Crime After Crime

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

  Foxtrot

  Don Nixon

  It’s not easy nowadays to find a man who can do a good foxtrot.

  Most of the ones who picked it up under the twirling silver globes of their local palais in the 50s and 60s are now dead, stuck in a care home or jealously guarded by possessive wives.

  I’ve always loved the foxtrot.

  That delicious pause as you check your step and then release into the glide. Even now it can give me goose bumps. Fred, my late husband, used to say it was like making love, though being brought up strict Chapel, I never liked to encourage him in that sort of talk.

  That Thursday afternoon I was on my own at the seniors’ tea dance the Housing Association puts on every week for the retired people in the Tower Block. I always look forward to Thursdays and the tea dance and it helps me to keep fit. I was listening to Glen Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ but had nobody to dance with. Myra my usual partner had a hospital appointment for her veins and I was doing my best to avoid old Bill Shuttleworth of the clammy wandering hands and peppermint breath.

  It was then that I saw him.

  * * *

  Our secretary had mentioned she was bringing a visitor and that it was an unattached man who could dance. That had caused quite a stir among those of us who were used to dancing bust to bust and having to negotiate who was going to lead. Indeed arguments over who was to take the lead had soured many a friendship between some of us widows. Rachel Holroyd and I don’t speak any more after the fiasco of the Age Concern tango competition but one of these days I’ll get my own back. I’m a good hater. The prospect therefore of this new man who could actually dance was an exciting prospect. There was an expectant buzz in the room as the secretary introduced him. He stood in the doorway. It was strange to see him again after so many years.

  The hair was probably dyed and the stomach was suspiciously flat, probably held in by a support but there was no doubt in my mind that it was Leo Kemp. Many nights when I was having my breakdown, I had fantasised about ways to inflict a painful punishment on him should we ever meet again. I’ve never told Myra about the compulsion I had to wash my hands after my feverish imaginings of getting my revenge on Leo. No doubt she’d start quoting Lady Macbeth at me. Myra is the intellectual one in our group and got a certificate in English Literature at the Tech last year. She persuaded me to go with her to see the play before her exam and it was after that the hand washing started again. I can never see why Lady Macbeth is made out to be a villain. After all she was a good wife and loved and supported her husband.

  Leo Kemp!

  The fraudster, the thief, the seducer of gullible women and the man who was certainly responsible for the death of my husband over twenty years ago. What fools Fred and I had been to be so easily taken in. And it had been mainly my fault. Fred had always done what I told him.

  He glanced around the room. I thought of a fox taking his time before he pounced on a henhouse full of plump chickens. His eyes slid past me. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. I’d recognised him but he hadn’t recognised me. Years back when we’d met in the Tower Ballroom in Blackpool, I’d been a bottle blonde but with Fred long gone, I’d let it grow out and for years it’s been a wispy white that I cut myself. I suppose really I’ve let myself go though I keep fit with the gym class. I certainly was a far cry now from the fifty-year-old he’d danced with in the Tower Ballroom in Blackpool when he’d launched that scam that was to cost poor Fred his life. But I still like nice things. He clocked my Gucci bag and Harvey Nicholls dress. Since I’d come up on the lottery I’ve really taken to spoiling myself.

  He crossed the floor. He moved well. If they did a senior citizen version of Strictly Come Dancing on the Telly he’d be a shoo-in. I noticed the jealous looks I got from some of the old biddies clustered round the Tombola table and got a sudden stab of satisfaction.

  They say vanity is the last thing to go.

  “May I have the pleasure?”

  I rose to my feet and immediately we moved in strict tempo to the middle of the floor. He could certainly dance. After the uncertain tugging and pulling of Myra, this was heaven. He was a slightly built man and after bulky Myra I had to resist the urge to lead but I soon settled into the rhythm. For a moment I forgot all about the past and let myself drift in his arms as he guided me through a sequence of steps that seemed effortless. I felt myself physically responding to him. I hadn’t been this close to a man since Fred died. I sniffed a heavy cologne. The same as the one Fred used to wear. His one extravagance. The thought of my husband dragged me back to reality. This was the chance for the revenge I’d been waiting for all these long years. I forced a smile.

  “You’re new here.”

  He nodded.

  “Yes. Just passing through. Haven’t been up north for years. Some business. I met your club secretary at the Masons last night and he told me about your retired club’s tea dances and invited me. Said they could always use an extra male.”

  I managed another smile.

  “That’s certainly true. It’s the problem with being retired. We are mainly widows here. Most of us have to dance with each other. It’s not the same.”

  “I bet it isn’t. Especially for an attractive lady like you.”

  He grinned. The dentures were certainly not on the National Health.

  I glanced up.

  “We can always use a man here,” I said slowly.

  “Good. Glad I came then. I like being used.”

  He smirked at the innuendo in his tone and pulled me towards him. We did a series of perfect turns.

  “Do you live here?”

  “For the last few years. It’s a housing association. All of us here are retired. I have a flat on the top floor. It’s got a marvellous view.”

  I found I was relaxing and my tone was quite normal. Nobody would have guessed I wanted to kill him.

  “Are you local then?”

