Crime After Crime

by Crime After Crime (v5. 0) (mobi)

  Mitch exhaled slowly and turned back to face his adversary. “Maybe you and I can help each other?” He spoke slowly, carefully and watched as Kenny looked up. He had his attention. “Say I believe you,” he continued calmly. “How do I know that £25,000 will silence you forever? Even if you give me the tape, how do I know that you don’t have a copy?”

  “You don’t know that either. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “How about we consider another arrangement?” Mitch said, his mind racing through the options.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Monthly instalments.” He pushed the corners of his mouth down briefly. “Call it a pension plan. I buy your silence. That way it’ll be in both our interests for you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “How much?”

  “£100 per month.”

  Kenny sniffed. “You must be joking. £500.”

  “No way, if you live for another twenty years that’s £120,000. “£150.”

  “Be reasonable. I’m an old man.”

  “£200. That way, if you live for twenty-one years or more you’ll have made over £50,000. That’s my final offer.”

  Kenny tilted his head to one side and pressed his lips together, stretching his face. He nodded slowly. “Fair enough. I’d shake your hand but I’m indisposed…”

  * * *

  Four months later Mitch awoke with sweat soaking his brow. His heart was palpitating again and he lay still for a moment, breathing deeply to control the chest pains. He was living off his nerves: every time the phone rang, he jumped, jolting every organ in his body; every time he went out, he looked over his shoulder. Sleep provided no respite, the nightmares more horrific that the waking memories.

  For three months the payments had been transacted successfully. He paid via his dad who surreptitiously organised a payment into Kenny’s bank account from a friend’s account in the UK; nothing that could link the payment directly with him. But Mitch knew it couldn’t go on forever. Sooner or later Annette would notice their bank accounts were down, would start asking questions.

  He cast his mind back. Travelling back up to Durton had not been a problem; he’d told Annette he was away on an overnight conference. He’d stayed at the Travel Lodge and paid in cash. Even getting into Kenny’s house quietly and quickly in the early hours, using the key he had taken from his last visit, had proved simple. Kenny had been sound asleep when he had placed the spare pillow over his head. He’d barely struggled at all. He remembered feeling almost pleased that there would be no defensive bruising. It would just be another old man, dying in his sleep. That was two weeks ago. And that was when the nightmares really began.

  Mitch had read that assassins often vomit violently after their first killing. Then, as time goes on they harden to it, numbing their own emotional reactions; it became just a job. Whether it was due to the twenty year time lapse, or just down to his weak personality he wasn’t sure but, for him, what followed the second killing was even worse than the first. This was living hell. He was a killer. He had murdered two men. He could explain the first killing, attempt to justify it through his youth and the situation he had found himself in. But he couldn’t use that excuse this time. He was a grown adult, with responsibilities, a family, children.

  He turned his head and could just about make out the contours of Annette’s gentle face which lay next to him in the darkness. He watched the regular rise and fall of her chest beneath the bedclothes. She looked calm and peaceful. Slowly, he eased himself out of the bed, grabbed his robe and wrapped it around his cold shoulders.

  The clock in the kitchen read 2 am. He sighed and flicked the switch on the kettle before opening his laptop. Work offered a brief reprieve. He decided to work himself to exhaustion, when dreamless sleep would hopefully be inevitable.

  By the time he had made a black coffee and settled himself at the table, rolling his tired shoulders in a circular movement in an effort to release the knots that had gathered at the base of his neck and across his shoulders, there were new email messages on the screen.

  The first appeared to be from his dad, with a new email address, entitled ‘Forthcoming Arrangements’. Good, he had finally set up his new computer. About time. He clicked it open.

  Confusion turned to fear as an icy chill ran down his spine, gathering momentum as he noticed the attachment entitled ‘Alibi’, dated that fateful morning, two weeks previous. That’s the problem with the internet; it brings trouble into your home. He glanced over his shoulder as he opened it.

  What Mitch saw on the screen made his blood run cold and breathing halt. He watched himself talking to Kenny tied to a chair in the middle of a room, listened to his voice as he negotiated payments. The chest pains returned, searing through his torso as he closed the attachment and scrolled down.

  The message was brief:

  ‘The price just went up to £50,000.’

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Jane Isaac studied creative writing at the London School of Journalism. Her debut psychological crime thriller, An Unfamiliar Murder, was released in February 2012 by Rainstorm Press.

  Jane lives in rural Northamptonshire with her husband, daughter and dog, Bollo. When she is not writing she loves to travel and believes life should be an adventure.

  Jane loves to hear from readers and writers. Visit her website at www.janeisaac.co.uk or follow her on Twitter: @JaneIsaacAuthor, or Facebook: Jane Isaac Author.

  A Routine Job

  Don Nixon

  I hadn’t been given all the background. I prefer it that way. Then you can keep it strictly professional and impersonal. Nevertheless, I sensed there was something special about this assignment. Albie had seemed a little hesitant at the briefing. Some people say Albie uses me but for the moment I don’t mind. Through Albie I make the contacts that will come in handy later on. Anyway, where at my age would I pull in the money I do?

