Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  The real answer, though, was that there was no reason whatsoever.

  When she’d decided to kill the nurse, and had waited for the woman’s shift to end, she’d sat in her car near the hospital reading a magazine she’d brought with her. There was one article she found interesting. It was about the fall of the Roman Empire. The writer suggested that one of the problems that civilization experienced was that the numbering system had no zero. This limited scientific and economic development. Hmm. Fascinating.

  So, an hour later, after watching the nurse spasm then twitch to stillness, she’d decided on a good approach to deflect suspicion. The public, as well as police, she guessed, would much rather have a psycho killer with an obsession with Game of Thrones or the Roman Empire than a petite blonde who killed because somebody pissed her off.

  So she’d carved the I on the woman’s forehead.

  Of course, the cops didn’t get it. And thought it was the first-person pronoun, I, not the numeral.

  She’d laughed at that, having a glass of white wine afterward, with her dog at her feet, watching the news. And so with Brad the dog-walker, she’d gone with a II.

  The cops got it then, or thought they did.

  And the Roman Numeral Killer was born.

  ‘Where do you want to eat?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no preference,’ Tim said. ‘Whatever you want.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’m in the mood for sushi.’

  He barked a laugh. ‘For brunch?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was thinking eggs Benedict. I always like to have breakfast things in the morning.’

  She reflected, well, he did say whatever I want. But she said, ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll jump in the shower.’

  After he stepped into the bathroom, she rose and pulled on her jeans and slippers, then headed downstairs to feed Bosco and let him out.

  Tim began singing.

  Hmm. She’d heard about that, singing in the shower. But had never known anybody who actually did it. Seemed a bit odd.

  But Joannie reminded herself to relax. Tim was a nice guy, he was good in bed, he had a responsible job. She could do a lot worse.

  And as for any foibles? Only breakfast food for brunch, ignorance of Roman numerals, hours playing video games? Any others…?

  Oh, she could put up with them.

  And if not…well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Strangers in a Pub

  Martin Edwards

  What am I getting myself into?

  Jefferson surveyed the dingy saloon bar with a jaundiced eye. Ever since Maddy had run off with her personal trainer, he’d looked at most things with a jaundiced eye, but this pub might have been designed to tease out his prejudices. Who ever believed that things could only get better? The country was going to the dogs.

  The Case is Altered would, in times gone by, have been called a workingman’s pub, but Jefferson saw no sign of a darts board, or a snooker table, or any working men, come to that. Two-thirty in the afternoon, and a bunch of shaven-headed bikers were pummelling the fruit machines while excitable commentators rhapsodised about the baseball game on the huge plasma TV screen. Jefferson didn’t share the fashionable enthusiasm for La Liga or Serie A, but at least the Continentals knew their football. A proper sport.

  So many pubs had closed these past few years, places with low beams and inglenooks, where you could get a decent pint of bitter to wash down your bangers and mash without needing to take out a second mortgage. It didn’t seem right that this dump on the corner of a Mancunian mean street had survived. But that was life. The undeserving got away with murder; Jefferson had seen it a million times. He chose a seat at the table nearest the door. All the better for a quick getaway.

  To say he was having second thoughts about this job was an understatement. The phone call had come out of the blue. He’d have rung off at once if he’d not been startled to find a fellow human being at the other end of the line. Usually it was a recorded message urging him to claim compensation for losses he’d never suffered, or a cold caller wanting him to replace his windows with environmentally friendly replacements. He’d still not got the hang of his smartphone, and he kept pressing the wrong thing whenever he didn’t want to be disturbed. It was far too sensitive to his touch. He preferred phones that were as unresponsive as Maddy.