  “No,” I lied. I didn’t want him to associate me with the town of twenty odd years ago. There was always the chance something might jog his memory and he’d get suspicious. I quickly improvised.

  “No. I’m from Manchester originally. I came here after my husband died to live with my sister. She’s gone now so I live here alone.”

  “You’re a widow then. That must have been hard.”

  I baited my hook.

  “Well my husband left me very comfortably off and it’s years now since he passed away. And I believe in enjoying myself”

  “You do right,” he said. “You can’t take it with you.”

  I wondered if the secretary had told him about my win on the Lottery.

  “And just how do you enjoy yourself?”

  The innuendo was blatant.

  “Well last Christmas I went on a cruise to the Caribbean.”

  “Phew! That must have set you back a bit.”

  “Who cares?” I trilled. “It’s only money.”

  “Did you go with a friend?”

  The question was a little too casual.

  “Oh no! I haven’t got anyone that close and I think you need to be comfortable with someone to go on a cruise with.”

  I looked up at him.

  “Mind you it would have been nice to have someone to dance with.”

  He pulled me a little closer.

  “I do so agree. The last cruise I went on I was on my own and was quite lonely.”

  I nodded sympathetically and felt the pressure of his hand on my back. I leaned against it. Two could play at this game.

  The pace was slowing and the brass was now muted. The saxophone gave an orgasmic moan. In the old days it had been the signal to get closer. He bent down to whisper in my ear.

  “I imagine you get a terrific view of the Pennines from the top of this building. Didn’t you say your flat was at the top?”

  I nodded.

  “They were telling me last night about Pendle Hill at the hotel. Isn’t that one of the tourist sites?”

  I pointed to the larg
e picture window that ran on one side of the hall. The great whaleback of Pendle stood out clearly on the other side of the valley.

  “That’s Pendle,” I said. “There’s a lot of tourist twaddle about it and the Lancashire witches but the witches did actually live around there.”

  “I find history fascinating,” he said.

  He sounded really interested. It was incredible the way he could so easily adapt to what you were saying. I think that’s how he managed to get through to Fred who was nobody’s fool when it came to money except for that one and lethal time.

  “I’d love you to show me the place. When I’m travelling on business I like to see the local historical sites and you’re clearly an expert. Did they actually kill anybody?”

  I was on safe ground. I go to the Tech. Historical Society and they had just done some lectures on the Lancashire Witches.

  “Nobody knows for sure. Most of them were demented old crones like Mother Demdyke and her brood but one of the coven is very difficult to fathom. Her name was Alice Nutter and she was a gentlewoman. Lived in a manor house by Pendle. Nobody has ever come up with a plausible explanation of why she was mixed up with the witches. I don’t suppose she thought killing was such a big deal. Probably enjoyed the excitement. Catching the victim unawares. Gave her a buzz as they say. I did a psychology course at the Tech last year. They call that sort of thing compulsive behaviour.”

  I thought of my hand washing and Lady Macbeth. I smiled to myself and wondered if Alice Nutter had ever killed a man out of revenge. Perhaps I could make my fantasy real. I made up my mind. I knew just what to do.

  Another record began. This was my chance. I fanned my face and pretended a tiredness I didn’t feel.

  “I think I’ve had enough of dancing today,” I said tentatively. “If you’re interested in Pendle and the witches, come up with me to my flat if you like. You get a good view from my window and I’ve got a pamphlet about the witches the local historical society produced.

  As a matter of fact I had a good win on the Lottery some time ago and gave the Society the money to print it.”

  His eyes gleamed.

  “I’d love to. It’s a bit noisy in here to talk. And you are such an interesting lady. I’d like to hear more. It’s fascinating.”

  He gave what he thought was a sexy smile. He really was full of himself. I smiled back. He was hooked. I moved to the door.

  “I’m afraid the lift’s out of order,” I said casually. “We’ll have to use the stairs. It’s seven flights up.”

  He set off at a brisk pace which soon slowed. The stairs run round a well and at the sixth floor he paused and leaned against the guard railing which stood between us and the void. He straightened up and tried to control his gasping. I do the stairs every day and was hardly out of breath.

  “Only another flight,” I said encouragingly. I wanted to hurry. At any moment someone might come out on to one of the landings and see us.

  Finally we were at the top landing. He leaned against the low rail. In spite of his attempts to control his breathing, he wheezed and slumped forward his chest against the railing, his arms hanging loosely over the barrier, his head down. He looked exhausted. For a moment I was alarmed. Was he going to cheat me? A heart attack wasn’t punishment enough, not for what he had done to Fred.

  It was on this landing that Fred had finally given way to despair. The scam that Leo had cunningly concocted had left my husband penniless and in debt. Fred, unable to face me had climbed these stairs and at the very place where his tormentor now stood gasping, he had climbed over the railing and jumped.

  I slipped quickly behind my foxtrot man. I put my lips close to his ear.

  “I think you knew my husband years ago,” I hissed. “Look down there. He’s waiting for you.”

  I grabbed hold of him at the back of the knees. Anger gave me strength and I was fit. Most of his weight was forward and his upper body was slumped over the rail as he fought for breath. He was too feeble from the climb to struggle and I’m strong and wiry. I lifted and for a moment he was stuck horizontally on the top of the rail, his arms flailing as he tried to reach back. The railing buckled.

