by A. J. Oates
It didn’t take long to find the focus of my search: a foot-long, slightly curved metal blade with a wooden handle, pretty much like a machete. My dad had used it to hack away at the nettles and brambles that encroached on his garden from the woods beyond. Part of the blade was brown and rusted, but the business end, the cutting edge, had been recently sharpened, and I certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of running a finger along it. I stepped out of the confines of the shed, glanced around to check that no one was watching from a neighbouring upstairs window, and lifted the machete to shoulder height. As I took a swing and the blade sliced through the air, it felt comfortable in my hand – not too heavy but, I suspected, of sufficient weight to decapitate my target. Satisfied, I went back inside the house and wrapped the weapon in an old tea towel before stashing it in my rucksack. Already I could feel that my plan, only a few hours from its inception, was beginning to generate momentum. I returned to the kitchen table almost giddy with excitement and surprised at how quickly I’d adjusted to the concept of being a murderer.
For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening I continued the planning, concentrating my attentions on the immediate aftermath of the act. Of course, I knew that the precise timing and location of the murder would depend on monitoring Musgrove’s movements over the following weeks, but there were other things I could start to put in place. Whatever happened, I wanted to have a ready supply of cash. I had a sizeable sum, in excess of £220,000 already in my current account, largely from the sale of my parents’ house and the £75,000 of savings and various small insurance policies that they’d taken out. I suspected that with the sale of my own house the figure would be close to half a million pounds, probably sufficient for me not to have to work for the rest of my life, albeit living modestly, particularly if I moved abroad. The latter had particular appeal. I’d always wanted to live overseas, America, possibly Australia, or even South America. Several years earlier I’d been on a scientific conference to Rio de Janeiro. The conference itself had been completely forgettable, but like many such symposiums, the more dull the research area the more exotic and enjoyable the venue. Helen and I had often talked about going together for a holiday, but had never quite found the time.
The more I thought, the more it appealed. Commit the act and then head straight to the airport and hop on an open-ended flight to Brazil for an extended holiday. Once in South America, I could monitor any developments on the internet or satellite TV news, and all being well, if I were not a suspect, I’d be able to return home at my leisure. The plan was simple and perfectly achievable, and I even doubted that the police would suspect my involvement in Musgrove’s death. Maybe not even realising that I knew he was responsible for the hit-and-run, they would in all probability attribute his death to some squabble over drugs, and I’d be in the clear.
I ate a light supper, more sandwiches and chocolate cake bought from the supermarket. I felt exhausted – hadn’t realised how tiring planning a murder could be. Despite the fatigue, though, I felt elated, my mood having changed beyond recognition from the despair of earlier that morning. I was in bed by 10:00 p.m. but was unable to sleep as I obsessed over my plan, and only finally drifted off well into the early hours of the morning.
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I woke early the following morning feeling refreshed despite just a few hours’ sleep. I’d thought I might wake with a change of heart, but there was none of it. My conviction was greater than ever, Musgrove was a complete waster. I was practically doing a public service and I doubted anyone would shed a tear for his demise.
Full of enthusiasm, at 8:15 a.m. I left home for the letting agent’s to collect the keys for my new abode. Battling against the commuter traffic, the roads around Rawlton were much busier that the previous day and I didn’t arrive until a little after 9:10 a.m. I felt disproportionately anxious as I got out of the car, and in my guilt-ridden paranoia I half-feared that passers-by would somehow suspect that I was planning a murder. Conscious that the fewer potential witnesses to my movements the better, it was a relief to find the premises empty of customers. There was just one young woman sat behind a desk. She barely glanced up as I entered, and appeared completely disinterested in my presence, her attention solely on the computer screen and the e-mail she was writing. After a few moments of standing an arm’s length from her desk, I gave up on her spontaneously acknowledging me. “I’ve come to pick up the keys for 17b Stanley Road, my name’s Bosworth, James Bosworth.”
She exhaled loudly, and grudgingly responded without looking up. “Have you got the deposit and first month’s rent?” I handed over an envelope containing the £400. She opened it and slowly counted the twenty £20 notes onto the desk, and then, to my frustration, recounted, clearly not trusting me – or possibly herself. After the second count she spun round on her chair and opened a filing cabinet behind her. “What address was it again?”
“Stanley Road. 17b Stanley Road.” After a minute of rummaging, she found the file, opened it and handed over a set of keys and a contract for me to sign. I hurriedly scribbled a near illegible J. Bosworth; then I picked up the keys and headed for the door.
“Rents due first of each month, you need to drop it off here.”
“No problem,” I said without turning as I opened the door and was gone.
