Short Shockers: Collection Two

by Peter James

  He sent Teresa Saunders a message: Thanks for accepting my friend request . . . J

  Then he got dressed and headed out to work, checking his iPhone at every red light he stopped at. Fresh emails popped up every few seconds. But to his disappointment, nothing from Teresa Saunders.

  Come on, he chided himself. Focus. Concentrate! They sat round the black glass table in the stark white boardroom of Bresson, Carter, Olaff – the agency he worked for. Croissants and brioches lay on plates, alongside jugs of coffee and expensive mineral water. The four-strong team from the client, as well as his three agency colleagues, including his boss, Martin Willis, watched the presentation on the big screen. Then they were shown mock-ups of the TV campaign, the magazine campaign, the online campaign and the in-store point-of-sale artwork. He should have been watching too, but instead he kept glancing at his iPhone, surreptitiously cupped in his hands beneath the table.

  ‘Don’t you think, Jobe?’

  Hearing his name brought him back to earth with a start. He looked up to see fourteen eyeballs fixed on him – several of them through stupidly trendy glasses. He went bright red. He stammered. ‘Um, well, yes,’ although he had, in truth, no idea what they were referring to. He felt their stares, and his face burned as if a corrosive acid had been poured over his skin.

  ‘Are you with us, Jobe?’ Willis said.

  ‘Totally.’ He began perspiring.

  ‘You have the floor,’ Willis said.

  ‘Yes, right. Um . . . ah . . . OK.’

  The female, whose name he had forgotten, said helpfully, ‘We’re referring to the Twitter aspect of the campaign.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, waiting for the light-bulb moment. But it didn’t happen. So he took a stab in the dark. ‘My thinking is that all these tweets start appearing, from people who have eaten MaximusBrek, saying how much energy they suddenly have. Also, when anyone tweets that they’re on a diet, MaximusBrek starts following them. We kind of anthropomorphize it, so MaximusBrek becomes like a person out there in cyberspace, right, rather than just a brand.’

  He was greeted with frowns and blank stares.

  ‘Diabetics,’ the female client said. ‘I thought we planned to target the two and a half million diabetics in the UK with the low glycaemic index of MaximusBrek.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Jobe said, remembering suddenly. ‘Diabetics are a shoo-in. What we’re going to do is engage with the diabetic blog sites, as well as Twitter and Facebook. MaximusBrek is going to be the diabetic’s new best friend – types one and two! We’re going to make it the biggest breakfast cereal ever – first for this nation, and then we’ll break it out globally!’

  Then he made the mistake of glancing down at his iPhone again. Hey Jobe, nice to ‘meet’ you! Just checked out your photos – you look a really cool guy! Tell me more about yourself.

  *

  After the meeting, Martin Willis asked him to come up to his office. Willis was in his early forties, with trim ginger hair, and was dressed in a traditional business suit and an expensive open-neck white shirt. He had a hard, blunt Yorkshire accent. ‘Who are you with, Jobe? The Woolwich?’

  ‘The Woolwich?’ Jobe frowned.

  ‘Yeah, the Woolwich? Are you with them? Because you sure as hell aren’t with us.’

  ‘I’m not quite with you.’

  ‘No, you’re sodding not. You’re not with anyone today; you’re on planet Zog. You on drugs or something? Not well?’

  ‘No – nothing . . . and I’m not unwell.’

  ‘You realize you almost lost us one of our biggest new clients this morning with your behaviour? Every time anyone asked you a question you were somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t do sorry.’

  *

  Back home, Jobe typed: Hey Teresa, nice to ‘meet’ you too! Your reply got me a load of verbal from my boss a bit earlier! He seemed to think it was more important for me to concentrate on a meeting I was in than read your message. What a Philistine!

  Anyway, about me: I’m single and I work in advertising. I live on Wapping Wharf, near Tower Bridge. I’d love to meet you properly J

  He posted the message then switched on the television, mixed himself a large vodka martini, took one sip, then checked his laptop before settling down to watch television. Whatever was on, he didn’t care. He needed a large drink tonight after the bollocking from Martin Willis – and what annoyed him most about it was that Willis was right. His mind had been all over the place in a crucially important meeting. God, Teresa Saunders was messing with his head and they hadn’t even met yet!

