by CA Sole
Once again he opened the cylinder and put the mask back on Carlos’ face. He wanted to exhaust the cylinder and make doubly sure this revolting paedophile was completely unconscious. Unconscious was all Felipe needed him to be at this stage, death would follow later. He was past the point of no return now, Felipe thought. There was no choice but to carry on, but he could not settle his nerves and continued to tremble.
The gas exhausted, he took the paper from the printer, read it again as it quivered in his shaking hand and took it over to the man himself. Carlos was still breathing, just. He pressed the limp fingers onto the paper to leave genuine fingerprints and put the sheets on the desk. The computer keyboard worked with Bluetooth, so was portable. Again, Felipe took Carlos’ fingers and pressed them to every key and around the unit. Finally, he used his handkerchief to wipe where he had left prints and deliberately smudged the on/off switches on the computer and printer. He reasoned that a man about to commit suicide would not bother to shut down his machines, so he left them on.
Felipe went into the kitchen and opened the garage door. There were two cars there, a BMW X6 and a 1969 American Ford Mustang with a big, fat engine in it. Felipe knew the BMW would have a much cleaner exhaust with less carbon monoxide than the old gas guzzler which, like the Jeep, was made long before the days when catalytic converters were brought in. He turned the key in the Mustang and the engine churned over easily, but didn’t fire. He swore, on the verge of panic, but at the third attempt it thumped into life with that unmistakeable rumbling of a V8. He left it running and the driver’s door open. Carlos was fat and heavy, but Felipe was a big lad and managed to carry him through the kitchen and into the garage. Somehow, he fed him into the driver’s seat, opened the right side window a little and went back into the house to fetch the hose pipe and rags. He folded Carlos’ hands around the hose at both ends and a few random places then rammed it into the exhaust and wedged it in place with the rags before feeding the other end into the window gap.
Then the tidying up began, he went everywhere he had been in the house and wiped it clean of finger prints. He washed his wine glass and put it away in the cupboard. Had he touched Carlos’ glass? Had he poured him a drink? No, he had avoided doing that for just this reason. The chair he had sat in was covered in leather, so a wipe was all that was needed there. If there was anything left which he had forgotten, and he was questioned about his presence, he could genuinely claim that he often went to Carlos’ house.
Back in the garage, the car was full of exhaust fumes and Carlos was surely dead, but even if he wasn’t, there was no doubt he would be by morning which was the earliest he’d be found. Felipe left the house unlocked, Carlos usually did, even though it was a stupid thing to do. He left by climbing over the garden wall beyond the pool and walked slowly down the hill to where he’d left his car. The enormity of what he’d done had not yet sunk in, but he was feeling a sense of accomplishment. There was relief it was over, of course, but a great mass of anxiety hung over him as well. ‘Guilt, Alastair? Guilt? I don’t think so. I was pleased, but I was scared. I still am scared, I don’t want to be a murderer.’
‘It’s a bit late to feel that, Felipe,’ I had replied.
This night, Thursday, was much the same as the one before, except the wind was much stronger and the rain was almost horizontal. Knowing that Vale might be there, I drove around the block as well as one on either side to see if his Vauxhall Astra was parked nearby. I could not see it so assumed he was either on duty or maybe he had left already. After all, it would take a great deal of stamina to keep up with Sandra on a nightly basis. I eventually parked two blocks away on a different road.
Once again I peered into the basement parking to make sure that her Porsche was there, but it wasn’t. Damn! I waited around for an hour, but she didn’t return. I went home.
I repeated the exercise on Friday night, but she still had not returned. Where was she? Was she staying at Giles’ house or her brother’s house? Had she taken the money and escaped, gone abroad perhaps? If so, I had lost. Then doubts as to the viability of my plan began to niggle at me. Was I being childish and hoping for too much, would it ever work? I put the negative thoughts behind me. There was nothing else I could think of doing, and at least I was doing something.
