. These kidnappings are not about money, they are about information. Information about whomever they have kidnapped. It starts with simple questions; name; age; date of birth, occupation; where they live, just general basic things that are easy to answer. They are told that if they answer the questions and don’t cause any trouble they will be released and can go home. In truth that is never an option, they are never released and never get to go home.”
”This happens a lot?” asked Andrew.
“I’ve never known it to make News at ten, but yes, it is a big problem and getting bigger. It works like this. Remember in the old movies, when someone wanted a new identity how they trawled graveyards looking for a child who had died. Taking the name and date of birth of the child they could apply for a new birth certificate, insurance card in fact anything they wanted. These days that won’t work. Government departments now talk to each other, at least electronically. When you’re dead these days, you stay dead. The only way now to take over an identity is to take one of someone who is still alive, or thought to be alive. Suzie Reeves was a perfect target, old mother, no other family and no ties. Miss Ivan whoever it was that took over her identity could have lived over her for the rest of her natural life and never have aroused suspicion.”
“She then lives over here as sweet Suzie Reeves when all along she’s Miss Ivan Mafia laundering money for the Russian Mafia”
“That’s one scenario. There are also plenty of other options, so don’t focus too much on that one for now.” says Geoffrey, he continues, “Meanwhile back in Russia the victim sends a message home saying they have met a local man and they have fallen madly in love with each other. It’s the real thing. Not to worry, they are fine. They’ll be in touch again but it could be a while. Generally that’s it.”
“Then why make the last call, why say those things?”
“It’s surprising what you’ll say with a gun at your head, or more likely pointing towards the head of another victim that you have befriended. If you don’t say what they want as soon as the call ends, the friend dies, their brains blown out in front of you. Then straight after, the same thing happens to you.”
“So whoever was killed on the Common was an illegal immigrant.”
“Not just any illegal. The victim, we’ll call her Suzie for now, was probably high up in the Russian mob. You say she worked for an investment bank?”
“Yes, the City of London Investment Bank” replied Andrew.
“That could mean she was probably laundering the mobs money through bogus accounts she’d set up. Take in the dirty money, give it a wash, quick spin, hang out to dry and hey presto, clean money.”
“On the night of the murder John and I suspected that the Eastern European Mafia may be involved, looks like we could be right.”
“Don’t pat yourself on the back just yet, Andrew. It looks highly likely she was part of the Russian mob, but even for them that was a brutal murder. Who she worked for may not have any bearing on the killing. It could just be a coincidence. I hope to have more this afternoon for you. I’ll keep in touch.”
Andrew took a final drink of his coffee. “Thanks for what you have done so far. I’ll bring John up to date. We’ll speak again later.”
As if by magic Sylvia walked into the office and offered to show Andrew out. “I hope you had a productive meeting,” she said on the way through to the front door.
“Yes, it was very interesting.” He said.
“We’ll see you again soon Mr. Cleaver. Do have a pleasant morning.”
Andrew started walking down the street. He took out his mobile and punched in John’s number. He answered on the third ring.
Andrew spent the next eight minutes summarising his meeting. John hadn’t expected any of what he was told.
“Andrew, I’ll call you back within the hour. I’m just about to meet with an old friend and I’m hoping he may have some useful information for us. Great work this morning.”
Andrew ended the call. “Yes”, he thought to himself, “This was turning into a very interesting case.”
 
Chapter 7

John walked into the ‘Red Lion’ pub on Harrington Road. It was a typical East End pub that had managed to miss out on the wine bar refurbishing hit list that had destroyed so many traditional pubs over the past twenty years. The Red Lion sat proudly at the end of Harrington Road and it had been Alan Edmondson’s local since he had moved into the area twenty seven years ago. The lounge, so called because it had a couple of padded chairs and a fire place that last seen a fire during the second world war, was Alan’s place in the pub. Regulars of the Red Lion all had ‘their seat’ and Alan’s was just underneath a large half frosted window. The top of the glass was clear to let in the light, the bottom frosted for privacy. His table and three chairs may not have had a reservation card with his name on it, but it may well have done.
John was pleased to see Alan. He genuine liked the man. Alan did not give out information because of the money, although it did help to buy a few extra rounds of ‘Collins Best Bitter’, he did it for moral reasons. Alan felt he was doing his bit in preserving free speech and the rights of the individual to be told the truth. Alan’s information was amongst the most reliable John ever received. He did not get a lot from Alan, but it was definitely quality over quantity.
John sat down at Alan’s table. There were two pints already in place. One for each of them, Alan believed in paying his way. Neither drink had been touched. “I knew you’d not be long Mr. Reynolds so I thought I’d wait for you. Now you’re here I’ll drink to your health.” Alan then raised his pint and took a long drink, almost finishing three quarters of the glass in one swallow. John picked up his glass, “Your health,” he said and took a far smaller drink. The effects of yesterday’s marathon session with Pat were still lingering on and John still had to meet the man again for lunch.
“Good to hear from you Alan, it’s been a while.”
“It has Mr. Reynolds.” John had long ago stopped asking Alan to call him John. Alan was of the ‘old school’ and he had been brought up to respect those above you. It had never been explained to him exactly what that meant but whatever it was John fitted that category. “It’s been quiet lately Mr. Reynolds, and I never get in touch with any gossip. You know me, but I overheard something last that I thought you should know about. It’s something the police don’t want anyone to know about so it must be important. Even most of the coppers don’t know about it.”
“Don’t know about what Alan?”
“Well you know that girl that was murdered on the Common the other night.”
“Yes.”
”Well, her body was brought to my mortuary for the autopsy. A right mess she was in as well. I’ve never seen anything like it before I can tell you. And I’ve seen a lot of nasty things.”
John gestured over to the barman for two more pints. As they were brought over Alan continued, “I was cleaning out one of the cubicles in the gents when someone called Hughes and another copper came in to use the stalls. I stayed where I was so as not to disturb them. Anyway, they started talking about a cross, a white cross they had found with the girl’s body. They reckoned it had some writing on it but I’m not too sure what they said it was. It was something to do with a whore, that’s all I can remember.”
“Did they say anything else Alan, anything at all.”
Alan thought for a moment, took another long drink. “Yes, they did Mr. Reynolds but it doesn’t make any sense to me, they said it was a signature. Does that make any sense to you?”
”It does Alan. Look I’m sorry but I have to go now, another meeting. If you hear anything else, please let me know.”
“I will Mr. Reynolds. I hope you can make use of it.”
John got out his wallet and handed over one hundred pounds. This was twice what he would normally pay but this was worth it, not just for the information, but because he now had some leverage over the police. DCS Hughes had known about this all along and he had kept it from him.
A brief thirty four minutes later and John had joined Pat in the Three Horseshoes. There had been