Death is a Service Rendered

The last bit was said in a mocking posh voice that was supposed to sound like Piers. He ignored it."

"Ok, then what?"

"So anyway, he looks over the stock, he seems to know what he wants and why he wants it and we sit down and make a list. He says he will order in a few weeks once he had his place re-decorated."

"Why say, "seems?"

"To be honest, I had the feeling he knew the stuff like a stamp collector knows stamps... collects them but never licked the arse-end and posted one in his life."

"Charming. And then what."

"So anyway, he takes some photographs, takes away some samples and then buggers off."

"Didn't hear from him again?"

"Shite, no. Bought everything on the list. But I didn't see him again. It was all done over the mobile, he paid in advance. Untraceable electronic style. Came to about twenty grand. Handed over the last items about 2 months ago."

"What sort of stuff?"

"A couple of benches, sent over to his place by courier, a cross-frame, and a lot of whips, crops, chains, nipple clamps, hoods, gags and restraints. Usual stuff.. only.."

"What?"

"Well, you know, you know... he was a stamp collector. Each piece makes sense on its own, but doesn't work together for any serious play. I didn't think it would work as a club dungeon."

"Ok, the big question, what's his name and what's his address."

Chaz rose from the stool and walked over to a cabinet. As he pulled open the drawer, he looked back.

"No problem mate, but what's the interest. Is this trouble for me?"

"Not you my friend. But I think our mutual friend might need to be found."

He nodded and handed over a crumpled delivery note from a courier.

"He paid cash, always by the same courier."

Piers looked at the paper. The name was given as John Smith. The address was a unit on an industrial estate. He took out a pen and a notebook and scribbled it down.

"What did he look like."

"Looked like an Arab, or maybe a Greek. Dark; ya know the type. Small, about your height, thin, a posh voice like yours, but not English."

"Thanks Chaz, a star as always."

Chaz clapped his big hands on the knees of his leather trousers and strode to the door. Come on ya miserable sod, come back to the kitchen and we can all get drunk for the night.

Piers smiled and dutifully followed.

*

The following morning, Piers looked mournfully at the lock-ups and waited for the rain to stop. His evening with Chaz and his wife had turned into a marathon all-nighter with Ellie playing a starring role. By the time he'd stumbled from the cab to his flat, the dawn light had started to bleed over the roofs. At some point in the night Chaz had drunkenly agreed to Piers' suggestion to make a visit to his mysterious customer.

A couple of hours of light dozing later, followed by a shower-and-seltzer hangover cure, Piers dressed and waited to be picked up by his friend. Together they went in search of Subliminal Quest in Chaz's works van, using the delivery address given. And here it was. But there was no sign on the building with that name on it.

The industrial estate was a decrepit and depressing place. In the past, some major firms must have built large factories and offices for thousands of workers. Now they were largely empty, and those that were doing business were small affairs, carving out the large spaces into smaller units. Many attempted to plump and preen their image with garish signs and a variety of planters with fading flowers sprawled over the edge. Most, like the one they were looking at, were tucked into odd corners of these enormous buildings behind empty crumbling car parks and therefore anonymous. There was one small door and a covered window. Piers and Chaz watched miserably for over an hour until occupants of the other commercial units started to arrive and open up their premises. No-one came to Mr Smith's door.

Eventually, when the rain stopped, Piers asked Chaz to wait in the car and left to visit the unit next door which had just re-opened after a lunch break. It was an artists' supplies store, with a customer desk just inside the doorway. He rapped on the desk. A man, about his age and similarly stocky but with a smile, came to the desk and spoke briskly.

"Hallo, we're not quite open yet, give us five minutes and you can come in. Can you wait?

"I'm sorry, I'm actually trying to find the owner of the unit next door... the one without a sign, though I think the firm's name is Subliminal Quest?"

"Never heard it called anything really."

He didn't appear at all put out that Piers wasn't a customer. In fact he warmed to the conversation. Piers had the feeling that he didn't often see people.

"But I tell you what, I can't say I have ever seen it open. As far as I know, John only keeps stock there."

