by Matt Rudd
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
Saturday 30 November
In the cold light of morning, despite not sleeping a wink because of the sofa and the thought of having to take on a murdering ex-copper at his own game, I feel better. Not better-better. I still feel terrible and I miss Isabel and Jacob dreadfully, but I do feel a tiny bit more positive about the criminal justice system. This is the twenty-first century, after all. The police don’t routinely throw innocent people in prison. Sure, Bob might have been able to dodge the whippet tip-off. And he might have been able to knock off a couple of cats without anyone pointing the finger of suspicion. But this is murder. Surely the police will pursue every line of enquiry. I will be fine.
Then my mobile rings. It is Isabel. I feel nervous – hopeful but nervous. This is a second chance. I need to get this first sentence right. I can’t spend the rest of my life on a sofa without her.
‘Darling, thank you for call—’
‘They’re coming for you.’
‘What?’
‘They’re coming for you. They’ve found incriminating evidence.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police. They found a baseball bat at our house in the village.’
‘Right.’
‘It was covered in blood.’
‘What?’
‘It was cat blood. And they’ve got new CCTV film. It shows you on the village green an hour later than you said you were there on the night Brenda was killed.’
‘What?’
‘They wanted to know where you were. They said it was best for everyone if you came in again. I told them where you were. I told them. They’re coming.’
The walls close in. Shadows race across the room. I feel dizzy. I feel sick. And then the doorbell rings. I look down the stairs and see the shadows of two familiar figures. One of them moves forward and I see the face of the persistent sergeant peering through the glass. I jump back, whisper goodbye to Isabel, open the back window, scale down the drainpipe and run for it.
DECEMBER
‘To become a father is not difficult, but to be a father is.’
UNKNOWN
Sunday 1 December
‘What in God’s name did you do?’
‘Johnson, I panicked.’
‘You’re telling me you panicked. You ran away from the police!’
‘They didn’t know I was there. They didn’t know I ran.’
‘Well, they’ll be looking for you. You should go straight to the station and hand yourself in.’
‘You said I shouldn’t leave things to them. You said I was up against Bob. You said I had to beat him at his own game. Well, his game is murder. And I’m losing. If I hand myself in, I might never see my wife and son again.’
‘That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?’
‘They found a baseball bat covered in cat blood at our old house.’
‘I know, you already said. And I know it doesn’t look good. But just because you killed a couple of stupid cats, it doesn’t mean you killed Brenda.’
‘Johnson, I didn’t kill the cats. Christ!’
‘Right, yes. ‘Course you didn’t. It must have been Bob. Bob planted the bat. Jesus. You’re in trouble. You need to keep a low profile until we can prove you’re innocent.’
‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m in a Travelodge near Bracknell.’
‘Why?’
‘Because whenever hitmen go on the run, they stay in a motel.’
‘Right, nice. Well, don’t use your credit cards and don’t use your phone.’
‘I’m using my phone now. You called me—’
‘Jesus. Hang up. They could be tracking you. Give me a couple of days and I’ll see what I can find out.’
Monday 2 December
Am I a fugitive? Not technically. I haven’t escaped prison. I wasn’t on bail. We don’t even know for sure that they were going to arrest me. I have, of course, checked in as Mr Smith. This is the sort of thing amateur fugitives do. I should have thought of a better name. Mr White. Mr Pickles. Lord Lucan. But it only occurred to me that I should be using an alias as I was filling out the registration card. This is the trouble with not being a proper fugitive. You have the wrong mind-set. With any luck, the receptionist will have assumed I’m having a seedy affair. Or that I’m actually called Mr Smith. Some people have to be.
‘Isabel? It’s me…no…no…no, I’m not crazy…no, I’m not a fugitive…for all they know, I could be away on business…Oh right, they checked…Well, I’ll be handing myself in as soon as possible, but I’m being set up here…no, I can’t…no…it’s my only chance…I need time to prove it…no…no…Yes, Johnson is involved, but he’s my best bet. He knows people…okay…I know, okay…Right…I know. And Isabel?…I’m sorry. Okay…And Isabel?…You do believe me, don’t you?…Are you sure? Thank you. I love you. Kiss Jacob for me.’
She does believe me…I’m pretty sure she believes me. It would be pretty ridiculous if she didn’t. You couldn’t marry someone, have a child with them and then immediately believe they bludgeoned people to death and left their bodies on train tracks to destroy the evidence. Mind you, if I did bludgeon people to death, I’m not sure I would have told Isabel. I couldn’t even tell her I’d lost £8,000.
Tuesday 3 December
‘Johnson, it’s me.’
‘Hi, Frank. How are you?’
‘No, it’s me, William.’
‘I don’t know anyone called William. How are you, Frank?’
‘Is that Johnson?’
‘Yes, Frank.’
‘It’s not Frank, it’s William.’
‘Bloody hell, William. I know. I’m calling you Frank in case anyone’s tapping this call.’
‘But I’m calling from a payphone.’
‘Oh, right. Well, you can never be too caref—’
I have to insert another pound.
‘Johnson?’
‘Hi, Frank.’
‘Have you found anything out?’
