The Accidental Assassin

by Jan Toms

  Somewhat hesitantly he explained who he was and what he wanted. The lady on the reception desk was less than forthcoming. Too late, he realised that the RSPCA didn’t just hand dogs over to anyone who asked. They wanted to know more about him. He felt like an adoptive parent needing to prove his suitability. They asked if he had ever had a dog before – no. Was his garden properly fenced in – no. In any case, until it was established that no one, no ‘next of kin’, was going to come forward and agree to sign the dog over, ‘Fluffy’ was not up for adoption.

  Victor felt the weight of disappointment but, just as he was about to turn away, the lady suggested, ‘You can take him for a walk if you want to?’ They were always short of dog walkers. One more would be useful.

  She smiled, seeming to empathise with Victor’s situation. ‘You can see then if you suit each other and, if everything else works out, then you can apply to take him home.’

  Victor readily agreed. He felt a thrill of expectation at the prospect of being a dog owner. For the moment this was the next best thing. The lady called for an officer who took him through a gate into the magic area of the kennels. The barking grew louder, an insistent demand for attention. They walked down a narrow alleyway, past cages occupied by a series of unsuitable-looking dogs – big, wild-eyed, frenetic, boisterous – and suddenly they stopped in front of what at first appeared to be an empty cage. There, cowering in the back, was Fluffy, all of a tremble and emitting the occasional pathetic yap.

  The man got Fluffy out, fixed a lead to his collar and suggested that Victor took him down a path and into a wood at the bottom. ‘Don’t let him off the lead,’ he warned.

  Victor gave the lead a hesitant jerk, and in response Fluffy crouched down on the ground and refused to move. Victor tugged a little harder and Fluffy was dragged a few inches across the ground. All the time the officer was watching. Seeing Victor’s dilemma, he said, ‘You’d better carry him as far as the wood. He’s scared of the other dogs.’

  Victor realised that to reach the wood they would have to continue along the alley, running the gauntlet of an array of large, aggressive dogs throwing themselves against the bars. It dawned on him that they were the canine equivalent of Glossy and Jimbo and in that moment he fell in love. Scooping the poodle up, he shielded him from the threat and swept him along to the sanctuary of the trees.

  Once in the peace and quiet of the wood, he put Fluffy on the ground and the dog instantly peed against a weed and then started along the path. He walked on tiptoe, a tiny, mincing bundle of white curls.

  As they walked, Victor explained to him how sorry he was about what had happened to his former owner but not to worry because if no one else claimed him, he would take him home. After they seemed to have exhausted the wood, Victor took Fluffy back, carrying him again past the barking bullies. He felt guilty at leaving the dog behind. He looked so small and vulnerable, so in need of someone to love and protect him. Victor had found his goal in life.

  He went again to the kennels the next day and the next. On the third day, Fluffy actually wagged his tail. It was now the weekend and Victor was due back to work on Monday – no more walking Fluffy in the afternoons. He wondered if Dr Delaney might sign him off for another week. Then he wondered if he might take some leave, but decided that he had better save it in case he could suddenly take the dog home. He’d need to settle him in, work out a way of leaving him while he was at the office.

  Victor heartily wished that he could give up work. The tax office was only a slightly more civilised place than the school playground. People did not take kindly to being taxed. Angry, aggressive men came in to complain. Some of them reminded Victor of ‘Mr Smith’ – big and bulging and full of testosterone. Robbie Chambers, one of his colleagues, had been assaulted by a dissatisfied taxpayer. Assaulted sounded too vague. It could mean anything. In fact, he had been punched on the nose, resulting in a black eye. For a moment Victor wondered whether Mr Smith might be a tax officer who had been assaulted, thereby acquiring the bent nose and dodgy ears. It seemed unlikely.

  If the public were a reason for unease, he did not find his colleagues much easier. He knew that behind his back they laughed at him and made up stories about his private life. Sometimes he wished that the stories were true, that he did live at home with a dowdy girlfriend, but those other stories about him lurking on the heath and exposing himself, giving sweets to little girls – and sometimes to little boys – were hurtful.

  Victor had a favourite daydream where he worked as a librarian, not in the public library but in some reference place where he gave advice to interesting people wanting to research interesting things. Here he might meet a girl who would share his passion for words, someone he could take to concerts, go for hikes with on summer Sundays, make love to on Friday evenings. They were disturbing thoughts that roused his timid libido, and he only allowed himself to indulge them when he felt he deserved a little pampering.

  The reality was that he had never really had a girlfriend, that he was not gay as some of his colleagues implied, and was not scared of girls but was rather shy, and that just because he had no interest in football or the pub, this did not make him a weirdo.

  Thinking that he needed a little boost to prepare him for work the next day, he indulged himself in imagining the Friday night routine with the fantasy girlfriend he had long ago christened Elizabeth. Their lovemaking was invariably accompanied by a vast orchestra of violins and, when it was over, Elizabeth always said, ‘I do love you Victor.’ On this happy note, he fell asleep.

  THREE

  The events of the previous Saturday had unaccountably made Victor a hero at the office. When he arrived his colleagues crowded around, wanting to know all the details.