I drove back home with my thoughts dominated by the plan, probably to the compromise of my driving, as I received the blast of car horns from a couple of disgruntled drivers after I’d cut them up. Creeping doubts were beginning to set in: was I really capable of murder? I felt almost embarrassed by myself; had I simply instigated an elaborate mind game to distract me from my other concerns? For crying out loud, I’m an academic. As a general rule assassins aren’t recruited from the ranks of the biochemists. But almost as though it were a sign from some divine power to instil fortitude, my phone beeped loudly and, stationary at the traffic lights, I opened the text message: “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow – ££££, Mousey.” In an instant my doubts were expunged. Musgrove had to die.
Reaching home, I quickly packed a rucksack with a sleeping bag, toothbrush, torch, binoculars, and food items: sandwiches, crisps, scotch eggs and fruit juice; not exactly a balanced diet but enough to keep me going for a few days. I then headed for the bus stop. By 10:40 a.m. I was at Stanley Road, and with the road quiet – just the occasional pedestrian and car – nobody gave me a second glance as I turned into the driveway of 17b. Originally designed as a single house, like many of the neighbouring properties it had been converted into two one-bedroom flats. The front door and main access to the upstairs flat was at the side and largely obscured from the road by an enormous overgrown privet hedge.
Hidden from the road by the privet, I struggled to turn the key in the lock and it crossed my mind that the ignorant girl in the letting agent’s had cocked up and given me the wrong key. After thirty seconds of frustration, I discovered that the knack was to pull and lift the handle simultaneously, and satisfyingly the key would turn. I stepped inside the cramped hallway, dark despite the brilliant sunlight outside; I could barely make out the top of the stairs just a few metres in front of me. I pressed the light switch but nothing happened and I resorted to my sense of touch as I climbed the steep staircase. Underfoot, the carpet felt damp and sticky, and I shuddered to think where I was putting my hands. The stairs opened directly into a combined living room and kitchen area, off which were two doors, one leading to a small bathroom and the second to a bedroom. I was pleasantly surprised. Although there was a strong smell of damp and the flat was in need of some decorating, there was no rotting food, stacks of dirty plates or overflowing toilet.
After my quick inspection, I turned my attention to more important matters and moved over to the living room window. I peered out from the side of the large bay window, and with Musgrove nowhere to be seen I quickly closed the floral-patterned curtains. I knelt down in front of the window, my eye-line just above the level of the windowsill, and pulled the curtains a few cen
timetres to one side to look into the street below. It was perfect: I had an unobstructed view of both the front door and living room window of Musgrove’s flat directly opposite. I watched, hidden from the outside by the hideous curtains. My long hours of watching and waiting had begun.
Despite the less than palatable surroundings I was feeling upbeat, and satisfied that another element of my plan was in place. I began making myself at home by arranging newspapers to cover the filthy carpet and then rolling out my sleeping bag on top. I dragged the only piece of furniture, an old armchair, over to the window. Stuffing and springs were sticking out from the armrests and I covered it in newspaper before taking a seat, hidden behind the closed curtains.
The street remained largely quiet for the next thirty minutes, with just the occasional car or pedestrian. Then, at 11:30 a.m., from down the street away to my right, the unmistakable stooping figure of Musgrove appeared, wearing his distinctive filthy denim jacket. I felt strangely excited at the sight of him. Walking with obvious urgency despite his limp, he looked like he was about to break into a jog. I watched from no more than twenty metres away as he turned into his driveway and let himself into 29a. For a few seconds I lost sight of him before he reappeared in his living room and took a seat at the small table a couple of metres or so back from the window. Through the numerous rips in the curtains, I could see him in profile, leaning over to one side and retrieving something from a carrier bag on the floor next to his chair. I removed the binoculars from my rucksack, steadied them on the deep windowsill, and focused on the bag. I watched as he removed a syringe and needle in their small sterile packets and placed them on the table. He appeared on edge, glancing furtively around almost as if he knew he was being watched. With his hands shaking, he took the syringe and needle from the packaging, assembled them, and then removed a small silver-foil packet from the pocket of his jacket, now slung over the back of the chair. As he rolled up his sleeve I had a distinctly queasy feeling, and with no desire to see any more I turned away as he began preparing his fix. As I paced around the room, it crossed my mind that he might overdose, thereby solving all my problems. But I suspected he was a seasoned professional at the heroin game and this was unlikely. In any case, part of me felt that his self-destruction would take away the satisfaction of me being at the helm of his demise.
I returned to the window to see Musgrove slumped in the chair. After thirty minutes he roused briefly, stumbled over to his bed, and climbed on the dirty, unmade sheets to enjoy a drug-induced siesta.
Just after 6:00 p.m. Musgrove rose from his slumber, and within a few minutes he left the flat and headed on foot towards the main road. I considered following him but, with the risk of being spotted dissuading me, I decided to stay put. Within a few minutes he returned with a carrier bag bearing the logo of the local Thresher’s off licence. For the rest of the evening Musgrove sat in front of his small TV and drank extra-strong lager, only once getting up to make what looked like baked beans and sausages, and then eating them straight out of the saucepan. At 10:33 p.m. he got up from his chair, put the dirty saucepan in the sink, had a piss, and lay back down on his bed. His day was at an end.