The next morning I phoned Giles’ house, and Henry answered. ‘Hello Henry, how are things? Are you and Mrs Potter all right?’
He assured me that they were fine, but were frustrated at not knowing what was going on. I told him that Giles was improving slowly, so there was hope, then asked if Sandra was there.
‘No, sir. We haven’t seen her since she gave us the sack.’
‘Henry, please do me a favour. If she does appear, or contacts you at all, please will you let me know straight away. But it’s quite important that she doesn’t know I asked you to do that.’
I could almost hear him smile, please to be conspiring against the woman. ‘Don’t you worry, sir. We’re on your side, we won’t say a thing. I’ll tell Mrs Potter.’
It was Saturday. I tried again with the rain pouring down for the third night in a row. Wherever it had been for the last few days, the Cayman was back in the basement. Good, I could now shake off my doubts and take action.
Leaving the haul bag on the ground, I shinned up the cast iron waste pipe. I had not done any climbing for a year, and was seriously out of practice. It did not matter; the rubber booties, wedged between the wall and the pipe, gripped well. The pipe was solid and provided a firm hold. Thank goodness for the gloves, the leather had good friction on the smooth wet pipe and it wasn’t long before I reached the second floor. On my previous visit, Sandra had left the bathroom window open beyond the safety catch, there being no children, and it was still the same. I wedged my left foot into the crack between the pipe and the wall, held on with both hands and used the greater reach of my right leg to push the window as wide as I could. Then I leaned over, got a firm grip on the frame and pulled myself across. From there it was a simple job to clamber up into the bathroom.
The door was ajar, and light from the TV flickered through the gap. Canned laughter switched on and off with irritating and unrealistic precision. Pause, listen, there were no signs of movement. The rain was coming in the wide open window. I hauled the bag up with the line, unclipped it from my belt then pulled the window closed to its original position. A towel dabbed at the wet suit stopped any drips. Conscious that my boots were wet, I dried them with toilet paper as I didn’t want to leave any debris from them on the towel or footprints on the carpet. The soggy bits of paper went in the bag.
I peered out of the bathroom into the living area. Sandra was watching the TV and facing away from me. There were two glasses on the table in front of her and what was left of a bottle of champagne. Two glasses? Where was the other person? Was Vale here after all? I waited a while, but there was still no sign of anyone else. Working as quietly as possible, I slipped a nitrous oxide canister into an empty dispenser and screwed the top on, puncturing the cylinder. Then I pushed the tubing from the mask over the nozzle and gave it a quick test. A hiss confirmed success, so I repeated the preparation with the second dispenser.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I moved up behind Sandra and stood over her. She was so still I wondered for a moment if she were dead, but she gave a brief, unladylike snort and sagged over to her right. The TV quiz show had an orange stage setting, which lent a warming glow to her creamy skin. She was drunk and began to snore. Hopefully she would feel nothing but, very gently, trying not to touch her, I held the mask over her mouth and nose and released some nitrous oxide. No reaction, so I released some more. I wanted her totally pliable, unable to fight and with no signs of a struggle on her. This had to look as if it was self inflicted.
When inhaling from a balloon, the recreational user typically takes a breath of air in between hits from the balloon and so does not overdose. If a mask is used however, because it is stuck to the face, the user inhales the neat gas on every
breath and so can quickly go unconscious. Over four minutes of this and death can occur, but in the latter stages of that time there will most likely be brain damage due to oxygen starvation. I had to be very careful that Sandra did not die. I did not want her to die, and I did not wish to be a murderer - No, Felipe. Rather, I wanted her to be sufficiently compliant to tell me where the money was.
Her eyes opened slowly, at first they remained mere slits, then they widened and she looked around the room, dazedly taking in her familiar surroundings: the drinks cabinet, the TV, the white hairy rug, the chrome and glass coffee table, and finally the abstract pictures on the wall opposite, which held her attention for a while. She didn’t seem to register me standing over her. I held the mask in place. She suddenly realised it was there, but was too fuzzy and, probably because she was used to breathing this gas, did not fight me. Instead she relaxed and closed her eyes again. I took the mask away and let her breathe to recover a little.
