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

front of the queue who had expected to be enjoying the views of London from the pod he was now in. Most were pointing and talking to each other. A few were taking photographs. “They think we’re celebrities,” said Geoffrey. “By the way were you followed?”
John looked at the ground, now some ten to fifteen feet beneath them. Without pointing he looked towards the waiting crowd, “Two men towards the rear of the line, brown and black coats both wearing blue jeans.”
“Got them,” said Geoffrey, who then started to take photographs over the opposite side of the pod. A couple of minutes later he relocated John’s tail, switched the camera onto auto mode and took a rapid succession of photographs. For good measure he then changed the camera to video mode and took a short ten second video burst. He then took out his secure mobile phone, connected the digital camera to use via a mini USB lead and down loaded the photos and video. Next he punched in selected e-Mail from the phones menu, keyed in a short message, attached the photos and video then sent the e-Mail to Alex. “With any luck we might be able to identify the tail within a couple of hours.”
John knew better than to ask how Geoffrey could do that, he was just glad they were on the same side. Geoffrey then took out a pair of, what to John, looked like sunglasses. He put them on and looked around for a few seconds. He then took out what resembled an Mp3 player and placed it on the floor of the pod. “This place is lit up like a Christmas Tree,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked John.
Geoffrey took the glassed off and handed them over to John. “The lenses in these glasses are coated with special polymers that filter out all light except waves in the ultra violet or infer red spectrum, in other words the light spectrums that we can’t normally see. Your two minders down there are trying to listen in to our conversation via laser. It’s a similar set up to what they tried at your house except its portable.”
“Then they’ll know what we’re saying now?”
“No, it’s OK John, that little device on the floor is sending out high frequency sound waves that causes the glass to vibrate at over one million times per second. All they will hear is a very high pitched whistle and if they try to listen to that for longer than eight seconds it will burst their eardrums. Listening for longer than three seconds will induce enough pain in their ears to make them rip out any earpiece they’re wearing.”
The two of them looked over to where the minders had been, there was no sign of them. “They’ll know how long it takes this wheel to go round so they’ve probably gone to re-group. They are probably professional at what they do and so far we’ve managed to stay slightly ahead of them. They’ll have something to prove to someone so be careful when we leave here.”
John nodded, and then said “Why have you asked me over here, it must be something important to go to these lengths?”
“I’ve been thinking John. Two women have been viscously and brutally murdered. Both, for whatever reason, have phoney backgrounds. I admit they are excellent backgrounds, someone has done an excellent job, but if you dig in the right places and not just accept what you first find out, then they start to fall apart. Fortunately I know not only where to dig, but how deep to make the hole. The two murders are linked, I’ll bet both victims knew each other. I’ll also bet that the group of women at the funeral today also knew both victims.”
“Tracy was at the funeral,” said John, “she was part of the group.”
“That’s what I’m getting at John. I think Tracy, and all the other women we saw in that group, are all in danger. Any one of them could be the next victim.”
Geoffrey took out a selections of the photographs he had taken earlier in the day. “Look John, examine the group. What do you see?”
“John looked at the photographs, “Nothing really, just a group of women at a funeral. They’re all different ages, probably different backgrounds. I don’t know.”
“You’ve just said the answer John, they are a group. Look at the pictures; they have no contact with anyone else at the funeral, only each other. They stick together like glue. Not even any small talk with anyone else. I’ll also bet there are couple of other people missing from that group today. Two people the rest were expecting to turn up.”
John handed the photographs he had back to Geoffrey, “Gillian Burns and the killer.” He said.
“Agreed,” Replied Geoffrey, “listen John, I want to run a theory by you. “I’ve no proof of this at all but it’s based on your findings.”
“Go on,” said John, “I’m listening.”
“The scientific DNA evidence suggests that ‘Jack the Ripper’ is responsible for the recent murders. We also think that ‘Jack the Ripper’ is in fact a woman. Let’s go one step further, let’s ‘think outside the box’. Suppose Jacqueline Dupree is not the only person to somehow appear in our time. Let’s assume that the group of women, including Tracy, are also all from some time in the past. Let’s assume that is the link between them. If we can do that, then that could also be the reason why they are targets. Jacqueline Dupree is killing off the other people who could positively identify her. People who could probably prove who she really is, and was, I think Tracy is in great danger and the only ones who can protect her are us. She may not know it, but she’s on a shrinking hit list and at the rate it’s shrinking there won’t be a list within two weeks.”
As John was staring out of the pod windows he said in a quiet and deliberate voice, “I’ve already lost one incredible woman in my life. I’m not about to lose a second. Where do we go from here?”
“To see Pat,” replied Geoffrey, “Andrew’s already on his way.”
“How did Andrew know to go to Pat’s?” asked John.
“I called him earlier; now, let’s enjoy the rest of this ride.”
John and Geoffrey both drove to Pat’s in John’s car. They arrived at his flat seven minutes after Andrew. “Nice timing,” said Pat, “tea, coffee or something a little stronger?”
“Sorry Pat,” replied John, “I’ve got a date tonight so I’ll keep a clear head for now.”
“I haven’t got a date,” said Geoffrey, “so if there’s any of that famous single malt scotch of yours that I keep hearing about.”
“Coming right up,” grinned Pat who as ever was pleased to have someone to enjoy a ‘wee dram’ with.
Geoffrey explained his theory to the group. He passed around the photographs he had taken at the funeral. There was a good selection of group and individual shots, the close up shots of each woman in the group now came into their own. Each was a crystal clear photograph showing a full head shot of each.
“How do we know Jacqueline Dupree isn’t one of these women?” asked Andrew.
“We don’t, “replied John, I just don’t think that she is. My theory is that Ms. Dupree had arranged to go to the funeral with Gillian Burns. They agreed to meet at Gillian’s house and leave from there. When Ms. Dupree arrived Gillian thought she was opening her door to a friend, in fact to another woman who had a common bond with her. Instead she was opening it to her torturer and eventual murderer.” John took a drink of his coffee, and then continued. “Ms. Dupree is very calculating and thinks in a very precise way. She has to be to do what she does to her victims, and I’ll bet Gillian was kept alive for most, if not all of that time. Ms. Dupree would have savoured every second of Gillian’s sheer terror, made even more enjoyable because Gillian thought of her as a friend. The murderer would have made an excuse to someone else in the group, called to tell them that she would not be able to make it after all. She would say that something unexpected had come up and to please give her apologies.”
Pat interrupted, “I reckon one of them would have had a similar call from Gillian as well.”
Andrew then spoke, “Except it would have been from Ms. Dupree and not Gillian, that way neither would have been missed, no suspicion aroused. The first time the rest of the group will know about Gillian’s murder will be from the television news or tomorrow’s newspapers.”
“I believe you have a date arrange with Tracy,” asked Pat.
“Tonight, I’m picking her up at eight.”
Pat continued, “I have no idea what you are going to say to her, John, but you have to find out if our theory is right. If it isn’t then, at worst, you’ve made a fool of yourself. She’ll get over it. If we’re right, though, then she is in a heap of trouble and just now won’t even know about it.”
All three looked at John. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, “just don’t expect too much tonight.”
”I thought that’s what we were supposed to say to you,” quipped Andrew, “first date and all.”
John just looked at him. The rest of the group started to smirk, then chuckle. Then, for the first time in days all four just started to laugh uncontrollably.
 