  ‘Gosh, it must have been awful.’ Pamela Yates, a rather dowdy woman of about his own age, stared at him with wide-eyed admiration. He had long ago schooled himself not to think of Pamela as a possible Elizabeth. Like him, she had worked in the tax office for a long time. Like him, she had lived, and in her case still lived, with her mother. She wore blouses with little frilly collars and skirts that reached just below the knees. Her shoes were sensible and her glasses were rounded, adding to the moon shape of her face. She had rather nice thick, brown hair, which she usually wore curled up at the nape of her neck. Once or twice she had let it loose and Victor had been entranced by its lustrous length. He would have liked to touch it but could just imagine the scandal if Pamela screamed sexual harassment! In any case, he knew that she had the hots for Robbie Chambers, and had been very anxious to mother him over the punched nose affair, but Robbie in turn had a wife at home and an easy way with women that Victor could not help but envy.

  Anyway, the first day passed off quite enjoyably. For a while, at least, Victor was someone to be reckoned with. He embellished his role in trying to revive ‘Mr Smith’, and played down his non-existent injuries in a way that suggested they had actually been quite serious.

  When he got home, he went through the routine of changing his clothes. For work he wore corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket, grey winceyette shirts in winter with a pullover, and pale blue cotton shirts in summer. Every day he wore the tie that his mother had given him for his last birthday before she died. It had little starbursts on a blue background and he felt that it was understated but at the same time quite trendy. At home in his old jogging trousers and a red tartan shirt, he felt relaxed.

  This was the point at which he prepared himself a sandwich (he had lunch every day at the tax office cafeteria) and allowed himself a glass of wine (always red as white was too acidic and inflamed his stomach). Coming up the path, he had been so aware of the now disfigured tree and of the drama that had taken place beneath it that he had forgotten to check if there was any mail. Putting on his slippers, he popped outside to the box fastened to the gate.

  There were a couple of things inside, an offer of a free hearing aid, and a plain white envelope with his name and address typed on the front: V Green – not Mr or
esquire, as he had been taught to address letters, although the latter was never used now at the tax office. Wandering into the kitchen, he took a sip of wine and sat at the table, carefully slicing the envelope open with a paperknife he kept on the shelf above the table.

  A single sheet of A4 paper slithered out, folded in three. As he picked it up, another object slipped from the folds. He picked that up and turned it over. It was a cheque. For a while he stared at it, reading and re-reading the printed information. Pay V Green the sum of Twenty Thousand Pounds. There was no proper signature, only a scrawl and the printed name of a company, Solutions Inc. He read it through again – V Green, Twenty Thousand Pounds, Solutions Inc.

  For a moment he assumed that it was one of those advertising ploys, telling you that you were in line for a fortune and that all you had to do was ring an expensive telephone number. Looking once more at the cheque, it appeared quite genuine and he saw with increasing disbelief that it came from the Banque Prive Suisse. Clearly there was some mistake here. For a moment he wondered if he had an unknown relative who might have passed away and made Victor his beneficiary, but he didn’t know of anyone. Perhaps it really was one of those advertising gimmicks – Congratulations, you have won a million pounds or a house in France or a trip to Barbados. Perhaps he should simply tear it up? Although the cheque looked authentic, surely it was just a hoax? Ever cautious, he decided that first of all he should find out whether there was such a bank and, if it was real, return the cheque to whoever had sent it, explaining that there had been a mistake.

  Remembering the sheet of paper, he unfolded it hoping for some enlightenment. Across the centre, five words were typed: Be more discreet next time.

  What on earth did that mean? For a moment he wondered if he should hand it to the police. He had no idea how he might find the sender. There was no address on the cheque so all he could do was to look up the Banque Prive Suisse and try to post it back to them.

  But £20,000; he felt a daydream coming on. A few more anonymous gifts like this and he might be able to give up work after all.

  Shortly after Victor arrived home from work the following evening there was a knock at the door. Still in his office clothes, he opened it to find the nice policeman there. He had long since established that the officer’s name was Alan Grimes, but he still thought of him as ‘the nice policeman’, as if he were the original village bobby like the ones in children’s stories, Noddy, Trumpton, Camberwick Green, Postman Pat. In such communities the residents were always law-abiding. They only needed one arm of the law to keep everyone safe.

  ‘Come in.’ Victor was aware that his glass of wine was poured out on the table. He wondered if Constable Grimes, Alan, would take note and mark him down as a drinker. Perhaps he should offer him a glass, but then he remembered all those detective series – Not while I’m on duty, Sir.

  Constable Grimes took his cap off and sat at the kitchen table. He wore a very crisp white shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled up to allow for the summer sun. He was what Victor’s mother used to call ‘well covered’ and his trouser band strained against the bulk of his paunch. He didn’t look like the sort of man who chased criminals and jumped over garden fences.

  Victor would never have dared to wear rolled-up sleeves at the tax office, although some of the younger ones were very careless where a dress code was concerned. He supposed he was a bit old-fashioned, but there were standards.

  ‘We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough,’ said Alan. ‘We’ve managed to identify our friend.’ He paused for effect and Victor waited politely, his eyebrows raised to show that he was paying attention.

