I do not own anything from Charlie and the Chocolate factory. All rights and likenesses belong to Roald Dahl, Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. No profit is being garnered from this work. The persistence of the media is to be lauded, however their methods leave much to be desired. Mr. Richard Lard and Mike Shatz of the London Equire magazine have been returned to their offices in…mostly…good shape after attempting to sneak in the loading docks. I'm sure a good medical professional specializing in proctology will be able to remove the Super-Sized Lemon Drops without further discomfort, although their embarrassment might prevent them from seeking out professional assistance. Don't mess with Wonka! – Stealth Phoenix
Warning – disturbing imagery of an adult nature. Violent content – sensitive readers may want to move on. You have been warned.
The black cab sat idling across the street while the purple limo pulled away from the curb.
"You gettin' out here, mate?" asked the driver with a strong Liverpool accent. He eyed his passenger in the rearview mirror. Tall bloke, wearing a rumpled tux, slouched in a tan trench coat. He jumped in the cab as the limo was pulling away and demanded he follow it. He'd run up a €45 tab following it out of London and to the nearby town.
Victor sat silent for a moment, watching a light flick on in the upstairs apartment behind a small frosted glass window on the top floor.
"Just wait a few minutes. In a hurry? You're going to get paid either way," He said.
The driver said nothing, turning to mutter into the radio before pulling a book from the passenger seat. He settled in to read "Guards! Guards!" by Terry Pratchett.
Victor worked the bow tie free from his neck as he leaned back on the vinyl seating. He now knew where the bitch lived, but what to do about it?
The light flicked off. He waited a few minutes, but no more turned out – she must have headed for bed.
"Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes," he ordered, opening the door.
Jumping out into the street, he pulled the coat closer around his throat. It wasn't quite cold enough to snow, but it made the humid air unpleasant to be in.
God how he hated this town…this country..the idiotic Brits and their oh so superior attitude.
Prowling around the front door, he took quick surveillance of the security measures – reinforced glass windows on the first floor, secured fire escapes, coded key entry into the building. No easy targets here. He glanced around the building and noted the proximity to the factory.
Makes sense for her to stick close to her meal ticket, he thought.
Victor had worked hard to escape his roots, but some things you couldn't escape. He'd started with minor work for local enterprising businessmen back in his native New York. A little breaking and entering, a little fee collection for an organized crime syndicate – nothing hard core and nothing that his lust for fame couldn't overcome. In fact, it had helped as his business grew to keep a couple of old friends in the loop to keep them happy and maintain his contacts in the old neighborhood.
In either case, he knew what to look for when scouting a place for a future visit. Victor also made note of the small cameras placed over the entryway and on a light pole across the street. He'd learned his lesson from watching Jake go down, Wonka wouldn't catch him in the same way.
He strolled around the block, making note of the well-lit alleyway with its unusually wide access to the back of the building. No chance for ambush here. Looking up, he smirked as he noticed how closely the next building was to this one – it would be a cakewalk to hop from one rooftop to the next and possibly get access that way.
It would take a bit more investigation into who owned the buildings to see if that would work.
Finishing up his walk around the block, he hopped back into the cab.
The driver set the book down and sarcastically asked, "Enjoy your stroll sir?"
"Quite. Back to the Regency Hotel off Kingsbridge in London," Victor said shortly.
The driver grumbled at the long drive, but signaled and pulled back into the street. He'd already made a bundle off this guy, but there was something off about this little trip.
"Your girlfriend get home alright?" he prodded, watching his fare from the mirror.
He knew what the man was after and quickly came up with a story. Victor's face twisted like he'd just bitten into something sour, "Ex-girlfriend actually."
"Bit of a looker that one."
"Looks are deceiving. She's a viper. She's was shacking up with an old friend of mine, and I thought she was going to another rendezvous," Victor said, brushing his hands through his hair and keeping his voice even. "I hate it when I'm right. This is going to kill him."
The driver looked sympathetic and his face cleared of suspicion.
Victor leaned back and closed his eyes, feigning exhaustion. The damn time change hadn't caught up with him yet. It was still early afternoon to his internal clock and he was wide awake.
What to do with the vicious back-stabbing little bitch? He'd fed his anger through the evening, glaring at her back as his staff worked the event. He'd amused himself with images of wrapping his hands around her slender white neck and squeezing – watching her scrabble weakly at his hands as she gasped for breath, her chest heaving, eyes bulging. Her neck would bruise nicely, large purple and black bruises as she ceased struggling and went limp.
She had taunted him at that event – ignoring his presence and chatting with the A-list guest. Her candy model of the new cancer-treatment wing of the Charing Cross medical center had garnered a cool half a million, but it was the fact that Wonka's heir and his maybe-lover/partner that had brought the most attention and prestige to the event. All with her just simpering and flirting with the crowd like the fortune-sniffing gold digger she was.