Chapter 14

John had arranged to pick Tracy up from her North London flat. He arrived eighteen minutes early and decided to park down the road as he didn’t want to appear too keen. Not on their first official date at any rate. John was watching the clock; he was amazed at how slowly time goes when you watch a clock. It was as though time had stood still. Fifteen minutes eventually became fourteen, then thirteen. John noticed knots starting to form in his stomach; he was starting to feel a shaky, possibly even a bit light headed. It reminded him of a Christmas morning when he was six years old, he would wake up at four in the morning and then lie awake for ever waiting until it was seven o’clock. That was the time he would excitedly run into his parents room, jump on the bed shouting “It’s Christmas, has Father Christmas been?”
“Let’s go and see then,” said his Dad, “I think I heard Rudolph just a while ago.”
Christmas, for John, was never quite the same when, at eight years of age, he found out that Father Christmas did not really exist. There was no more lying awake listening for Santa, even getting up early on Christmas morning had lost some of its magic. The presents were still there, but somehow, deep down you knew they would be. John wondered again if Father Christmas really did exist.
John checked the clock again, still nine minutes early. “Close enough,” he said to himself as he started up the Jaguar and drove the couple of hundred yards up the road to Tracy’s flat. John sat for a moment, took a deep breath, leaned over to the back of the car and picked up a large bunch of lilies. He had no idea if Tracy liked lilies, but he did so he hoped that Tracy would as well.
He locked the car and walked up the steps to the large front door of the old Victorian house that had been converted into six flats, or apartments as people now liked to call them. He rang the doorbell, a buzzer sounded and