  I spotted him immediately at the far end of the café. I didn’t need the photograph Albie had given me. I watched him from the doorway as he sipped a mug of tea. Among the brightly dressed tourists in their colourful tee shirts and designer jeans, he stood out like a shrivelled old crow perched amid a flock of gaudy chattering parakeets. He’d probably worn the black serge suit at his trial. It was at least twenty years since jackets had such narrow lapels and the pleated trousers had long gone out of fashion. He stared straight ahead ignoring the bustle around him. I’ve seen that abstracted self-contained look before with lifers. It goes with the parchment pallor that eats into the skin like leprosy during a long stretch inside. Some cons never lose it completely, especially the ones who have done most of their bird in high security.

  I made my way to his table and pulled up a plastic chair. I brushed away crumbs lying on the seat and tried to guess the origin of the greying stain on the fabric. I hate a mess and my pin stripe was new for my appearance in court later that afternoon. I wiped the table top with a paper serviette and walked over to the bin. It was crawling with flies. Disgusting.

  He gave a brief nod then looked ahead again. I controlled my irritation. I was used to undivided attention. I suppose it was part of his strategy for survival inside aiming for the dominant position, forcing me to speak first. It’s a game a lot of old cons play. A compulsion to stake out territory, to be the alpha male in the prison wing.

  But I could keep silent for as long as it took. Nowadays nobody plays games with me. I’ve been tutored by experts. Finally he sighed and gave in, forced a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes and spoke.

  “Albie said you’d be on time. Said you were an anal little sod. I watched you fold that serviette into neat squares before you threw it in the bin. I bet if you were inside you’d tidy your bunk immediately you got up and then wash your hands at least three times. I once had a cellmate like you. Nearly drove me mad with his fussy ways. Obsessive like you. Yes definitely an anal type and believe me I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been gone over by the best s
hrinks in the system. I know all the jargon.”

  His voice was a low monotone and husky. I noticed he took deep breaths as if they were part of a regular health regime, painstakingly learnt. I could smell his suit – a whiff of camphor, probably from years in storage. I hid my sudden spurt of annoyance. Anal! It was what my ex girlfriend used to say before she walked out on me. I can’t understand it. Why should being neat and tidy with everything kept in it proper place be something to be sneered at? When my mother was alive, the house was kept spotless and I always had three freshly ironed shirts each day.

  “Albie’s a good client,” I said. “Puts a lot of work my way so I do exactly as he says. He doesn’t like to be messed around. He said twelve noon and that’s exactly what it is now.”

  “Very wise of you. Nobody ever crossed Albie in my day either. Can be a dangerous lad our Albie.”

  He still had his teeth but they were yellow stained with nicotine. Several cigarette ends were crushed in the ashtray, which no doubt accounted for the huskiness and laboured breathing. He looked at me and grinned.

  “He knows where too many of the bodies are buried. Eh?”

  He paused waiting for my reaction.

  “In a manner of speaking that is,” he added and laughed.

  I kept my expression neutral and didn’t respond. There was no “in a manner of speaking” about it. Albie did know where many of the bodies were buried. And so did I. Indeed I’d helped to plant some of them and I guessed in his time this old man had done the same. The construction industry had been booming in the eighties when this old guy was around. It was easy then I’m told when you had dodgy contractors in your pocket. They say that the M25 is not only the biggest car park in Europe but it’s also the biggest cemetery for villains. Close to the centre of town, excavating going on all the time and a ready supply of concrete on the spot. Now with the recession and the collapse of the building trade, getting rid of unwanted clients demands more imagination.

  Not many know of the work I do except those who matter and I make sure the bosses of the other firms north of the river know I’m not just some fresh faced young brief Albie has put through university. They give me respect when I have to work in North London outside our own manor. I’m gradually building a reputation. I aim to have my own firm soon. It all comes down to respect. Without respect, you don’t last long in this game.

  “You’re a bit young for this job,” he said and peered closely at my face. “I suppose Albie has brought you up to speed. Told you what I want.”

  I shook my head.

  “No. Just that I was to do whatever you asked. He wasn’t too pleased when you didn’t tell him where you were living when you were released,” I added. “And to be honest he didn’t sound all that interested in the job. I got the impression it was a bit of a favour for old times’ sake. He said it was routine. A routine job.”

  He frowned. I noticed his fists had clenched. Definitely a short fuse merchant but he was weak now. He must have been living off his old reputation inside for years. He managed a fleeting smile.

  “Well you’re right about the old times bit. We go back a long way. So he told you nothing?”

  “Only that you needed a reliable brief who knows the street.”

  A child at the next table started to cry. The parents did nothing to shut the kid up. He winced.

  “Bloody kids! Let’s get out of here. Too noisy. I’ve been out three days and already I’m missing the quiet. You may not believe me but there’s something peaceful about a cell when you get used to it.”