‘Yes, you’re in loads of trouble. They think you’ve done a runner, which you have. And they’ve put out an APB.’
‘An APB?’
‘An All Points Bulletin. Don’t you watch The Bill?’
‘Have you found anything out about Bob?’
‘Yes, but not enough. Call me in two days.’
‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’
‘Stay where you are, Frank.’
Wednesday 4 December
I have, quite possibly, only a few days of freedom left, so why did I check in to a Travelodge near Bracknell? The hitman anonymity thing would have worked just as well in a Sheraton or a Hilton. Possibly even a Hotel du Vin. Less anonymous, I’ll admit, but if I’d holed up in a Hotel du Vin I could at least have had steak and red wine. All I have here is a Little Chef, and not even the one that Heston Bloody Blumenthal improved. I am eating petrol-station sandwiches and Little Chef Olympic breakfasts. I am growing a beard in an attempt to disguise myself, but it’s itchy and patchy. I have been wearing the same clothes for four days. This is not glamorous. I don’t even have access to the internet, so I can’t continue my winning streak and prove to Isabel that the gambling isn’t as terrible as it seemed. I can only sit in my Travelodge room watching daytime television and worrying.
How could they have new CCTV evidence? Wouldn’t they have got all of it when they decided Brenda had been murdered? Aren’t murder investigations supposed to be comprehensive these days? And regardless of how they got it, had I really been on the village green a whole hour later than I said I was? I know I was drunk – thanks, Alex, for those stupid red cocktails – but I’m sure I was off home when I said I was. I couldn’t have covered the distance otherwise. I would have had to run.
Did I run? Maybe I did. Maybe I ran drunk through the night, desperate to get home to say sorry for snogging Saskia. But I wo
uld have got tired. Or would I? Maybe the triathlon training combined with the Ninja Daddy Power meant I could run fifteen odd miles drunk. But then surely I would remember that? Or maybe the Ninja Daddy Power also allows my body to switch to autopilot, like it does when I’m pushing the bloody Bugaboo round the block thirty-eight times. Maybe I can now zone out when I have to. Maybe I can zone out when I need to.
It is at least possible. It is therefore also at least possible that I lied to the police about the time I left the village. And if that’s possible, could I have bumped into Brenda? I mean, why else would I blank out a whole part of the night and then run fifteen miles home? Could we have rowed? Oh my God, what if we rowed?
What if I killed Brenda?
What if she came at me with her midgety fists and her frightening beaky face and, in my drunken state, I panicked, defended myself, killed her by accident, panicked again, dragged her body to the railway track and then ran, in record time, all the way home? If I did, then I’m pretty sure I would have been having some sort of psychotic episode. A sort of Jekyll and Hyde thing. Maybe I was Hyde. And now I’m Jekyll.
My God, maybe I am the killer.
My God.
There’s a knock at the door. I freeze. This could be it. This could be the end. I have, at least, a chance to claim manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility given that I can’t remember killing anyone. My lawyers can mention the sleep deprivation, the stress, the provocation. No, not the provocation. That would suggest premeditation. Premeditation isn’t good.
There is another knock, more insistent. They’re not going away.
I could climb out the window. I could run again. But I’m in my pants and it’s December and I probably wouldn’t get far. No, I’ll just—
The key is in the lock. The manager has been summoned. Saves smashing the door in, I suppose. I am rooted to the spot. I can’t think. I need to think but—
The door opens.
It’s the cleaner. She looks at me in my pants. I look at her in her cleaning outfit, her Santa hat signifying that this is the season of glad tidings.
‘Cleaner,’ she says, festively. She’s seen it all before.
‘Right-o. Sorry, I’ll be out in a moment,’ I reply, throwing on my clothes, grabbing my last few pounds and pence and heading out to find an off-licence.
Thursday 5 December
There’s only one thing in the entire world worse than being holed up in a Travelodge near Bracknell, and that’s being holed up in a Travelodge near Bracknell with a terrible, terrible hangover.
‘One Olympic breakfast, please. And do you do Bloody Marys?’
Friday 6 December
Of course, I might not be a murderer. Or manslaughterer. Or womanslaughterer. In which case, there’s no point drinking myself into oblivion. I need to keep calm. This time next week, I’ll be back home – or at least back on Andy’s sofa – and I’ll be going to work, earning a living, supporting a family and everything will be—Oh shit, work.
‘Janice, hi. It’s William.’
‘William, umm, hello. Umm, hold on a second…’
What’s she doing? Why is she putting me on hold? Is she tracing this call? Are the police monitoring all calls to known associates? I should hang up. I should hang up and keep a low profile like Johnson says.
‘William. Sorry to keep you. Where are you?’
I hang up. I walk away from the payphone. I walk back to the payphone. I phone Johnson.
‘Whatever. Leave a message.’
‘Johnson, it’s Will—It’s Frank. I’ll call back.’
I have no job. I have no hope. I have only alcohol.
I love you, Isabel. I love you, Jacob. I love you, I love you, I love you. Hiccup. I miss you so much. I can’t go to jail. I won’t go to jail. We won’t be apart. I’d rather die. I’d rather die in a Travelodge in Bracknell than never see you again. They’ll never take me alive. Never. Especially not before I have another whisky.
