The Accidental Assassin

by Jan Toms

  ‘Reg? How are you?’ He sat down opposite his brother and waited.

  Reg was wearing the uniform navy serge blouson and trousers with telltale stripes down the sides. His hair was cut shorter than Dodge knew he liked. Proud of his hair, was Reg. The assortment of gold that he liked to wear was also absent.

  ‘Bruv.’ Reggie acknowledged his presence and looked around him to make sure that the guard was not within hearing.

  ‘Everything alright?’ Dodge asked.

  ‘Never mind about that, word on the street is that things are happening.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘Us being banged up, Randy and me. Word is that those Hickman bastards are planning to move in.’

  ‘Move in?’

  ‘Stop repeating everything I say.’

  Chastened, Dodge looked down at his hands. His brother always managed to make him feel a fool. He waited while Reggie looked around again, then leaned forward.

  ‘They’ve got it into their heads that while we’re away, our patch is up for grabs.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Time to let them know what a mistake they’re making.’

  Dodge waited, unsure as to what was expected of him. He soon found out.

  ‘It’s up to you now. We need to send them a message. You need to get hold of someone, a fixer, teach ‘em a lesson.’

  Dodge began to panic. He had no idea who he was supposed to fix or how to go about it, or about anything else come to that.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Get in touch with someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Reggie shook his head impatiently. ‘I don’t know who’s around, do I? Use your gumption man. Get out there on the street and find out. See what Vincenzo Verdi is up to. He’s the best.’

  ‘Wh-what do you want him to do?’

  ‘What do you think? Get him to take out one of Hickman’s lot.’

  ‘The Pretty Boys?’

  ‘That’s what they like to call themselves.’

  ‘Any particular one?’

  ‘Any one really. What about Mauler Maguire? He’s a right bastard. He’s given us trouble in the past. Yes, make it Maguire.’

  ‘Mauler?’ Roger’s heart sank further. This was way outside of his league.

  ‘How do I contact Verdi?’ he asked.

  ‘How do you think? Ask around. Someone will know where he’s operating and if he ain’t available, find someone else.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘You might find that he’s operating under the name of Vincent Green – verdi is Italian for green.’

  Dodge sat in silence, lost. Eventually he asked, ‘What about price then?’

  ‘Twenty-five grand will do it. Use the Channel Islands funds.’

  ‘How do I pay him?’

  ‘Send him a cheque!’

  After that they talked about general things. Dodge tried to sound positive, to set Reggie’s mind at rest, but his brother was brooding and unpredictable. Dodge was glad when the visiting time was up.

  Sitting on the bus on the way back, he felt the familiar churning in his stomach that he got when he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Reggie’s twin brother, Randy, was more helpful, for he understood that Dodge didn’t take easily to this kind of thing. Reggie would never explain things properly, whereas Randy would say, ‘It’s like this, Dodge,’ and make it simple. The trouble was, Randy was locked up as well and he wasn’t seeing him until next week and Reggie had said that it was urgent. The churning notched up another degree.

  Someone had left the Clarion on the train and he flicked through it listlessly, turning to the sports page. The local team was out of the Cup – no good news there then. He was about to put it aside when his eye was caught by the headline: ‘Mystery Man Identified.’ As he read it he gave an involuntary gasp. Quickly looking around to see if anyone was watching, he read the article again. It was too late. What Reggie feared was already happening. The mystery dead man was their Tommy Hewson and he had already been taken out. There was something about a tree that Dodge didn’t understand but the article did give the name of the bloke who had done it. It was Vincent Green – and Reggie had said that Vincenzo Verdi might use this name!

  Surreptitiously, he tore out the article and put it in his pocket, his brain working overtime.

  If Green was already working for the Pretty Boys then he couldn’t do work for them as well, could he? This was something else he didn’t know. He remembered Randy once saying that hitmen were always for sale to the highest bidder. He wondered how much the Pretty Boys had paid Verdi to dispose of Gruesome. He felt a peculiar mixture of fear because a gang war was about to start, but it was tinged with relief that Gruesome wouldn’t be around to bother him any more. Gruesome had always teased him and behind the teasing was a barely disguised menace. Well, at least that was one less thing to worry about, not forgetting of course that Gruesome was supposed to be on their side.

  He sat for several moments trying to think it all through. Perhaps he could offer Verdi more money to bump off Mauler Maguire? It was all too complicated. He wanted to go home and have his tea and watch the telly. He felt suddenly sad and homesick. Dodge had lived all his life in the house he had grown up in with his Mum and brothers and Dad, until Dad had flitted off back to Spain and the boys had moved on. Before they had been sent down the twins had both got places of their own. Once they’d moved out there had just been Dodge and Mum, until she took sick and died. He missed her. For a moment he wondered what Dad would think. He thought about phoning him to ask his advice, but he’d been told never to discuss business over the phone because you never knew who was listening.

