Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  He began to climb.

  He made it until his foot came into contact with the ladder's third rung, when it immediately collapsed under his weight. Fortunately the rung supporting his hands held, as did the second rung beneath his feet. He escaped with a scratch to his cheek and a bruised ankle. The main casualty was his ego as he limped back to the cottage.

  He told Sally that his very minor injuries were the result of a sense of adventure for exploring old houses. He didn't want her to know the truth, of course, that he'd been harbouring irrational fears about being watched. Their situation at the cottage was not really conducive to that idea, and it seemed daft to get her spooked for nothing.

  "You might have broken your neck," Sally remonstrated, as she finished cleaning the scratch on his cheek, tossing him a tube of arnica cream to apply to his ankle, "Men can be so effin' stupid sometimes!" she scolded, concerned that he might have been seriously hurt.

  8

  Sunday 29 March

  I'd have been very disappointed if you'd forced my hand today.

  I would, of course, have had no option but to club you round the head with the concrete lintel I was holding. If you were still alive by the time your body hit the ground, I'd have been so angry with you for interfering with my plans, there would have been no stopping me.

  I can picture it: me smashing the butt end of that lintel again and again into your face until it resembled a bag of pulped tomatoes.

  No room for any subtlety after that!

  Then, I expect I'd have gone down to your cottage in a wild rage and turned it into a slaughterhouse.

  Not a nice picture, is it?

  To be honest, I wasn't very surprised when you came up to the house today. I can appreciate, after everything that has happened, how unnerving it must be staying in such a remote spot. Even so, I'm still confident you believe Geoff Owens was the mastermind behind the entire nefarious goings on!

  As for the ladder, in case anyone decided to take a look upstairs, I'd taken the precaution of weakening the third rung at each end. Of course, there was always a possibility my saw cut wasn't quite deep enough and the rung might have held.

  Anyway, it broke, which fortunately for you meant you didn't have to die!

  Strange, when I think about you and your whore, I'm filled with thoughts of my own omnipotence.

  I suppose I do exercise a truly god-like power over you.

  Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

  In fact, the only real difference between me and God is that only one of us exists.

  Guess which one?

  I had an unshakeable conviction that you'd stick with your plan and bring the bitch to the cottage.

  On a positive note, it's the only thing that's kept her fit and healthy up until now. If I hadn't chosen it as the setting for my finale there's no possibility she would have lived this long.

  Of course nothing was ever certain. For starters, I had to keep my fingers crossed that the relationship would survive, and what with funerals, post-mortems and everything, it's all run on a couple of weeks later than anticipated.

  Such a lot has happened since you first mentioned coming here in your diary. January seems so distant now. Of course, I no longer enjoy the benefit of reading your diary. Although I do pride myself on knowing how you think. You're a bit like a steam locomotive, Gil old chum, chugging along the track set out before you.

  Yes, I've done a great deal of careful planning. Imagine my anxiety, wondering if I could gain Geoff Owens' trust in time?

  Nothing to worry about there of course!

  In fact it really makes me smile to think of his trust. The uncomprehending confusion in his eyes, when in a semi-comatose (but still just conscious) state, I cut open his wrists.

  Imagine executing a pet spaniel and you get the picture.

  Such loyalty!

  Talking of backside sniffers, I haven't forgotten or forgiven your little pest. To be fair, I don't honestly know why I feel quite so vindictive towards him. I'm probably still angry he survived my attempt to dispatch him to the great Veterinarian on High. As you know, I detest failure!

  By the way, I really liked your cottage. I spent two nights there during the days leading up to the Blatts' funerals. Believe it or not I actually slept in your bed. I forced the small window in the utility space behind the kitchen to get in. It wasn't very secure, and I patched it up again when I left.

  I set this place up for myself during that time.

  There's just one thing I haven't been entirely certain of up until now - the timing of the final scene in this little drama of ours!

  I know, I know, I've been holding back. No good of course. Although, it's understandable, after all, I'm only human. But I confess I've let sentimentality get the better of me.

  I know the longer I delay, the greater chance there is of something going wrong - like almost happened today!

  Sobering thought: two more steps on that ladder and you were a dead man!

  So, we're nearly at the end.

  Ready?

  I very much doubt it!

  Did you know today is officially the first day of British summertime?

  Tonight will be your tenth night at the cottage.

  I notice the nice weather we've been having is forecast to change, with strong winds and rain due to blow in from the west.

  It only seems fitting that it should be raining in Wales – after all, it's such a dreary place! It would also tie in rather neatly with all that rain on the motorway when we first met, and later when we had our nice little chat together at your friends' double funeral.

  See. I've gone all sentimental again.

  Tomorrow it is then! A rainy day (we hope!).

  9

  The weather forecast they listened to over breakfast said a cold front was heading inland and promised a storm later. However, the report also predicted that the day would remain bright and sunny until the afternoon, and, because of this, they saw no reason to deny themselves the pleasure of a morning walk.

  They took their favourite route along the coastal path to Llangrannog. As usual, they maintained a good pace. In fact, they only broke off once round mid-journey point, to watch a group of seals frolicking in the surf off Ynys Lochtyn.