Trying to imitate Vale’s accent, I whispered to her, ‘Sandra, what are we going to do with our money? When do you want me to get it?’ Her expression was puzzled, she didn’t seem to understand. I pressed her, ‘Sandra! Where’s the money? We need to get it to launder it.’
Uncomprehending, she focussed on the strange, unrecognisable character in black with only his eyes showing, but she could not register what was going on and started to giggle.
She squinted at me, curious and puzzled, ‘Why..., why are you dressed like Ratman, or are you Bobin?’ She laughed with a sudden ‘Hah!’ and collapsed giggling onto the floor, her body shaking with hysterics.
I moved quickly round the sofa and knelt beside her. Perhaps she needed to recover so she could talk sense, I thought and waited for appropriate signs. She fell asleep. This was going nowhere, so I decided to conclude the other purpose of my visit and switched cream dispensers to use a full one then packed the mask to her face again, gently squeezing the trigger to let the gas flow. She didn’t struggle, and I kept a close eye on the time. Three minutes and she had not moved. She was breathing steadily, though. Another thirty seconds was enough, any more and she could die. I took her hands and put them on the mask and around the creamer and then let her fall naturally back to the floor.
Her phone was on the table. I found Vale’s number in her contacts and sent him a text: I’ve had enough, I’m going to end it. It was a lovely time. S That should summon him and implicate him by virtue of his fingerprints everywhere, his number in her phone and his DNA in the flat. If it worked, his future in the police would be over.
That was how I imagined it might go, loosely following my plan. Unfortunately for Sandra, it did not happen that way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
What actually happened was that I peered out of the bathroom and saw no one. There was a quarter of a bottle of whisky, a little jug of water and one glass on the table. Other than the TV which, as I described, was illuminating the room in a flickering orange glow and emitting canned laughter at a low volume, there was no sound.
I had to find out where she was before fetching my kit, I couldn’t lug that around and bump into her somewhere. A quick glance into the kitchen proved fruitless, the hall too. Was she drunk behind a couch? No. There were two bedrooms, naturally I went to hers first.
Very softly I pushed on the door which was ajar. It opened without a sound. Peering through the crack, the first thing that came into view was the cupboard opposite, then her dressing table. In its mirror I could see her bare feet, heels down, at the end of the bed. Stop. She was lying on her back, which meant she would see me as I entered the room unless she was asleep. If I startled her there would be a fight, and all my efforts to convince the police that no one else was involved would be wasted.
I couldn’t go through this again, this dressing up for the occasion and entering through the bathroom window. The more I were to do it, the more the likelihood of being discovered. I would have to hope she was asleep and try to administer the gas as she lay there. I went back to the bathroom, quickly prepared the two nitrous kits and took my bag, putting it down outside the door. On my knees, keeping low, I pushed the door a little wider. From this height I was below the level of the bed. Always ominous, The Scream watched over her. Whereas before, the painting had symbolised a troubled past, now the tortured figure, set before a bloody sky and covering its ears as if its own shrieks were far too loud, yelled its horror at the scene before it.
She was completely naked. Her wrists were cuffed and tied to the bed head, that much I could see, but there was more. There was something wrong with the scene. Cautiously I stood up. Sandra was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open and unmistakably devoid of life.
I could only see those eyes by viewing them from the top, because they were almost covered by the enormous testicles of an oversized replica of male genitalia, the silicon penis of which was rammed between her stretched lips. Sticking out between her legs was one end of a thick, violet coloured, double ended dildo. I stared, stunned at the obscenity of the scene.