  Yet!

  And there was a reply from her, already.

  I’d love to meet you too J

  He replied immediately.

  When’s good for you?

  She replied immediately too.

  Tonight?

  She was keen!

  OK! What time and where?

  There was a long delay, and then the message appeared.

  10.35 p.m. Hampstead Heath. 51° 56' 47.251'' N 0° 17' 41.938'' W.

  Jobe frowned for a moment, then grinned. Compass co-ordinates. Teresa Saunders was a piece of work! Smart girl. He liked challenges.

  He typed back:

  See u there!

  The reply arrived:

  I want u 2 join me! x

  He typed:

  That’s my plan! x

  She replied:

  Promise? x

  He grinned and typed:

  I promise! x

  He picked up his iPhone and flicked through to the compass app he had downloaded a long time back for a coffee advert he had written, in which a man and a woman teased each other by sending compass co-ordinates that came closer and closer until they finally met in a coffee shop. That was one of his most successful commercials. Teresa must have seen it, he figured. His own location showed as: 51° 50' 33.594'' N 0° 06' 15.631'' W.

  *

  It was 9 p.m. At a rough guess it would take him an hour to drive there. He made himself a toasted cheese sandwich, which he figured would absorb enough of the alcohol to put him safely below the limit, then on his laptop googled Hampstead Heath, working out the nearest street to the co-ordinates he had been given.

  Shortly before half past nine he brushed his teeth, squirted on some cologne, pulled on his black leather jacket and pocketed a small torch. Then he took the lift down to the garage, climbed into his Aston Martin and tapped his destination into the satnav. His stomach was full of butterflies. But good butterflies!

  His drive across London through the thin evening traffic was joyous. A Michael Kiwanuka CD was spinning, the dials in front of him were spinning, and the GPS numbers on his iPhone were spinning as he headed nearer and nearer to Hampstead. To Teresa Saunders. His dream girl!

  He reached his destination with twenty minutes to spare. The Kiwanuka CD had finished and now a Louis Armstrong track was playing: ‘We Have All The Time In the World’.

  And just how appropriate was that?

  He parked his car, pulled the torch from his pocket and entered the heath. There was no one around and ordinarily, in such a strange, dark and isolated environment, he might have felt apprehensive, but tonight the knowledge that Teresa was heading through the darkness too – and might already be there – allayed his concerns.

  He watched the compass co-ordinates on the app spinning away, until he reached 51° 56' 47.251'' N 0° 17' 41.938'' W.

  Right in front of him was a park bench.

  Oh yes! He was loving this!

  He sat down, the butterflies going increasingly crazy in his stomach, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. But what if she disapproved of smokers? There was a smell of burnt wood in the air.

  He slipped the pack back in his pocket and sat listening. Somewhere in the distance he heard a man calling out, ‘Oscar! Oscar! Here, boy! Oscar!’

  A dog barked.

  The man said, ‘Good boy, good boy!’

  The dog
barked again.

  Then silence.

  He waited. The air was chilly. After a while he checked his watch. Five minutes had passed. Another five minutes passed. He checked Facebook on his phone. Nothing. He sent a message.

  I’m here!

  Moments later a message came back.

  So am I!

  He looked around, then switched on the torch and shone the beam in every direction. It fell away into the darkness. He sent another message.

  I can’t see you. Did I get the co-ordinates right? 51° 56' 47.251" N 0° 17' 41.938" W.

  The reply came almost before he had posted it.

  Spot on!

  He felt a sudden swirl of cold air; it went, almost as fast as it had come. Then he felt something digging into his back – something hard and flat that felt different from the rest of the bench.

  He turned around and shone the beam onto it. It was a small brass plaque. Engraved, in tiny lettering, were the words: In memory of Teresa Saunders (1983–2011) who loved this heath. Tragically killed by lightning on this spot.