  "Don't you sometimes wish we could be like that, Gil Harper? Demonstrate the sheer joy of living, put our magnificent brains on standby occasionally?"

  Her words not only rang with conviction but had a certain wistfulness about them. This only confirmed to Gil that his observations were correct; whatever had been troubling Sally for the past week hadn't gone away and was still playing on her mind. Even so, he still couldn't quite bring himself to ask what the problem was, probably because he feared the answer.

  The seals were trying to outdo each other by demonstrating all kinds of watery acrobatics. Sally glanced at Gil and laughed. They were sitting side by side on the cliff top grass. "It's infectious … impossible not to smile at their antics!"

  They continued to watch for several more minutes. However, the next time Sally looked at Gil, she saw that his eyes were no longer trained on the seals but fixed on her.

  "Hallo," she said.

  "I love you," he said.

  Tears immediately began to form in her eyes as she whispered, "I love you too."

  Gil took Sally's hand. The moment for candour had arrived. He said, "Most of the time we've been here you've seemed happy … but from time to time, I've sensed sadness too …"

  At first she looked ready to deny this, but checked herself and replied, "Am I really that transparent?"

  "You haven't been difficult to be with, or anything," he reassured her, "But I've noticed you deep in thought at times. The day we left Sevenoaks, I was in the garden … I didn't realise you'd got back … you were talking to Megan in her office. When you came downstairs, I saw you'd been crying."

  Sally nodded, "You're right, Gil … something has been on my mind."

  "Is it to do with us?"

  She si
ghed, turned her face away from him and looked out to sea.

  Gil felt his guts tighten as he waited for the explanation.

  The moment was suddenly interrupted by Spike, who rushed past them barking. Gil felt some uncommonly vindictive thoughts towards his four-legged friend. Needless to say, Spike missed the gull he was after by a mile. It didn't matter; forever the optimist, he immediately gave chase to another, then another. Once he'd finished policing the now gull-free cliff top, he sat panting with an air of contentment.

  They couldn't help but laugh.

  Sally gripped Gil's hand tightly and rested her head against his shoulder. Once again she turned her attention to the seals. She said, "Let's talk tonight over supper. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all," he lied.

  10

  John Mullings was no longer partnered by DI Jackson or assigned to the Harper/Owens case. As far as the Policing Authority was concerned he was persona non grata. He just hadn't played the game. Not only had he refused to take the blame for failing to put the finger on Geoff Owens sooner, but he'd refused to accept the role of sacrificial victim. His cussedness had been met by a severely cold shoulder. The tribal elders were letting it be known how unwise it was to go against their will; he was outcast. In terms of work, he was being tossed scraps and titbits, the loose ends of workaday cases others had begun, far beneath either his ability or status as a Detective Chief Inspector.

  He spent the morning of Monday, thirtieth of March, interviewing five middle-aged women in the personable company of PC Amy Shaw. These five had all suffered the misfortune of being accosted by a man in his mid-twenties who'd exposed himself to them. They had each described the perpetrator as badly dressed and not physically very imposing. Three of them had gone on to suggest that he may have had learning difficulties. The incidents had occurred over three weeks, in four different villages around the Maidstone area.

  The interviews had overrun and lunch was skipped to keep an appointment previously arranged for them with a consultant psychologist. Amy Shaw found this meeting interminably dull. The psychologist woman just droned on, expounding theories and quoting various studies. All Shaw could think about was her rumbling stomach. She wondered how the DCI managed to look so interested. In fact, only once did Mullings show the tiniest chink in his armour. Shaw observed an almost imperceptible twitch in his left cheek as the psychologist pronounced, "It's typical of an inadequate male, who tends to believe any female can be made subservient if he waves his penis about at her."

  On their way back to the station, Shaw said with a wry smile as she drove their car, "I'm going to tell my boyfriend it's no good trying to make me subservient by prancing round the flat in his boxers."

  John Mullings allowed a smile to flicker across his mouth.

  Shaw considered it a privilege to be working with Mullings. In her opinion he was being treated disgracefully.

  "You know, Amy," began Mullings, "I don't think we'll be hearing any more from our flasher … not for a while anyway … not after Mrs Bovey."

  Shaw looked over and caught the amused look in Mullings' eyes. After that, neither of them was able to restrain their laughter.

  Dorothy Bovey, a forty-seven year old housewife, a dinner lady at the local primary school, had been taken aback when a slightly-built man raced out from an area of shrubbery next to her village green. She'd told them, "My glasses were at the opticians being repaired. For a second I couldn't quite make out what he was doin'. But once I saw what the dirty little sod was waggling at me, I saw red, didn't I? 'Don't you wave that pathetic thing at me', I said, 'That ain't nothing to boast about,' I told him, 'I've picked bigger slugs off my lettuces.'"

  Matters then took a turn for the worse as far as the perpetrator was concerned when Mrs Bovey suddenly gave chase. "I'd have caught him too," she said, "Only I was weighed down with two bags of heavy shopping."

  Still smiling about it, Mullings took his leave of Shaw in the staff canteen, after purchasing a sandwich and coffee.

