“–To confirm his guilt,” the first man said, finishing the sentence. “He’s guilty, there’s no doubt about that. You don’t flee the scene of an accident if you’re innocent, especially when two coppers are lying dead in front of you.”
“What if he was scared?” the second man offered. “Maybe he fled because he was scared. A situation like that would scare anybody.”
“Do you think he’s innocent?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“So, why are you defending him then?”
“I’m not defending him. I just–”
Jester flicked off the radio. He’d heard enough. He’d heard more than enough. He was a wanted man. The world was waking up around him and it would wake to news that Matthew Jester had killed Jennifer Wilkinson before fleeing from the police. In less than two hours, his face would decorate millions of front pages on millions of newspapers on doormats all over the world.
***
Ahmad Fadel touched down in London just as the sun began to heat up his surroundings. From his plush seat on his private jet, he had watched the sunrise, a beautiful thing to watch on the ground, an astonishing thing to watch from the skies.
After landing, he made his way to his English manor house, a recent purchase to add to his property collection.
After getting a bite to eat from the well-paid cook, he took a shower, shaved, washed his face, and then changed into a fresh batch of clothes before making his way downstairs. Past the meditation room, the games room, and the dining room, opposite one of the many offices in the house, was the room he sought. Initially, it had been a second dining room, but Ahmad Fadel had quickly seen to it that the room was converted into a meeting room.
Expensive art hung from the white walls, and light beamed in through a large window and splashed across an oak table which could seat fourteen people. All the spaces were occupied. In each of the seats sat a suited man, eagerly and nervously awaiting the entrance of the billionaire. When he entered, they all stood to attention and waited until he personally shook each of their hands.
After greeting everyone in the room, Ahmad Fadel sat at the head of the table. Dennis Maloney, an American billionaire and Ahmad’s right hand man, walked to his side, whispered a few things in his ear, dropped some files in front of him, and then strolled to the back of the room where he stood against the back wall.
Ahmad Fadel cleared his throat. “He’s still alive,” he said clearly. “And free.”
His words prompted the cheering of everyone in the room but one. Michael Hikel, the second richest man in Germany, slumped back in his seat. “Damn,” he said.
Opposite him, Danny Walldoot, a billionaire sports entrepreneur and football chairman, laughed. “I told you he’d make it past the first day,” he declared happily.
“How?” the German wanted to know, and he turned to Ahmad Fadel. “How did he make it?”
“As planned, he was arrested,” Ahmad Fadel said sternly. “Not as planned, he escaped.”
“But we did plan on him escaping,” Russian Billionaire Petya Demidov declared. “That is the reason we did this, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Fadel said. “But he didn’t escape in the way we thought …” Fadel paused, “... planned he would,” he corrected.
“I heard it on the radio this morning,” Amir Naser, oil tycoon and friend of Ahmad Fadel, said. “The car crashed, killing the two police officers.”
His words brought a wave of expressed astonishment from the other businessmen.
“Where is he now?” someone at the other end of the table shouted. Fadel looked to see Matthew Riverbank, the CEO of a large news organisation, peeping at him through thick-rimmed spectacles.
“He’s safe, don’t worry,” Fadel said surely. “We’re keeping him monitored.”
“He hasn’t gone to the police, then?” Petya Demidov quizzed.
“He’s too scared to go to the police, and he knows they’ll just arrest him,” someone offered.
“I hope he gives himself in,” someone else said placidly from the back of the room.
Everyone at the table laughed. “Yeah,” Demidov said merrily. “That’s because you bet on him not making it past three days.”
The words prompted more laughter.
Demidov turned his attention to Dennis Maloney and Ahmad Fadel, his eyes flickering between the two powerful men. “Do you think he’ll make it to the end?” he quizzed. The room fell silent, all ears tuned in, eagerly waiting for the answer.
Maloney stepped forward after receiving a nod from Fadel. “There is a strong chance he will,” he said plainly, his words directed at everyone in the room. “The wheels have been set in motion, the obstacles placed, and now we just need him to run through them.”
“Are you sure you can pull this off?” Riverbank asked.
“He can,” Fadel said abruptly, not allowing time for Maloney to speak. He turned to smile at the American before returning his grin to the table. “I trust him,” Fadel said, his words final.
Everyone at the table nodded.
“In that case,” Hikel said calmly, “I think I’ll put some more bets on.”
Fadel nodded and slid the German a pen and a sheet of paper. His bets were written down, the paper was shown to Dennis Maloney, its contents encrypted and written onto a tablet computer produced from inside the American’s coat. The paper was then fed through a crosscut shredder.
“This kid is costing me a lot of money,” Hikel said placidly. “He better hurry up and die. My wife wants a new house.” He smiled and everyone around the table laughed.