I watched through the binoculars for a few more minutes as his chest moved up and down. The rhythmicity of the movement had an almost hypnotic effect, and within a few minutes, unable to keep my own eyes open, I lay down on my sleeping bag, and after a matter of seconds, my day too was over.
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Asleep for no more than a few hours on the floor of 17b, I woke to the sound of drunken shouting and banging metal. It was still dark outside, and I checked my watch: 2:17 a.m. Peering through the gap in the curtains, I could see a group of youths taking turns to smash a metal bar against a lamppost while the others looked on and shouted encouragement. I watched as one of them held the bar at shoulder height while spinning on the spot, and then, as he lost balance and fell to the ground, one of his mates took over accompanied by raucous cheers. Throughout the racket, no lights came on in the neighbouring flats and nobody came out to complain. I suspected being woken in the early hours was not an infrequent occurrence.
After a few minutes I heard the faint sound of a police siren in the distance, gradually getting closer. My heart began to pound and I had to remind myself that I hadn’t actually committed any crime, at least not yet. Within thirty seconds a police car turned into Stanley Road and the youths quickly disbanded. With the street quiet again I scanned Musgrove’s flat but the lights were still off and there was no sign of movement inside. I lay back down on the sleeping bag but was incapable of further sleep. My thoughts were focused on my plan and the meeting with Musgrove later in the day. I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of seeing him again, particularly to hand over money, but I attempted to console myself that it was for the greater good of achieving my ultimate goal.
Interrupting my thoughts, a door slammed in the street outside and I glanced up to see one of the neighbours getting on a bike and heading off to work. Checking my watch, I saw that it was already 4:30 a.m.; lost in my preoccupations, the previous couple of hours had sped by. I didn’t feel tired but closed my eyes to try and calm my thinking, and to my surprise I woke up several hours later with sunlight streaming through the window. I sat up and looked over at Musgrove’s flat. His ripped curtains were closed but his still sleeping form was just visible. My eyes felt heavy and gritty and I regretted not taking out my contact lenses the night before. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and gingerly stood up. My neck and shoulders were stiff from sleeping on the hard wooden floor and I did a few limbering-up exercise to get the knots out of my body. I went over to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap and watched as the water came out a rusty brown colour. After thirty seconds it ran clear and I splashed it on my face, the icy cold water instantly refreshing, and soothing to my stinging eyes.
I took a seat in the armchair next to the window and ate a scotch egg. Normally one of my favourites, it didn’t have quite the same appeal at six in the morning but I scoffed it down anyway. Then, with the eggy snack repeating on me, I carefully studied 29a through the binoculars. Musgrove was still asleep and his foot just sticking out from under the filthy blankets. With the high-powered lenses I could even make out his revolting toenails, curled over and encrusted with dirt that the master of a Chinese opium den would be proud of. Merely catching a glimpse of the despicable individual was sufficient motivation, if it were needed, to make my plan succeed.
Over the next hour I watched as the neighbourhood slowly came to life. A flat two doors down from Musgrove was the first to show as three young men wearing Muslim garb left home, presumably on the way to the mosque for early morning prayers. I didn’t have Musgrove down as an early riser – more the crack of mid-morning at best – but to my surprise he was awake by 8:30 a.m. He dressed quickly in the same dirty jeans and grey T-shirt from the previous day, and after the briefest of ablutions he was out of the flat by 8:40 a.m. I watched through the binoculars as he marched purposefully down the road, even with his limp. Again I considered shadowing him, keen to know his every movement, but felt it prudent, at least for the first few days, to avoid risking detection at all costs.
As I waited for Musgrove to return I ate another scotch egg, not really out of hunger but more as a means to kill time. I was already finding the business of surveillance a tedious affair and was grateful to see him arrive to break the monotony a little after 11:30 a.m. He was walking with the same urgency as I’d seen on his return the day before, presumably the focus of a junkie and the desperate need for a fix. I watched as he entered his flat and then, a few seconds later, him sitting at the small table to begin preparing his morning constitution.
Within five minutes Musgrove was lying face down on his bed. If the previous day was the norm he would be out of it for several hours and I took the opportunity to head back home to Alton before he was due to arrive to collect the money later in the afternoon. Though I doubted Musgrove was in any state to be watching, I p
ulled my baseball cap down low to cover my face and hurried down the driveway and into the street. A bus was just pulling into the stop as I reached the end of Stanley Road, and I jogged the last twenty metres before climbing aboard. Within twenty minutes I arrived in the town centre, and I made my way to the building society to collect the £4,700 for Musgrove, plus a further £300 for any contingencies. After the obligatory offer and my subsequent decline of a “financial health-check”, I headed for the bus station, and by 2:30 p.m. I was back home in Alton.