  Another swirl of icy air engulfed him. Then he felt a touch, just the faintest touch, on his cheek. Like a kiss.

  An instant later there was a crack, like a peal of thunder, directly above him. He looked up in shock to see a dark shape hurtling down towards him.

  *

  ‘Poor bastard,’ the Police Sergeant said.

  ‘Must have been instant at least,’ the constable who had been first on the scene replied.

  The fire brigade officers had rigged up some lights, and three of them were hurriedly attaching lifting gear from the rescue tender to the massive, blackened branch that pinned Jobe, by his crushed skull, to the ground.

  The attending paramedic could find no pulse, and viewing the matter leaking from the unfortunate young man’s crushed head, was all too grimly aware that it was what he and his colleagues, with the gallows humour of their trade, called a ‘scoop-and-run job’. The Coroner’s Officer was on his way.

  A man who had been walking his dog nearby was in shock. He had stood numbly watching, then several times had repeated crossly, almost shouting, to the attending officers beyond the police tape cordon, ‘They should have bloody cut it down – any fool could see it was an accident waiting to happen.’

  Another police officer who had turned up, but had nothing to do, suddenly snapped on a pair of gloves, knelt and picked up an object. ‘iPhone,’ he said. ‘Might give us a clue who he is.’

  He tapped the power key to wake it up, then studied the screen. ‘Looks like he was meeting someone here,’ he said. ‘Seems as if he had a date. Meant to be meeting her here at 10.35 p.m. – that’s half an hour ago. I haven’t seen any sign of a woman anywhere around.’

  ‘Not his night, is it?’ one of the fire officers replied. ‘Stood up, then this happens.’

  ‘Or maybe she broke it off and left,’ the Sergeant said.

  SMOKING KILLS

  A very short story based on a true incident

  ‘You have a last request?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Could I have a cigarette?’

  ‘I’m sorry, this is a no-smoking execution chamber.’

  ‘It’s not going to kill me, you know.’

  ‘You’re right about that, sunshine.’

  THE STAMP OF A CRIMINAL

  Roy Grace’s first case

  The dog was a wuss, Crafty Cunningham always said. An adorable wuss, certainly, but a wuss nonetheless.

  His wife, Caroline, agreed. He was a big dog, a lot of dog, especially when he jumped on you, wet and muddy from the garden, and tried to lick your face. It was like having a sheep fall off a cliff and land on you. His name was Fluff, which was a ruddy stupid name, they both knew, for a dog of this size. The animal was still unable to grasp the fact that after eleven years (a ripe seventy-seven in dog time) he was no longer a tiny, fluffy puppy, but was a very large, overweight and usually smelly golden retriever.

  They both loved him, despite the fact they had been badly advised on their choice of a puppy. They’d originally wanted a guard dog that would be happy roaming a big garden in Brighton, and wouldn’t need too many walks beyond that. Fluff needed two long walks daily, which he did not often get, which was why he was overweight. And as a guard dog he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Crafty was fond of telling their friends that the hound might drown a burglar in slobber, but that would be about his limit.

  Crafty’s real name was Dennis, but he’d acquired the nickname back in his school days and it had stuck. He’d always been one for a crafty dodge. He used to play truant from school; he was a crafty dodger around the football pitch, and equally crafty at dodging trouble. And he was always one for getting something for nothing. His father had once said of him, with a kind of grudging respect, ‘Dennis is a lad who could follow you in through a turnstile and come out in front of you without having paid.’

  Neither of them heard Fluff, early that April Tuesday morning, pad upstairs from the kitchen, where he usually slept, and flop down on their bedroom floor. Later, Crafty would tell the police he thought he had heard whimpering, around 5 a.m. he estimated, but because he wasn’t aware the dog was in the bedroom, he thought the sound was coming from Caroline, having a bad dream.

  It was only when Crafty woke at 7 a.m., with that very distinct smell of damp dog in his nostrils, that he saw Fluff on the floor. To his surprise, the dog was shaking. ‘Fluff!’ he hissed, not wanting to wake Caroline, who never rose before 8.30. ‘What are you doing here, boy?’