  ‘You’ve actually done the community quite a service, Sir. Your landing pad turns out to be none other than Tommy Hewson.’

  Not sure who that was, Victor waited for enlightenment. A little disappointed that his revelation has fallen on ignorant ears, Alan added, ‘Gruesome Hewson? The Force has been after him for some time. He’s part of the gangland Mafia, thinks nothing of slitting a throat or drowning someone in a toilet bowl.’

  Victor shuddered, feeling profoundly grateful that Mr Hewson had not woken up and exacted a revenge for being fallen upon from a height.

  ‘Anyway, that’s it really. Just thought you would like to know.’

  ‘I would – I do. Thank you very much.’ Thinking of Fluffy, Victor asked, ‘Is there a next of kin?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Monsters like Gruesome don’t have normal things like a family.’

  Something about his words added to Victor’s sense of having had a narrow escape. He was glad that a grieving relative wouldn’t be coming after him to settle a score. At the same time, it crossed his mind that he had no obvious next of kin either. He and Gruesome had one thing in common, well perhaps two, assuming that for some inexplicable reason Gruesome had felt an affection for the little dog.

  ‘Well, just thought I’d let you know.’ Alan stood up, glancing at himself in the mirror as he stepped into the hall. He gave a rather soulful sigh followed by a slow exhalation of breath. ‘Things aren’t like they used to be around here,’ he started. ‘When I was a young constable, the worst that ever happened was riding your bicycle without lights. Now…’

  Victor waited for some revelation, anticipating the pleasure of being let into a police secret. Alan obliged.

  ‘The last two years has seen an upsurge in crime around here, serious crime.’ He hesitated, as if wondering whether he should say anything, but then continued, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Pretty Boys?

  Victor shook his head.

  ‘Or the Blues Brothers?’ Ah, Victor had heard of them. They were in a film. Clearly the Pretty Boys must be another film. He felt a little disappointed that Alan only wanted to discuss the cinema.

  ‘Well, they both started out in South London, but recently they’ve spread their theatre of activities as far as the Island.’ He paused for effect, then, lowering his voice, added, ‘Two worse gangs of villains you’d be hard put to find. There’s the Hickman lot, they call themselves the Pretty Boys, and the Rodriguez clan – the Blues Brothers.’ He shook his head at his private thoughts.

  They weren’t talking about films then. This really was about crime. Victor waited.

  ‘I’m very much afraid that a turf war might be on the cards.’ Alan lowered his voice even further. ‘Just thought I’d mention it so that you can be on your guard.’

  Victor began to feel alarmed. Was he in some way implicated? Alan gave him a paternal smile. ‘Best not to say anything though, we don’t want to alarm the public. Besides, it’s bad for tourism.’

  Victor nodded. He could see that.

  They said their goodbyes, and Victor stood at the front door, trying to absorb what he had been told. Just as Alan reached the front gate, he remembered about the cheque. He should have asked his advice about what to do with it, where to send it, but Alan was already unlocking his car. He would leave it until the next time – assuming there was a next time.

  FOUR

  Barton Hickman, known to his friends as Barry, was at the strip club called The Earthly Delights. He had called in to collect the takings. He usually did so in the early afternoon, when the place was at its quietest and when it seemed less likely that anyone would try to jump him. There was always a considerable sum of money to take away with him.

  The club stood incongruously in a parade of shops, many selling souvenirs of a happy holiday in Ryde. There had been a big hoo-ha when the Pretty Boys had applied for a licence, lots of hot air and righteous indignation. Barry’s brothers knew how to get round that though, a generous hand-out here, a warning of what might happen there. Amid columns of outrage in the local paper, The Earthly Delights had opened its doors.

  At this time of day the place seemed at its saddest, the piped music echoing round the stale auditorium and one or two old men sitting at tables ogling the girls who looked, frankly, bored, as if they could hardly be bothered to stir themselves. Barry didn’t blame them. The club
was a different place by midnight though, humming with laughter, very cheap (charged at a premium) champagne flowing, the hostesses animated and stashing back the dosh the punters tucked into their G-strings. He’d never really understood what they got out of it, these sad, inebriated old men. There was a policy that the girls didn’t date the customers. Looking at the sea of sweating, bloated faces, it didn’t look like much of a temptation.

  In terms of appearance, Barry was a credit to a family generally known as the Pretty Boys. He had soft wavy hair, not quite brown, not exactly blond, and large blue baby eyes. If the women showed an interest in him it was because he roused a latent maternal instinct. Pretty he might be, but Barry did not have a girlfriend.

  Today was different though, for he had just made a date. The girl was about seventeen with long brown wavy hair and legs that reached up to the heavens. He’d noticed her before when he came round to collect the takings. Too often the girls, for all they were paid to be nice to the customers, treated him with a sort of wry amusement, as if he wasn’t someone to be taken seriously. As soon as he’d spotted the girl, though, he felt that she was different from the others, more innocent somehow, and easier to talk to. She was just coming off the stage wearing a couple of tassels on her boobies and a little powder puff thing on her rear. The rest of her was just about hidden under a G-string and she’d given him a smile as she walked by.