16
Matthew Jester pulled the stolen Jeep to a stop in a gravelled parking lot; ahead, past the green grass and the sand dunes, the sea calmly stroked the beach. He removed his seatbelt, turned off the engine, and paused, admiring the view. Ahead, amongst the sand dunes and the thick, uncut grass, was a small hideaway he’d often visited as a penniless teenager. It was warm, safe, and serene. Back then it had been his home, somewhere to sleep. Now it was his solitude; a place where he could hide away from the rest of the world.
He studied his reflection in the rear-view mirror and sighed, congealed blood hanging from his nose like crimson snot forming a crust around the rim of the appendage. Dried blood also marked his chin, cheeks, and forehead.
He rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a rag, torn from an old bath-towel. It now served as a window wiper, to clear the frosty, smeared windows on the cold winter mornings.
He moistened the towel with his saliva and began to clean away the congealed blood, wincing when the towel swiped across an open wound on his cheek. He studied his appearance one last time before returning the towel to the glove compartment.
Stepping out of the car, he embraced the cool air with his head held low, not wanting to be recognised by any passers-by. Behind the parked Jeep, past the car park and on the other side of the road, was a line of shops: a newsagent’s, a pharmacy, a mini-market, a post office, and a pub. Leaving the vehicle – which he hadn’t bothered to lock – Jester headed towards the row of shops, making a beeline for the pharmacy.
When he entered, he immediately ducked into one of the aisles. He quickly scanned the shelves: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, body spray, shower gel. At the end of the aisle, he kept his head turned, arching his neck awkwardly, keeping out of view from the shop keeper.
He walked back down the same aisle, made a left turn at the end, and strode up the second aisle. He found what he wanted on the third shelf near the end. Paracetamol, ibuprofen, and paracetamol. He scanned the aisle, his eyes flickering across the many different boxes and labels. “It’s the same shit relabelled,” he cursed under his breath, stepping further across the aisle.
Near the end of the aisle, he paused to check the shelves and found boxes of codeine phosphate and paracetamol. He picked up the box, paused to check the label, tossed it to his other hand, and continued to search. He found a mix of codeine phosphate and ibuprofen
, and one of dihydrocodiene and acetaminophen, then headed for the counter.
He tried to keep his head low as he dropped the boxes onto the counter and reached for his wallet.
“Headache?” the man behind the counter said. Luckily for Matthew, he had a look of complete disinterest, total job dissatisfaction spread over his greasy face.
“Yeah,” Matthew mumbled. He picked up a five pound note and passed it to the chemist.
The young man spoke in a distant, practised tone as he rang up the boxes of tablets. “Please refrain from taking both these products at once,” he pitched in a dull manner. “As more than one of these contains Paracetamol.” He shot one last look at Matthew as he pushed the boxes his way. “It’s very toxic for the liver,” he added, passing Matthew a handful of small change and his receipt.
Matthew took the money with a smile – his head still lowered – and then left the shop. He paused outside, cursing himself for forgetting to buy a drink. Not only was his thirst in dire need of quenching, but he needed something to wash down the tablets.
He walked into the newsagent’s further along the street. It was a pokey shop, much smaller than the pharmacy. There was only one aisle and it was central. The shopkeeper behind the counter had a perfect view of both sides of the aisle and of the shelves across the perimeter walls.
Matthew allowed himself to be seen. He had no other choice and just hoped he wouldn’t be recognised. He picked three bottles of coke from a fridge and walked straight to the counter, placing the goods before the male shop assistant. He put his money on the counter and then stood in silence, his hands by his side.
Matthew met his gaze. It wasn’t hard to do ... he was staring straight at him – his face a mixture of confusion, worry and fear.
“Is there a problem?” Matthew asked, his voice peppered with a worried stammer.
The man didn’t answer, his eyes drifting to a large newspaper rack by the side of the counter. Matthew’s eyes followed.
There, on the rack, blasted across the front page of a national newspaper, was a headshot of Matthew Jester. The headline was blazoned in bold across the page. It reached out and grabbed his heart with an icy dread: ‘Ten Million Reward for the Jester’s Head’.
He swallowed hard. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath. He continued to read, quivering at a satirical mention of the words ‘Dead or Alive’. He frowned at the numerous attempts at word play on his surname, and flared with anger when he realised it was the paper themselves, along with the help of an anonymous businessman, who had put the reward forward.
Jester slowly turned his attention back towards the shopkeeper. “Listen to me–” he paused when he saw the baseball bat ruthlessly wielded in the shopkeeper’s skinny arms.
“Don’t you fucking move!” he bellowed, slowly making his way around the counter.
Jester backed up, raising his hands. “There’s no need for this,” he said. “Please put the bat down.”
“Stay put!” he demanded.
Matthew did as instructed and halted. The man slowly edged his way closer to Jester, his eyes wide, unblinking; his face a picture of determination.