  The dog gave him a baleful look, stood up, still shaking, padded to the door, then turned back to him and gave a single bark that was much higher than his usual.

  ‘Ssshhhh, boy!’ Crafty said, but at the same time he thought the dog was behaving in a very strange way – almost as if he was trying to tell him something. Was he ill? ‘Need to go out, do you? What’s the matter? Why are you shaking?’ he whispered, then slipped out of bed, pushed his feet in his slippers, and unhooked his silk paisley dressing gown from the back of the door. It was cold in the room and he was covered in goosebumps, he realized. Spring was meant to be here, although there was still a wintry chill in the air. But that could not be why Fluff was shaking – he had too much fur on him to be cold, surely?

  The dog barked again, trotted a short way down the stairs, then turned, looked up at his master and barked again.

  ‘You’re definitely trying to tell me something, aren’t you, boy?’

  He was.

  *

  Detective Constable Roy Grace sat at his small desk in the detectives’ room, on the second floor of Brighton’s John Street police station, which was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

  He put down his mug of coffee from the canteen, and removed his jacket. His desk, apart from a telephone, his radio next to it and a copy of yesterday’s briefing notes, was almost bare. He opened his attaché case and pulled out a few personal belongings, and started by pinning up in front of him a photograph of his fiancée, Sandy. She was smiling, leaning against a railing on the seafront, the wind blowing her long blonde hair. Next he placed in front of him a photograph of his parents. His father, Jack, stood proudly in his uniform bearing Sergeant stripes.

  Roy had recently completed his two years as a probationer, walking the beat in Brighton as a Constable, and he had loved it. But right from his early teens he had dreamed of becoming a detective. He still could not really believe that he now was one.

  This was his second day in his new role, and he loved the sound of his title. Detective Constable Grace. Detective! Sandy loved it too, and told him she was very proud of him. He sipped some coffee and stifled a yawn. He had been told he did not need to be in until 8 a.m., but he wanted to make a good impression – and perhaps bag an early worm – so he had arrived at the police station, in a smart blazer and slacks, at 7 a.m., hoping for a more challenging day than yesterday when, in truth, he’d felt a little bored. Wasn’t this supposed to be the second busiest
police station in the UK? It had felt as quiet as a mortuary.

  What he needed was a case to get his teeth into. Nothing had happened on his first day, apart from attending a briefing, some basic familiarization with the routines, and being given his shifts for the three months ahead. It had been a quiet Monday generally, blamed largely on the pelting rain. ‘Policeman Rain’ it was jokingly called, but it was true. Levels of crime fell dramatically when the weather was rubbish. Today looked better, an almost cloudless sky giving the promise of sunshine. And crime!

  Yesterday, he reflected, had felt a bit like his first day at school, getting to know the ropes and his new colleagues. There had been a handful of follow-ups from crimes committed on the Sunday night – a string of break-ins, a couple of street robberies, several motor vehicle thefts, a racist attack on a group of Asians by one of the town’s nasty youth gangs, and a drugs bust on a private dwelling – but other detectives had been despatched to handle those. He had spent most of his first day chatting to colleagues, seeing what he could learn from them, and waiting for his Detective Sergeant, Bill Stoker, to give him an action; he hoped today would not be a repeat.

  He did not have to wait long. The DS, a burly former boxer, ambled over, wearing a charcoal suit that looked a size too big for him and black shoes polished to a military shine. ‘Right, old son, need to send you out. Domestic burglary in Dyke Road Avenue. Sounds like a high-value haul. I’ll come with you – but I’ll let you lead. I’ve already got SOCO on standby.’

  *

  Grace hoped his excitement didn’t show on his face too much. He drove the unmarked Metro up past Brighton railway station, carefully sticking to the speed limit, across the Seven Dials roundabout and on up Dyke Road, then into Dyke Road Avenue, lined on both sides with some of the town’s swankiest houses.

  ‘Not many coppers living on this street,’ his Sergeant observed wryly. ‘Not many honest ones at any rate.’