"Yes, John, that was the name I was given. I was told to come over and pick up my delivery. I don't suppose you keep a key? You know, in case anything happens when he's away."

"Sorry, John isn't like that. I mean, I've only seen and spoken to him a couple of times. Mind you, I know he works in the evenings. You might catch him later tonight."

"Evenings, you know he works evenings?"

"Well I'm not here myself, but I notice the lights on sometimes the next morning. Or maybe a car arrives in the late afternoon and is still there next day. That sort of thing."

He looked at Piers as if it were dawning on him that he might not be what he seemed. Too well dressed, too well spoken, a bit vague as to why he was there. The smile disappeared and he became more business-like."

"Do you want me to take a message and I'll pass it on next time I see him?"

"No thanks, I'll call him and arrange to come back later."

Piers smiled and left. There was no way he could give up now. For all he knew, this friendly businessman might be about to make an unfriendly call to his neighbour. He turned and walked to the door, making sure he wasn't being watched. It was a simple red steel fire-door, locked and immovable. He looked through the small window and found only patterned glass reinforced with metal bars. There was, however, artificial light within. He considered what to do next. There had to be a fire escape... they would need to have those.

The building had once been a large suite of offices. Once there was a single main entrance and lots of ground floor windows. Now, the windows had largely been turned to doors as the extensive internal spaces had been turned into individual units. Then it dawned on Piers that these would have to have accesses from within. Maybe the back corridors were used as fire escapes.

After making sure he wasn't being watched, he waved to Chaz to come over.

"So what's the story?

Piers shrugged. "He didn't know anything. I think I can see a light inside, but there is no car. As far as the neighbour knows, it's not well used."

"So, knock on the door, let's start asking our friend what he is about, eh?""

"Patience my friend. Not here, there might be another way in. I don't want to attract attention."

He turned and walked further beyond the art supplies unit until he came across the main entrance to the original grand offices. They walked in and found the reception empty except for a telephone and a list of numbers. He looked at the list and was satisfied that he was right. There were units inside the building. He waited, pretending to consult the list.

Within a few minutes, a pair of suited men walked in talking to one another. They ignored Piers, but Chaz's presence in his black leathers and ear chain made sure they didn't look too hard at him either. So the men walked straight to the door at the back of the foyer. One punched in a code and the door swung open. Piers patted his pockets and smiled as both he and Chaz walked into the building just behind the two men. They grunted a greeting. Typically British... they would never question the credentials of a man wanting to pass through a locked door with only a smile and a nice suit. Especially one that looked as though he had a minder. They were in.

He watched as his doormen disappeared down the white painted brick corridor. As he had thought, there was a rabbit warren of back corridors connecting the units at the front. Taking a few moments, he orientated himself and followed the corridors and through the fire doors to the place where he expected to find the unit. Helpfully, the Art Supplies owner had pinned a card to his own rear door. The next door along the corridor had no sign, but Piers knew it was the right place. He tried the handle. It was locked.

"Now what?"

Piers knocked on the door. He waited a few moments, then knocked again harder.

This was a hollow and flimsy office door. Piers looked down the corridor. There were no people, no sound. He looked meaningfully at Chaz, who grinned. Chaz pushed hard with his shoulder once, then twice. Without breaking into a sweat, the cheap wood around the lock splintered and he was in.

Chaz reached around the wall and found a light switch. They looked into a small lobby, used for cleaning materials and storage of rubbish. As they entered, Piers picked out a mop and leant it against the open door to hide the broken lock. A few steps away was another door, unlocked and Chaz walked through. The space blazed with light from high ceiling fluorescents.

Chaz swore and walked to the centre of the room. Piers grimaced, gagged, grabbed one of the cleaner's buckets and was promptly sick in it. When he was finished he joined Chaz in the centre of the room. Around the edge of the walls were a number of opened but emptied crates, boxes and their contents, lying randomly around. But it was the centre of the room that held Chaz's interest. Wrapped in a bedsheet and partially covered in plastic wrapping was the unmistakable shape of a body. One arm was partially uncovered, the rest of the bundle was nothing more than dried blood. The smell, was unbearable.