  So he listened to what the bloke had to say. His name was Binks, and he spoke in a whisper, as if terrified of being overheard. Jefferson, he said, came highly recommended. He wanted a diligent ex-copper to follow his wife, and see if she was playing away. Maximum discretion and maximum haste were what he needed, because he was a partner in a national firm of estate agents that was planning to float on the London Stock Exchange, and he wanted to get the divorce papers in before she got wind of his true worth. Before Jefferson could kill the call, Binks mentioned what he was willing to pay.

  For a simple job, it was money for old rope. So much money, that it would be rude not to express cautious interest. Binks wanted to meet Jefferson in a pub well away from his office in central Manchester. Somewhere neither of them would be recognised. He’d bring the down payment, plus a photo of his wife and some background information.

  Only then did Jefferson ask who had recommended him. ‘Chap called Gus Illingworth,’ Binks said. ‘I sold him his new house.’

  Everything fell into place. Gus was having a laugh. He’d never liked Jefferson. Probably this was Illingworth’s way of getting his own back because Binks’ commission had been a rip-off. No wonder he could afford to throw his cash around.

  But Binks rang off before Jefferson could say he’d changed his mind.

  It still wasn’t too late to back out. He’d arrived half an hour early, to give himself thinking time. Actually, fifteen minutes in these miserable surroundings would be plenty. If Binks didn’t turn up before...

  The door swung open, and in walked a very short, very fat man wearing an expensive grey suit and a Rolex. He was clutching a leather briefcase. His gaze fell on Jefferson, and his porcine eyes widened. Wiping a line of sweat off his brow with a silk handkerchief, he plopped down onto the other chair at Jefferson’s table.

  ‘The early bird catches the worm, eh?’

  When he wasn’t whispering, Binks’ voice was unexpectedly squeaky. He put down his briefcase, and offered a damp hand. Jefferson shook it with malicious vigour.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Jefferson nodded. ‘Pint of best.’

  Binks plodded towards the bar, placing his order with a pimply purple-haired girl whose face was festooned with more rings than a shower curtain. A week before leaving him, Maddy had announced she’d had her nipple pierced, and a silver ring fitted. Jefferson was sure she’d done it as much to annoy him as to fascinate the gym trainer. Same with that ankle tattoo of a butterfly. A butterfly, for God’s sake! A praying mantis would’ve been nearer the mark.

  Jefferson actually thought about doing a runner while Binks’ sizeable back was turned, but the lure of a pint was too much. He’d listen to what the man had to say, then make his excuses and leave. Unless the job was an absolute doddle, that was.

  Binks returned with the drinks. His was a gin and tonic, and he raised his glass with a nervous theatricality.

  ‘Here’s to…business.’

  Jefferson took a gulp of his beer. Scarcely best, but just about drinkable.

  Binks cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be honest.’

  Jefferson frowned. In his experience, this phrase invariably prefaced something dishonest or unpleasant.

  ‘I was expecting a younger man.’

  Jefferson’s left hand was resting on the little table. His fingers were knobbly and misshapen. He’d have stuck the hand back in hi
s pocket, but he hated seeming defensive.

  ‘I’ve got arthritis in my finger joints. Not in my brain.’

  ‘I suppose…you’re very experienced?’

  Jefferson wasn’t in the mood for an in-depth debate about his CV. ‘I was on the job for more than ten years. They made me an Inspector, before I jacked it in. Since then, I’ve freelanced. A bit of this, a bit of that. Working on contracts, you know.’

  ‘Contracts, yes, of course.’ Binks seemed impressed, almost overawed. ‘Sorry, sorry. Just need to do my…due diligence.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Binks coloured. ‘I suppose I’d better give you some details about the lady in question. I thought it’d help if I brought a photograph.’

  It was on the tip of Jefferson’s tongue to say that was exactly what they’d agreed. But he kept quiet as the fat man fumbled with his briefcase before bringing out an A4 envelope. He laid it down on the table, and gave a quick glance around. Once satisfied that nobody was paying them any attention, he slid out a photograph, and a folded sheet of paper.