That dress she was wearing just reinforced the impression to Victor – the open back dipping to hint at crease that led to the swell of her buttocks under the clinging fabric of the dress. Her creamy skin begged to be stroked and touched, but tease that she was, she clung to the jail-bait boy all night. He could occasionally see the sides of her breast from the dress, and that illicit little peep had turned him on enormously. She had smiled, laughed and batted sultry eyelashes at various men all evening as they were drawn to her like a moth to flame.
She was flirting with him without even glancing in his direction. It was if Veronica had been screaming "See! See what you could have had, but weren't good enough for? Now I've got bigger game than some two-bit hustler panting after me."
Victor had been so enraged; his staff had cleared a 10 foot no-man's-land circle around him without him realizing it. He'd verbally flay any waiter that had flagged in their hustle to deliver drinks, appetizers, or clearing plates. His head chef, normally above rebuke, had been forced to endure a 5 minute scream-fest when the sauce dressing the seared scallops had cooled beyond Victor's imagined ability to serve it.
The service to the function had been top-notch, surpassing the Olympian expectation of the event organizers – but the fallout was he had three people quit on the spot and his head chef had given him notice. All of this was Veronica Carmichael's fault.
He'd show her. Maybe he'd take a little personal time with her before dumping her lifeless body in the Thames. Yes...that might be good.
He could break in, late at night while she slept. She'd be splayed out on her bed, blankets twisted around her legs, nightgown riding high on long lean thighs, plump lips parted in sleep and dark lashes shadowing her cheeks. He's strike quickly, muffling her screams and binding her to the bed before she'd even realize what was happening.
Victor shifted, his weight making the vinyl creak as he crossed his legs to conceal his rising erection at the thought.
Victor could imagine ripping off the flimsy clothing. He'd enjoy those high firm breast, pinching those rosey buds until she screamed in pain. He'd take his time enjoying her firm body, taking her every way possible and using whatever was at hand to make her make those beautiful noises – screams and sobs. He'd mark her body with those beautiful blue, black and purple bruises on that fair skin, ripping out hair by the handfuls as he rode her to completion. Then as Veronica begged him, bloody and shaking with fear for her life, he would laugh at her and slowly, so he could feel every exquisite twitch, crush the life out of her with his hands.
Chuckling lightly at his flights of fancy, he opened his eyes to see the driver looking at his curiously.
"Just a funny thought," Victor assured him.
The driver returned his attention to the road and Victor to his thoughts. Lovely fantasy, wouldn't work though. That kind of personal attention would get me caught – and I've worked too damn hard to get caught now. I need to find a way to hurt her from a distance…for now anyway.
What about that fag brother of hers in the news? The one where they shot that video of Veronica playing tonsil hockey with Wonka?
Ah yes. Reginald Carmichael – choreographer on some of the West End shows. He and his little boyfriend had that lovely little bonding ceremony a few weeks ago. He could track them down and perhaps make a bit of trouble. Perhaps an accident or an unfortunate violent mugging would help things along nicely. Victor didn't have many contacts on this side of the pond, but through his connections he was sure that something could be arranged.
Victor's eyes popped open and he smiled darkly. Now that had potential. Hurt the family and he would hurt her.
As for the woman herself, he thought grimly, get her back in California somehow and she'd be right where he could get to her. She'd be no trouble to anyone after that – except maybe the groundskeeper at the municipal cemetery where they buried the John and Jane Does.
More than 100,000 people went missing last year alone, one more wouldn't be noticeable.
He had opened his eyes at just the right moment, they were pulling up to the hotel. Yawning, Victor realized that he must have dropped off for a couple of minutes while so wrapped up in his plans for revenge. Stepping out of the cab and digging through his pockets for the fare, he winced. It had started to drizzle and the cold crept down his neck.
Damn the Brits and their fucking weather…
He hastily shoved a wad of bills at the driver mumbling, "Keep the change."
The man counted the bills and sneered, "What? No tip?"
Victor sneered back, "Yeah. Here's a tip – get a real job." He turned and bolted for the door, ducking his head to avoid the rain.
The driver stonily watched Victor dart inside and the door hiss shut before grabbing the radio again.
"Central, I dropped off the suspect at his hotel. Mark time and location – over."
The radio garbled something, and then a female voice squawked, "Roger, Grant. Detective Cavenaugh notified. You're off duty and secondary unit has Stakeout. What was suspect's destination?"
"Carmichael residence – he cased the location and returned to the cab. I've got a feeling that he was looking for a way in."
"Copy that. Cavenaugh wants a report tomorrow when you get on shift," chirped the dispatcher.
"Here Susan, you going to be tucking me in tonight? You know what your dulcet tones do to me…" joked the cabdriver - Officer Niles Grant, Metropolitan Police.
"Dream on Grant – now go home to the Missus, she misses you," said the dispatcher.
Grant grinned and pulled away from the curb. Old Susan was pushing 65 with a retired cop husband at home and three grown girls and two grandbabies to keep her happy. He was married to her eldest daughter, but still enjoyed her son-in-law flirting with her - keeping her young.
"Night Mum!" Grant said, clicking off the radio with a smile.
Chapter 46