Finally, Chaz spoke softly. "You want me to call the police Piers?

All he could do, was nod.

Whilst they waited for the police to arrive: or more specifically, DI Grave and his team, Piers looked around the room. Anything to avoid looking at the body. But he had to leave several times for air. He wasn't usually that squeamish. Chaz on the other hand looked at the bundle closely, seemingly unaffected.

"I think it's him Piers."

"Your Mr Smith", Piers called from the far wall near the open door. "How do you know?"

"Right build, right colour, at least the bit of the arm that's clean. But it's the bracelet that I remember."

"Bracelet?" Piers looked up, his nausea forgotten for a moment. "What kind, one of the Lifestyles'?"

"Naw, not one of mine. More like a gold one these people use to store their money. You know, heavy gold links, each worth a few bob when you need money in a hurry. I remembered him wearing it"

"So, not robbery then."

Chaz started to walk back to the door. "Hey Piers, we'd better leave, police will say we're contaminating the crime scene or some shite like that. Let's go."

Piers steeled himself, and after tearing off a strip from a cleaning rag roll and splashing disinfectant on it from a bottle in the storeroom, he re-entered the appalling room.

"In a minute, let me look around a bit more."

Chapter 11

It was some hours later at the police station that Ross took Piers aside. Chaz has spent the best part of a day glowering at his interviewers and telling anyone who would listen that he; "couldn't fucking care a toss who the man was. Ask Piers". But they squeezed a statement out of him eventually and due process was satisfied. Eventually he was released and looking angrier than Piers had ever seen him, clapped Piers on the shoulders on his way out.

"Life isn't dull when you are a friend, but for christsakes, try and keep me out of it, eh!" And then he left, mobile phone clapped to his ear and apologising to Ellie.

Piers followed Ross to the coffee machines and they sat undisturbed at a small table nearby.

"It's going to take a while to identify him. We didn't find any wallet or anything, and his face doesn't amount to much anymore."

Piers winced again, glad he hadn't looked any closer.

"Chaz has told you that he met him the once when they did business?"

"Well yes, and we will check out his paperwork. I doubt he was a John Smith, eh?"

Piers nodded.

"OK, we're not in the interview room now. What really made you want to go there? I mean, curiosity about a customer who buys stuff, even the stuff your friend sells, isn't enough of a reason."

"The key to this is what was the purpose of Subliminal Quest. At least that's what I think. And the man in the sheet confirms this doesn't it?"

"Could be a co-incidence."

"I'll tell you now. That blood on the bed in the hotel. I think we can guess pretty well that it belongs to our man in the sheet, don't you think?"

Ross smiled humourlessly. "I'm waiting for the results, but I'm not guessing anything else. However we have a third person in the room now. One who didn't leave blood, fingerprints or anything on the webcam."

"Exactly, And we are not dealing with an amateur here anymore. We have a specialist from my world, killing people in your world." I think the girl witnessed the murder of this man; right there, in front of her, on that bed."

DI Grave nodded. "What about the stuff this guy bought. What was he doing with it and how is it linked to our murderer?"

"Take a look at your scene photographs and look at them with my eyes."

"And?"

Here it was. This is what Piers was good at. He could take in a scene and play it through his mind. This was a useful skill when constructing his BDSM tableaus. It is how he taught his "students". Make the scene your own, draw your slave or submissive into that scene knowing exactly every move you are going to make. Construct your game in your mind's eye and make sure it works. Don't practise on anyone before you know it will not injure, maim or even kill your friends.

So, quietly and over the following hour, Piers "taught" DI Grave what he saw in the cold harsh light of the office. Or better still.

The "dungeon".

Piers had seen quite a few "playrooms" in his time. He had designed a few for his clients. But this one had made him shiver. A reaction lost on Chaz at the time who mistook it for nausea whilst he concentrated on the dead man.

Piers explained.