  The woman in the picture was slim, with blond hair. Fifties, Jefferson guessed, though with women, you never could tell. Her coat was open, revealing a white, well-filled blouse and black jeans. The shot was taken somewhere in the countryside, and she was gesticulating angrily at whoever was holding the camera.

  ‘Fucking do-gooder,’ Binks said.

  Jefferson grunted. ‘That right?’

  ‘Hard left, more like. Bleeding heart, any road.’ Binks swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘Can’t be doing with ’em.’

  Mrs Binks sounded like Maddy. The menopause had heralded a metamorphosis. She’d turned into a different woman.

  ‘Know how you feel.’

  ‘You’re a man of the world.’ Binks breathed out noisily. ‘Business is business, and she’s costing me a fortune. It just can’t go on, you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do that.’

  Binks handed him the sheet of paper. ‘Here’s the information you need. Anything more, let me know.’

  Decision time had arrived, and Jefferson tucked the photo and paper into his jacket pocket. Maybe it would be a laugh, becoming a detective all over again. He was pretty much at a loose end, and there was a limit to the amount of daytime television he could tolerate without taking a hammer to the TV screen. Besides, the cash wouldn’t hurt.

  Binks closed his eyes for a moment. ‘How long then, before—the job’s done?’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long. I’ll let you know no later than this time next week. Maybe sooner.’

  ‘Thanks. Hell of a weight off my mind, I can promise you.’ Binks sighed. ‘I was told you didn’t mess about.’

  Not like Gus Illingworth to be free and easy with his compliments. Well, well, you lived and learned.

  ‘Oh.’ Binks gave a sickly smile. ‘I almost forgot.’

  He bent over again and pulled out of his briefcase a thick package sealed with brown tape. He thrust it into Jefferson’s hand.

  ‘You’ll find it’s all here. As we agreed. Half now, half…afterwards.’ Binks looked around again. Still nobody was taking an interest. Something exciting was going on in the baseball game, if the commentators were to be believed, though the audience seemed catatonic. ‘I’d best make myself scarce. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  He scurried out of the pub as fast as his little legs could carry him. Jefferson weighed the package. It was surprisingly heavy. Surely Binks hadn’t padded it with rubbish? What would be the point of that?

  As he finished his pint, the door opened again, and a squat man in his forties bustled in. His gaze fell on Jefferson.

  ‘Jeff Hope?’ His voice, barely a whisper, seemed oddly familiar.

  Jefferson narrowed his eyes. ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘We spoke on the phone. I was recommended to you by Gus Illingworth.’

  ‘Your name isn’t…?’

  ‘Please.’ The whisper became urgent. ‘I said on the phone, I need maximum discretion.’

  Jefferson gritted his teeth. It was an oh shit moment.

  ‘Tell you the truth, I’ve been having second thoughts about the whole thing. She reckons I’m paranoid, but she’s started dolling herself up all the time. Very tasty, but it’s not like her. After years of marriage, a man knows.’

  Jefferson grunted noncommittally.

  ‘Let me get you another pint, then we can get down to brass tacks. I’ve got her photo in my pocket, by the way. I’ve written the address and phone number on the back.’

  As he headed for the counter, Jefferson made his way to the gents, taking his package with him. Once locked inside the solitary cubicle, he tore the tape off, and put his hand inside. He pulled out three thick bundles of fifty-pound notes, and stared at them for fully sixty seconds before replacing them.

  When he was sure there was nobody around, he unlocked the door, and re-entered the bar. He could see Binks—for Binks it must surely be—returning to the table near the entrance. Another chap strode straight past him. He was in his late thirties, dark-haired, tattooed, and muscular. Possibly ex-military. He was looking this way and that. Presumably in search of the fat little bloke who had just handed Jefferson fifteen thousand pounds.

  When in doubt, think it out. The only sensible option was to make himself scarce. He didn’t fancy an acrimonious encounter with the muscular newcomer, and following a supposedly errant wife had never held much appeal in the first place.