  On the way through to his office he exchanged a greeting with Sergeant Cutler, the office manager.

  "Have a good morning, John?"

  To this Mullings responded with a raised eyebrow.

  "Like that, was it?" said Cutler.

  Mullings sat at his desk and cast a jaundiced eye over his in-tray. At first glance nothing seemed to have altered. Then he noticed the forensic file tucked into the middle of the pile. He was ninety-nine percent certain it hadn't been there before. The first question he asked himself was why a file for the Harper/Owens case had been left on his desk? It was dated 23/03.

  His first impulse was to call Frank Cutler and send it away again. But there was something odd about the way it had materialised. Mullings' curiosity got the better of him. As he opened the file and scanned the page before him, he distractedly tore the cellophane cover off his sandwich pack. The prawn mayo sandwich never reached his mouth.

  As Cutler walked by his office door, Mullings called to him, "Frank, this file, where did it come from?"

  The police sergeant stared at the object in question with complete detachment and replied with innocence worthy of a choir-boy, "Dunno, sir!"

  In Mullings' experience, Frank Cutler knew the whereabouts of every paperclip and post-it note in his domain, what's more, using the word sir made his reply thoroughly unconvincing. These two had been friends for twenty years.

  Mullings glanced at the office clock. It was 3.30 pm. "Is the Deputy Chief Constable still around?" he asked.

  "In his office, I believe."

  "Tell him I need to see him, pronto."

  "What'll I say if he's busy?"

  "Tell him, if he doesn't see me, he may be looking at early retirement."

  Cutler's eyes widened, "I don't expect I'll tell him that … but I daresay I'll find a way to convey a sense of urgency."

  11

  They drove north in search of lunch to the coastal town of Aberaeron. Spike, always ready to take a snooze after his morning walk, was left at the cottage. Gil had been to Aberaeron many times. He parked overlooking the sea and led the way through the town's narrow streets.

  "I'm famished," said Sally as they walked along.

  The bright clear sky was already beginning to cloud over.

  "It's not far," said Gil, who had promised Sally some really good fish and chips for lunch.

  The restaurant was near the quayside. Gil ordered cod and chips with bread and butter and tea for two.

  Once they'd hungrily put away the massive portions that arrived, Sally, with a look of satisfaction, patted her slightly distended stomach and said, "You weren't wrong - those fish and chips were in a class of their own … seriously good!"

  After lunch, Gil rang Megan, as he'd done every day. There was nothing of any pressing importance happening at home.

  On their way back to the car, they walked along the seafront and bought ice-creams sweetened with honey. And as they sauntered along licking their cones, they watched in awe as the heavens darkened and every trace of the morning's bright blue was superseded by the colours in a deep, dark bruise. By the time they reached the car park, the sky looked very threatening, but it hadn't yet started to rain. A roll of distant thunder was heard and a fork of lightning dashed through the clouds far out to sea.

  They decided it would be wise to head for the cottage.

  When they were approximately halfway there, Gil timed the gap between lightning strike and thunderclap, "Reckon about twelve miles … but closing."

  "That sky is truly awesome," said Sally, "Worthy of Cecil B De Mille!"

  Much to their surprise, they managed to drive the remaining seven or eight miles and were safely indoors before the downpour began.

  "Now that's what I call torrential rain!" commented Gil.

  "Nice for ducks!" added Sally.

  The ground outside the cottage was immediately transformed into a quagmire. They felt lucky to be inside; warm, dry and above all safe.

  12
/>   Mullings got his audience.

  The Deputy Chief Constable's secretary condescendingly informed him that her boss was very busy, and advised keeping the interview brief. Mullings shrugged; he was not in the mood for diplomacy.

  When he went in the DCC was wearing an expression of magnanimous smugness. He clearly believed Mullings had reconsidered the offer of early retirement and had come, tail between his legs, in supplication.

  This only served to make Mullings feel more aggrieved.

  "What can I do for you, John?"

  "You can take a look at this," he replied, almost throwing the file down onto the desk. The Deputy Chief Constable was noticeably taken aback by Mullings' audacity.

  "This is an evidence file for Harper/Owens … you're no longer …"

  "Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Mullings, "No longer on the case. Just take a look - first page."

  The Deputy Chief Constable didn't much care for the Chief Inspector's tone. He flicked open the file testily. His body language said this had better be important.

  The DCC surveyed the page in question. As soon as his face began to turn a deep, satisfying shade of purple, Mullings knew he'd hit the mark.

  "Quite a cock-up, don't you think, sir?" It was hard not to sound condescending.

  By this point, the Deputy Chief Constable was doing a fair impression of the incredible shrinking man in his oversized leather chair. "How the hell could this happen?" he asked angrily.

  "Don't ask me. I'd been taken off the case before this evidence appeared in the file … I suspect it either wasn't read properly or got filed incorrectly. Someone hadn't joined up all the dots."

  "Christ Almighty!" exclaimed the DCC.

  "There can't be any doubt, can there? A thumbprint from the paint can on Harper's car … making an exact match with a thumbprint on Geoff Owens' bathroom door. An incredible stroke of luck we found it at all … it wasn't on the door handle but on a panel."