“Put the bat down,” Matthew said. “There’s no need for violence.”
“Ha!” the man spat. “Coming from you? You’re a fucking murderer!”
“I didn’t kill–”
“You make me sick, you know that.”
“Oh God, not another one.” Matthew dropped his hands.
“Put your hands back up!” the shopkeeper demanded, “or I’ll knock your fucking head off.”
Matthew kept his hands by his side. He looked the shopkeeper firmly in the eye. “How old are you?” he asked.
“None of your business!” the shopkeeper was now right in front of Jester.
“Fifty, sixty?” Matthew offered. “Do you honestly think you could take me?”
The man paused, pondered, and then replied. “I’ve seen a fair share of violence in my time, son. Believe me, I can handle myself.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Matthew said lightly, stepping forward.
“I said, don’t move!”
Matthew casually walked past the bat-wielding pensioner and picked up his three bottles of coke, dropping two in his pockets and carrying the third in his hand. “It’s been a long day,” he said calmly. “I’ve met my fair share of psycho killers and carefree murderers this morning.” He looked the pensioner up and down. “You’re quite a step down.”
“If you move again, I’ll swing for you.”
Matthew paused. “You see,” he said, moving closer to the shopkeeper. “I don’t think you will. I’ve done nothing to harm you; you have no reason to hate me. I don’t think you possess the ability to swing at me.”
The man stuttered and stammered an incoherent sentence. He lowered the bat and took a step back. “I’ll be phoning the police as soon as you walk out of this door,” he said blankly. “Hurry up and get the hell out of here.”
Matthew smiled and left the shop.
Back in the car, he ripped open one of the boxes, popped four tablets out of the blister pack, threw them into his mouth, and chased them with a swig of coke.
With a discerning look back towards the newsagent’s, he started up the engine and pulled the car out of the car park and away from the row of shops. His favourite place would have to wait for another day. He needed to find his safety and serenity somewhere else.
17
Jester stopped the car outside a derelict and abandoned warehouse. It was in the middle of nowhere, tucked away at the back of a sparsely used industrial estate just outside of the city. The many windows were boarded up and covered in graffiti, a canvas for hundreds of graffiti artists and taggers.
Darren Whittall’s Jeep was the only car in the abandoned parking lot. Matthew Jester clambered out of the vehicle, stood and stretched. The painkillers had kicked in, and the majority of his pain remained but the tablets had dulled it to an annoying ache.
He studied the building with a touch of nostalgia. When he had left care at sixteen, Matthew Jester started living on the streets. The derelict warehouse was where he spent most of his nights, sheltering from the cold. He wasn’t on the streets long. He could thank his great luck for that, but the time he had spent there was enough to scar him for life.
The warehouse was home to crack addicts and heroin junkies. As a teenager Jester had mingled with homeless addicts, despite never touching any hard drugs himself.
He walked around to the back of the building, found the entrance – a large gap in a boarded-up window – and climbed inside. As soon as his feet touched the concrete floor he could smell the familiar stench of cannabis, stale cigarettes and excrement.
The building was huge and, due to the lack of lighting, fifty people could be inside at any time and not see each other. That was the beauty of the place. When he was homeless, he would mix with the addicts through the day and then find somewhere secluded and quiet to sleep at night-time.
As usual, it was dark and dusty inside the building. Light seeped in through gaps in the boards, sheets of pure white, but it barely penetrated the dust. Whenever Jester and his friends were settling inside the warehouse for the night, they would find a corner and light a few candles, or a battery operated lamp if they could find or steal one. Others would see the orange glow and know that a corner or a room was occupied, and when it was occupied, it stayed occupied; no one tried to move you or steal your place. It was the warehouse unwritten code. Everyone followed it and everyone was happy.
Jester could see orange glows from two different areas. The glows were the only things visible. He couldn’t see anyone behind the orange lights.
He walked down one of the dark corridors for a dozen paces, entered a room he couldn’t see but knew was there, took two steps and sat down. He was in the corner of what used to be a small storage room when the warehouse was fully operational back in the seventies.
As soon as his backside touched concrete a
nearby light flashed on. The instantaneous rush of light caught Jester unawares and he quickly closed his eyes, mumbling an incoherent curse.
“Well, I never,” a voice spoke through the light.
Jester opened his eyes slowly, shading the light with his hand. He looked at the source of the voice.
“Matthew,” the scraggly middle-aged man said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Barry,” Jester said with a smile and a nod of recognition. “Big Baz. Nice to see you again,” he lied.
Barry Brown, or ‘Big Baz’ as he was affectionately known (despite being a feeble and skinny man), liked to think of himself as Jester’s street credibility supervisor back in the day. He looked after him from the day he left care to the day he left the streets. Barry was always by his side.
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 10