  “Remember what you did to Fred Greenhalgh, you bastard,” I screamed.

  I pushed hard and gradually he slid forward. He tried to shout but the climb had left him breathless and only laboured grunts came out.

  I watched him as he fell. He seemed to fall so slowly, arms spread-eagled like those pictures you see of sky divers on the television. I was surprised how little noise the body made as it smashed into the concrete at the bottom of the stairwell.

  At that moment I felt I could understand Alice Nutter. Killing was no big deal. I went to wash my hands.

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Don Nixon is a writer living in Shropshire. He has had a number of short stories and poems published in magazines and anthologies in the UK and North America. In 2004 he won the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook short story competition and this encouraged him to write. He has won various competitions for short fiction and poetry and for the past two years has won the formal poetry category at the International Poetry Festival at Lake Orta in Italy of which Carol Ann Duffy is the patron. He won awards at the Deddington Festival and at the Liverpool Festival last year. This year he won the Leeds Peace Poetry Prize, gained a short story award at the Steyning Literature Festival and had a short story published by the HG Wells Society. He has had two short stories published by Bridge House in the Scream and Going Places anthologies. Poems were published later this year by Chester University Academic Press and Descant Magazine, Toronto. A film company has shown an interest in a crime short story – Santa’s Grotto – he wrote for Tindal Street Press in the anthology Birmingham Noir. Later this year his novel in the Western genre – Ransom – will be published.

  The Most Whimsical Jape of the Season

  Kate Tough

  The fact is, we were all friends of Carol’s. Gus had been the price you paid.

  Somewhat selfishly, Carol had died in a slapstick mishap involving a high wind and a giant ‘D’ (it’s still unclear what she was doing in that part of town) and since then, Gus has regularly invited us all for dinner – ostensibly to show that he is doing OK, “Absolutely fine, yes, yes, absolutely.”

  He certainly seems his usual self.

  I’m sure everyone in this room has had the same thought – give it another month and I can refuse his invitations without looking like an unsympathetic bastard.

  Real reason for the dinner parties?

  Gus knows the window of pity won’t last forever and he has one chance to make her friends his friends. And before you go thinking, isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? Let me say no, it is not. The difference between Gus and me is that he actually wants these people for his friends. I’m only here to point-score against Helen, in that post break-up, They’re my friends too way. The, Why should I give up our friends because you’ve decided it’s over and dumped me? routine.

  A transparent charade? Maybe.

  I wanted to piss her off – wanted a reason to get in touch even if it was for an argument. Specifically to start an argument. Had to get back in her head and hang around for the afternoon, You may think you’ve finished with me, lady, but I’ll decide when you’ve finished with me. The usual stuff.

  Arse! To think I fought for the prize of sitting round the table with this lot. Tears were spilled so I could be here and not Helen. In the normal run of events it would have been a Pyrrhic victory. A triumph until half-an-hour after arriving, when I’d have realised that Helen knew fine well I had nothing in common with ‘her people’ and that I’d be hating every minute. That I had not a single real friend in the room and to demand to come was pathetic. Perhaps this would have upset me to the point where I’d have wondered if I had any friends of my own to spend the evening with. A crack in the veneer. Fuck. Then she’d have won this round.

  As it turns out, though, I WIN! I
WIN! because I’m in mortal danger and she won’t find out till it’s too late, thereby ensuring she is forever wracked with survivor’s guilt. I’ve no problem admitting how happy that makes me. A result in anyone’s book.

  Everyone who was invited this evening turned up; no-one’s babysitter cancelled, no-one ‘came down with something’. So if, as Gus announced twenty minutes ago, none of us is leaving here alive, there won’t be anyone to strike it rich on the chat show circuit; “I was supposed to be there but the twins had a rash. Decided to stay home with the Merlot I’d bought for Gus. He was a bit of an authority so you had to choose carefully. And now here I am… sniiifff… Alive… sniiifff… and feeling deeply, deeply guilty.”

  Wankers.

  It’s too much to hope Gus is going to burst back in carping, “Had you going there, didn’t I? Eh? Eh?” in his excruciating office-joker mien. If he did, I’d congratulate him on the premium jump in his usual humour. He is the opposite of consummate, whatever that is – after he left the dining room and locked the door, he made his rehearsed speech about our imminent deaths while craning his head through the double-door serving hatch in the wall. ‘Uncool’ doesn’t go nearly far enough. Usually you can respect an unhinged killer for his cultivated aura of passionless detachment. Being kept hostage by this enthusiastic boy-scout is just embarrassing.

  But maybe I’m a sick bastard too because I’d rather turn up at a dinner party and be murdered by a psycho than turn up at a dinner party and hear the same old conversation about how much school fees are affecting house prices, or whatever it is they whine about. Bunch of Michael Bublé fans. Spent so much time worrying about paedophiles they took their eyes off the sociopath ball and now look what’s happened. If you choose to spend your life fretting, you should be happy when something goes horribly wrong. Vindication is a good feeling, no? Ingrates.