  He spotted a back way out of the pub, and within moments he was outside, and relieved to find his car still in one piece. He put his foot down, and before long he had the chance to park in a deserted rural lay-by, and check that he wasn’t hallucinating.

  No, the money was real, all right.

  Half now, half later.

  So what might the fat little bloke pay thirty thousand quid for?

  Jefferson took another look at the photograph of the fair-haired woman. It was rather blurred, certainly not posed. Her expression made clear that she was very cross about something, though cross in quite a classy way. Her coat looked expensive. A Barbour, he supposed. And those were probably Timberland boots.

  A bleeding heart, maybe, but Jefferson couldn’t help liking the look of her. Well-preserved was the phrase people used, wasn’t it? But that made a woman sound like a monument in the care of English Heritage. She was definitely fit.

  He unfolded the sheet of paper that the man-who-wasn’t-Binks had given him. It bore a name, Heather Chase, her e-mail address and landline phone number, and an address in north Cheshire.

  What clues could he glean from the photograph? He could make out three or four shapes, people right in the background. A couple seemed to be holding makeshift placards, but he couldn’t read what was written on them. Was this a picture of some kind of low-grade protest march? If Heather Chase was a do-gooder, it would make sense. That’s what they loved, protesting. Being against something.

  But whatever mischief she caused, Jefferson had no intention of killing her. And he was sure that was what he’d been paid to do. No wonder not-Binks had been so impressed by his casual mention of contracts in the Middle East.

  Different sort of contracts, obviously.

  The easy option was simply to do nothing, pocket the money, walk away, and forget about it. One thing he’d learned, there was often a lot to be said for masterly inertia. Or he could make a rare foray onto the moral high ground, and go to his nearest police station, and explain everything that had happened. But would anything much be done about it, even if he talked to someone he’d worked with and who’d managed to survive the cost-cutting culls and the lure of early retirement on an enhanced pension? Nothing specific had been said by not-Binks. The money wouldn’t be easy to explain away, but even so. In these days of strained police resources, and lazy ex-colleagues quick to rely on lack of manpower as an e
xcuse for doing nothing, there was a better-than-even chance that his allegation would be filed in the too-difficult pile, and left to moulder for a while, possibly forever.

  Meanwhile, what would happen to Heather Chase? On a fleeting glance, the muscular bloke didn’t impress as an easy-come-easy-go fatalist ready to write-off the loss of fifteen grand as simply one of those things. He’d want his money, and presumably he was willing to earn it.

  Even if there were too many bleeding hearts in this world, Jefferson didn’t want Heather Chase to bleed.

  He reached for his mobile, and dialled Binks’ number.

  ‘Yes?’ The whisper was even hoarser than usual.

  ‘Jeff Hope. Sorry I couldn’t...’

  ‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That...animal thought I was going to pay him to do something...criminal.’

  ‘You talked, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a conversation. I’ve just arrived at A&E. He hit me in the face. I think my nose is broken, and I’ll be black and blue in the morning.’

  ‘He asked who you were planning to meet, I suppose? You gave him my name?’

  ‘Of course I fucking gave him your name. You think I want to wind up on a mortuary slab? This is bad enough, it’s…’

  ‘Don’t talk anymore,’ Jefferson advised. ‘It’ll only make the pain worse. You need peace and quiet and a lie down. At least it’s not on a mortuary slab. Good luck with the medics.’

  He rang off, and asked himself what he should do next.

  Forty minutes later, he was sitting in his car, parked on a grass verge halfway down a wooded lane. Winding down his car window, he glimpsed through the trees a sizeable villa in mellow brick, probably built as a country retreat by some Victorian cotton merchant. He could smell the leaves, and the money. Heather Chase certainly wasn’t short of a few bob.

  There was a video entryphone system by the iron gates. He put the photograph in his pocket, and pressed the button.