I’m going to call Jacob. I’m going to speak to him. He’s probably even speaking by now, he’s such a quick learner.
A man dressed as a giant chicken is standing in the Travelodge car park when I emerge, drunk and miserable, into the cold December sunshine. He rattles his collection bucket at me aggressively. ‘Money to re-house battery chickens. Spare a quid, guv’nor.’
‘Not interested,’ I reply and walk past. I am not in the mood to be hassled by a giant chicken. The chicken tells me to go fuck myself.
‘Welcome to the O2 messaging service. The person you are calling is probably trying to move on with their life. Please leave a message if you must, though there’s very little point. To re-record your message, press the hash key at any time. Loser.’
‘Hi, Isabel. It’s me. I love you. I love you so much. I love Jacob. Tell Jacob how much I love him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I love—’ Beep. Beep. Beep.
My last coins are gone and the payphone can’t even give me enough time to leave a proper message. As I am considering smashing the stupid payphone to stupid pieces, a police car rolls on to the garage forecourt. I look away as calmly as possible and then look back. Two officers are coming straight for me. They’re running. They’re shouting. I can’t hear what they’re shouting because I’m drunk and surrounded by Perspex, but it doesn’t look good. I’m pretty sure this is it. I’m ready this time. They can take me alive after all. I’ve had enough. I step out of the payphone box and start to raise my hands.
The officers run straight past me. I look around and see the man dressed as a giant chicken scaling the wall at the back of the Travelodge, his charity bucket fallen to the ground. The first officer vaults the wall after him as his colleague runs back past me, jumps in the car and skids away to head the chicken off.
I take a deep breath of relief.
And then I look at the bucket, lying abandoned in the bushes. It’s probably evidence, evidence required to convict the bogus sweary giant charity chicken. I can’t take it. It would be criminal. But I have no money, no money for the Travelodge, no money to phone Johnson, no money to phone my wife and child before I am arrested and spend the rest of my life in jail…or, if I’m lucky, an asylum. I have no choice.
Back in the room, I count out the money: £144 for imaginary battery chickens is now mine to fight for my freedom. I am taking it as a sign.
Saturday 7 December
‘Johnson, it’s William. Sorry, Frank. Can you call? You know, about the thing.’
Sunday 8 December
‘William. Jesus. There you are. Why didn’t you call?’
‘I did. For the last three days.’
‘Your number didn’t come up.’
‘I was phoning from a payphone, like you said.’
‘Oh, right. Well, you should have left a message.’
‘I left messages!’
‘Oh, right. Sorry. I never check my voicemail.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Johnson. I’ve been sat here in a Travelodge all week. I’m going crazy. If I have to eat another Olympic breakfast, I’ll die. And you can’t even be bothered to check your messages?’
‘Calm down, my fugitive friend, I have good news.’
‘Well, tell me, then.’ And I have to wait several seconds, as Johnson takes a deep, dramatic breath.
‘They only went travelling for one year.’
This doesn’t sound like something that’s going to get me off the hook for murder, but then Johnson begins to explain. Bob and Brenda’s official story, the story the village has corroborated to the police, is that Bob retired from the force, they went travelling for a couple of years and then they came to the village and bought the pub. But they only went travelling for one year. For the second mystery year, they were in County Durham trying to set up a new business.
‘Another pub?’
‘Nope, a pedigree pet-breeding company.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘Durham Gazette, 17 July 2002. They’re in it, l
aunching their new business. Posh Pets.’
‘Stupid name.’
‘That’s clearly what the good people of County Durham thought. Bob and Brenda were trying to flog pets for hundreds of pounds. Nobody was interested. And then Bob was caught.’
‘What do you mean “caught”?’
‘Durham Gazette, 12 March 2003. RSPCA caught a local breeder killing kittens. And guess who the kitten killer was?’
‘Bob?’
‘Yes, of course, Bob.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I’m not joking.
‘You’re joking?’
‘I’m not bloody joking! A whole cardboard box of them. Chucked them in the river. And then, when they escaped, guess what he did?’
‘He finished them off one by one with a baseball bat and the RSPCA only arrived in time to save the last one.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Lucky guess. How come the police don’t know about this?’
‘Well,’ replies Johnson, taking another self-congratulatory breath, ‘I spoke to an old mate on the job. He did some checking. Bob was never formally charged. It was a first offence. He claimed he was killing them painlessly. He was an ex-copper. He knew a few people. He pulled a few strings. The deal was that they shut the business and leave in return for no official recording of the incident.’
‘Amazing. Can I come home now?’
‘No, it’s not enough.’
‘What? He’s been hiding the fact that he killed kittens with a baseball bat. Surely that’s enough to make the police re-evaluate him.’
‘Probably. But we need to be sure. We need to find that whippet.’
Wednesday 11 December
‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ says Johnson gleefully. He’s only gleeful when he’s out snooping, digging through people’s bins, uncovering crimes of passion, mucking about. I think I prefer him when he’s being middle-aged and grumpy, which is the rest of the time. It’s less disconcerting.