In this flat illegally, a dead body in front of me, taking a huge risk, I was ultra sensitive to surprise. The front door closed with a sharp clunk. I jumped. Was it closed from the inside or the outside? Was the murderer still there, or had he just left? It was only seconds since the lock had clicked. Very quickly, I went round the flat, ready for anything, but there was no one there. I cautiously opened the front door and saw the lifts. The indicator switched from 1 to G to B, the parking. He was gone, whoever he was, and he’d left me with the corpse and looking as guilty as hell.
From carefully parted curtains, there was no sign of anything moving outside. I went back to Sandra, whipped off a glove and felt for a pulse just to be sure, even though it was easy to recognise the absence of life from the vacant eyes. She was still warm though. There was no apparent cause of death, but it must have happened a very short time ago. It was imperative that I get out of there immediately. I had wanted to search the place, but there was no time.
My plan to have her tell me where the money was had been foiled, but there was another aspect that I could still do. A quick rummage around and I found her phone in the bedside drawer. Vale was in her contact list. “Help” I typed and pressed Send. I left the phone on top of the cabinet, but then saw the keys in the open drawer. One was the type that might fit a locker. It had an orange coloured tag on it and an inscription that was mostly worn away, only “..orage” was legible with the number 1142. A luggage locker? The other key was on the same ring, and looked as if it would fit a padlock. I debated whether to take them with me or leave them for Carter’s boys to find. Rather leave them, they would find the locker, or lockers, much quicker than I could. Vale would probably come first in response to the message, so the keys should not be left in full view. I put them back in the drawer under her other things, gathered my stuff, checked I had not disturbed anything or left any incriminating evidence and left the way I had come in, closing the window behind me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday morning at about half past three was when I got back to the farm. After leaving Sandra’s flat I drove around a bit, too wound up to go to bed. The vision of her in that state was not going to let me sleep, not because I was horrified so much as because of the implications that her death held. There was going to be a weighty fall out from it. So I sat in a lay-by looking out at the rain and contemplating my future. It didn’t look bright. Unless the keys could be traced to a locker or something I was effectively bankrupt and, pessimistically, in Juliet I had lost the only bright star in my universe.
The Defender’s lights shone on a car outside my house. The police already? was my first reaction, then I saw that it was Juliet’s Volvo. Again my imagination ran riot. Was she back so soon to tell me she had had enough, and that she had found someone else? No, surely not, not in such a short space of time. She would realise that any man could have done the same as I did and she would be far too suspicious of a new relationship. She wou
ld need a lot of time, so it wasn’t that. Maybe she had just made up her mind that she was going to cut me out of her life altogether; that was possible. But maybe, just a very small maybe, she had come to restore things between us.
I opened the door slowly and listened. Nothing. I called her name softly, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No answer. Then I had an awful feeling of déjà vu. The last time I had come home and called her name, she had been kidnapped. I had to find out where she was and listened at the door to the little bedroom. She was snoring so quietly I could barely hear her, but at least she was all right.
I might have slept for an hour, but was up at seven and put some coffee on. A few minutes before eight Juliet could be heard moving about upstairs. I waited apprehensively. She appeared on the landing, showered and dressed in a dark knee length skirt and her green jumper. ‘Good morning,’ she greeted me in a neutral tone. ‘Did you have a good night?’ It was said with all the menace of a suspicious wife. ‘Where were you?’ she asked as she came down the stairs.
I had no chance to reply, to dispel what I assumed was her disappointment in me; out on the town as soon as she had left. My actions giving the lie to how I cared for her, my false and pleading words, reinforcing her decision to sever relations with me. I could easily have reassured her on all of that, but was interrupted. There was a heavy knock on the door. I knew it had to come, but had not thought it would be so soon.
‘Good Morning, Chief Inspector, what news? Found the money?’ I tried to be cheerful.
‘Not yet, Mr Forbes. May I come in?’ he asked, moving forward anyway. He looked serious, and was wearing a serious, plain, knitted grey tie. Following him was a female officer. ‘This is Detective Constable Phillips.’