  I didn’t believe him. I’d visited a few clients inside and after the smell of piss, floor polish and disinfectant that seems to seep into the walls along the wings even in the newest prisons, the next thing you notice is the constant background noise. I’m told Broadmoor is quieter but he’d only been there at the start of his sentence before they realised the madness was an act and he’d soon been shunted into a mainstream Category A.

  I followed him outside and we found a bench on Tower Hill. Below, a queue snaked back to the river from the entrance of the Tower. He looked around and shook his head.

  “A lot of poor buggers ended up down there. I got interested in History in prison. Did an Open University degree to pass the time. Loved the Tudors. I understand these people. Dog eat dog and no prisoners taken. Albie would make a good Tudor monarch. Likes to be flash and obviously in control. I’m more of a Thomas Cromwell myself, A fixer.”

  He gave a mirthless grin.

  “Mind you that didn’t stop Thomas getting the axe in the end. Occupational hazard.”

  He pointed to Tower Hill.

  “Over there is where the scaffold stood. A lot of them got topped there. Thomas Cromwell, More, Fisher, Essex. The women got the chop down there, inside on Tower Green. They sent for a French executioner with a sword for Ann Boleyn. Took it off in one swipe when she was looking the other way. The others got the axe. Did you know that Catherine Howard practised putting her head on the block the night before? That’s style for you. I’ve always liked a bit of style. At least it was a quick death.”

  He sighed.

  “You know the first few years inside I thought I’d rather have been topped. It would have been quick not like the long years of a life sentence. And till I got transferred from Broadmoor, you were just a specimen for any young shrink to practise on. Mind you it was amusing for a while to invent stuff for them to use in their PhD theses. I turned my so called child abuse into an art form in my descriptions. They use to queue up to get me on the couch. It’s a wonder, my poor old Dad isn’t still spinning in his grave at the things I pretended he got up to.”

  He laughed.

  “Amazing how gullible some of these academics are. But in the end I went too far and a bright old shrink got me sussed out and then it was back to mainstream porridge. After that it was years of boredom in one high security stir after another.”

  His voice hardened.

  “But I stuck it out. Lucky for me the current Home Secretary is a bleeding hearts Guardian reader and they need the space now with the prisons packed out. I know all the shrink shtick backwards. I can turn on the rehabilitation spiel in my sleep. I used to give lessons to mates in doing remorse and teaching the right body language for the Parole Board. Kept me in snout. But now I’m out and I’ve still got a few years left. I intend to make the most of them.”

  His lips tightened and the stained yellow teeth gleamed. I thought of a mangy old dog that was still capable of giving a nasty bite.

  “Pity most of the ones who set me up are dead by now. I’d have enjoyed a bit of revenge. But there’s still time for some payback for the ones who are left.

  He began to cough. The wheezing went on for some time. I thought of emphysema. Too many fags. He sounded like my mother in the hospice. Lying in a hospital bed, choking under an oxygen mask. I tried to block the image from my mind. The wounds were still raw.

  “What made you change your mind?” I was curious. “Why didn’t you top yourself? There must have been plenty of opportunities. The screws wouldn’t have been too bothered trying to stop you. Probably glad to be rid of you.”

  He peered at me closely. A trickle of spittle lurked at each corner of his mouth. He laughed.

  “You’re a cool young bugger. Not much sympathy from you is there? I can see why you get on with Albie. In answer to your question – unfinished business.”

  I waited. Most cons want to talk. But I’ve found that they often like to be a bit mysterious. It makes them think that they are in control. They’ll hold back, like to make you sweat a bit. But I could be patient. This was an important job.

  “I don’t care how you get it,” Albie had said earlier that morning, “but I want that information.”

  Usually Albie keeps his cool but this time he was edgy. I wondered again if there was more to the job than he was telling me.

  The old man coughed and wiped the phlegm from his mouth. I looked away. He was disgusting. I w
ondered how long the quacks had given him. He lit another cigarette. The breeze blew the smoke in my face and I fanned it away. He grinned as I spluttered.

  “I expected Albie to come himself and show a bit of respect but now you are here you may as well tell me about yourself. I need to know who I’m dealing with. Whether to trust you.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You could be a young copper’s nark on the make for all I know. Most briefs are in and out of bed with the police when it suits them.”

  I shrugged. Albie had said I had to humour him.

  “Not much to tell. I grew up in Canning Town. My mother was left on her own when my dad scarpered with another woman when I was very little. I don’t remember him and anyway Albie told me he died years ago. Albie looked after us. My dad worked for him in the old days and Albie always had a soft spot for my mother. I did well at school so he put me through uni and I did my lawyer training after it. Then he gave me a job. Albie has been like a father to me. I owe him a lot.”

  He nodded.

  “It figures. Albie always likes to look after his own. Like Marlon Brando in that Mafia film.”

  “The Godfather.”

  “Yes. He liked to see himself as a sort of East End Godfather. Though perhaps ‘Fairy Godmother’ might be a better fit given his tastes. Does he still like you to kiss his hand when you meet him like they do in the film? He was a great one for the gangster movies in the old days. Think he fancied himself as a Mafia Don. Does he still wear a cream suit?”