Generally, there tends to be three types of playrooms for the lifestyle-inclined. The first type were commercial operations, tastefully done, with good equipment that would last and usually in the form of a single large room with smaller private rooms nearby to cater for parties as well as personal games. They were properly staffed and were run like a good hotel. If he wanted him to, Piers would take him to his friend Brian's place to experience one like that. The second type were put together for individuals willing to spend money or time on their very private hobby with just a few friends around. They were small, in basements or in converted garages. The third type were to be found in the form of light, sometime innocuous looking and very mobile equipment tucked away in wardrobes and drawers, brought out to convert an innocent bedroom into a den of squealing vice for consenting adults when the kids were away.

Here, in this large space with its single space, double height ceiling and concrete floor, was a very different kind of place. What this room was for, was torture.

"Take a closer look at the pony."

"The what" said a bewildered DI Grave.

"The trestle device with the plank of wood fixed end on. It's designed for consensual play where the female "victim" is tied over it, legs splayed and the plank just touching the sensitive parts. It causes the person to rise and fall and rub against the clitoris. This one designed by the great Chaz himself has soft leather restraints, foot rests for the inevitable moment that the sensation of rubbing gets too much and most important of all, a rounded edge to avoid damage to the sensitive areas."

"But the one in the room?"

"Your forensic person will see that it has been altered. The foot rests have been sawn off and the rounded edge has been planed into more of a sharp edge"

Piers saw immediately in Ross's eyes, a dangerous look."

"No. before you say, Chaz would never, ever have agreed to those changes. If asked to alter his design that way, he would have thrown them out. Maybe with a black eye if he was in a good mood, maybe with a couple of broken ribs if he was in a bad mood."

"So, a crude amateur job; maybe done by our man on the floor?"

Piers shook his head. "No, from what I could see it had been done well. Wood properly polished, edge tapered with a carpenter's precision. You wouldn't have known it wasn't meant to look like that.

"Anything else I should look for."

"The restraints on the cross and the back rest that pushes out the buttocks and the breast have had the soft cushioned leather protection removed. In the form it now took, being tied to it would have been excruciating.

"And then there are the electrical devices. It's obvious they have been tampered with."

"How so?"

Their boxes have been opened and the cases have been dismantled and put back together. You can see scratches around the screws and on the plastic near the fixing lugs."

"Anything look like the device we saw in the webcam footage?"

"No, but I would suggest that your forensics people test the equipment out and see if it works beyond their design. Things like too much voltage, too much vibration. Anything in other words that would damage rather than pleasure its user."

Ross took out a book and scribbled some notes. "Okay Piers, spit it out. I know you've saved the best until last."

Piers smiled but stopped when he saw the DI's expression. "Well, the clincher that links it to your first crime scene is this. What you have here is a random collection of equipment bought by someone who doesn't know the lifestyle well enough to know that the atmosphere of the place is all wrong, and that you couldn't put together a coherent game play."

"I'm not with you?"

"Ever been to a BDSM event?"

"No"

"Then it's time you did."

Piers smiled grimly, Ross just took a deep breath.

Chapter 12

"You're a bloody idiot, Piers. What the hell did you think was going to happen? I'm getting a dozen messages a day with some unpleasant things said I couldn't even tell my secretary about! That's not counting the cancellations I'm getting."

Piers held the phone away from his ear and waited for Brian to calm down. As he knew he would. Brian didn't lose his temper often; but when he did, it was like a thunderstorm: spectacular, but short.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that, but you know how these things work, it'll blow itself out. Anyway, what cancellations, I can't imagine your customers will be that impressed by a few hotheads who helped the police with their inquiries?"

"Well fuck me, Piers, for not knowing my own business. They're saying we can't be trusted. And they have a point as we both know."

"I needed to buy time Brian. I'm sorry I had to involve you."

This created a pause. Piers took advantage.

"It's more complicated than you think. And I need your help again. I mean, personal help."

"Go on, what personal help?"

"There's been two murders. One is Alice Hart-Graham you might have read about in the papers."

"Not news. Knew that already Piers. And not from you either by the way. Bloody obvious when I had the calls. Including calls from the Press by the way."

Piers could sense Brian's anger being raised again at the thought of the press interest.

"Okay, but there has been another murder; this time I think it was the guy in that email correspondence you gave me. It won't be long before the police draw the conclusion I've been trying to prevent for nearly a month."