  Then he had a bright idea. The Clarion had thoughtfully printed Vincent Green’s address, so he would drop him an anonymous note asking to meet him. Once face-to-face, he might be able to explain the situation to him, see if they could come to some arrangement. He sat pondering his plan to see if there were any flaws but he couldn’t think of one. Where would be a good place to meet? It needed to be somewhere public so that to anyone watching it would look like a chance encounter. He scratched around in his mind and then wondered about Shanklin Chine. People sometimes wandered along there admiring the wild scenery and the tumbling waterfall, so it wouldn’t look too suspicious if they met up. He needed to set it up as quickly as possible so he decided to make it Wednesday.

  When he got home he found a brown envelope and a sheet of paper, and in his best handwriting wrote: Shanklin Chine, Wensday 8.0’clock. Be there. He didn’t sign it. As an afterthought, although he was sure this Vinnie wouldn’t need reminding, he wrote Keep it simple, then, carefully addressing the envelope, he stuck on a stamp and dropped it in the mail.

  SEVEN

  The morning after meeting Charity, Victor took Fluffy for a walk along the cliff. Once again it was a beautiful day. Three hundred feet below the sea spread out along the sands, advancing and retreating, gradually edging nearer and then, at low tide, leaving a smooth, damp playground for children. To the south, rock pools sheltered an assortment of winkles and anemones. Victor thought nostalgically of his childhood days, his Mum brushing the sand from his damp toes and forcing his feet into gritty sandals. Their picnic had always consisted of salty cheese sandwiches and warm lemonade. For a moment he felt a poem coming on but Fluffy was busily doing his business on the path and he stopped to clear it up.

  Other people were walking their dogs and it gave him a comforting sense of acceptance. This was what nice, normal people did in the mornings – those who didn’t have to go to work. For the moment he didn’t have to think about the office so he gave himself up to being one of the lucky ones.

  Fluffy didn’t seem very keen on chasing balls or fetching sticks. He was more concerned with his fellow dogs roaming the green. They came in all varieties, big bounding Labradors, busy spaniels, a frenetic Jack Russell and several Staffordshire bull terriers, the latter mostly belonging to a group of young men who gathered aimlessly around a bench. They didn’t wor
k either but there was none of the comfortable middle-class self-satisfaction about them, more a challenging stance that defied anyone to look at them twice. Fluffy was not keen on any of the dogs, but particularly the Staffies, and Victor had to pick him up when their attentions became altogether too much for him. The glares of the young men had a similar effect on Victor and he retreated to the other end of the green, where a better class of person seemed to be taking their exercise.

  Fluffy had now got the hang of the situation and at the approach of any dog he set up a hysterical yapping, showing his small needle teeth. Victor wondered again about the muzzle but then, if faced with a fight, Fluffy wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Dog ownership was not quite as trouble-free as he had imagined.

  Walking home he thought about Charity, the girl he had met the day before. At the time he had been too flustered to pay her proper attention but from what he could remember she had looked quite a decent girl. He suspected that she was pretty too but he hadn’t had the temerity to actually look at her face. What a coincidence that she should be looking for a dog to walk on the very day after he had acquired Fluffy. He had written her name and telephone number on the pad by his telephone so that he wouldn’t lose it, and had once or twice fantasised about phoning her. He quickly stifled the thought that she might turn into the very Elizabeth that he was looking for.

  Walking up the drive to his cottage, he stopped to empty the mailbox. There was the usual assortment of rubbish, a catalogue for useful gadgets and a shiny magazine sporting a tweedy man on the cover offering a range of country gentleman’s clothing. Victor had once ordered some cavalry twill trousers from them and they had been pestering him ever since.

  There was also a brown envelope with a handwritten address. As soon as he was indoors Victor opened it, expecting some offer for double-glazing or roof insulation, but inside was a single piece of paper. Written across the middle in spidery writing was the terse message: Shanklin Chine, Wensday 8.0’clock. Be there.

  Spelling aside, he had no idea what it could mean. His first instinct was to throw it away but the tone of the note niggled at him. Finally, he resolved that it was a nice walk as far as the Old Village so he and Fluffy would go along the following evening and see what happened.

  Dodge had often wondered about Vincent Green, aka Vincenzo Verdi, who was something of a legend in gang circles. He had of course never seen him but he had a mental vision of what he must be like. Perhaps it was the name that made him think of Lincoln Green, and he imagined him as a sort of Robin Hood character, wearing tights and shooting arrows at the enemy. Dodge could picture his face, chiselled nose, firm chin, flashing eyes. His manhood stirred. This was the sort of guy he’d love to meet, someone strong and athletic who would be there for him when life got difficult. The thought of actually meeting him in the flesh increased his heart rate, set his imagination rampaging. Together they’d become known as the Supermen, brothers in arms (and lovers in bed)? People would admire them for their skill and daring and speed. They’d dispose of all the bad people in the world and this included screws and prison visitors. All he had to do was meet him.

  On Wednesday evening he went to a lot of trouble to look his best, proper suit and shirt, his hair slicked back and his shoes with the Cuban heels, just to give him a bit of extra height. He felt childishly excited, a boy expecting Christmas, a man meeting his hero. In his pocket he had a cheque already made out for £25,000, just in case Vincent expected to be paid in advance. He already guessed that you didn’t argue with the likes of Vincent Green. The thought of this powerful figure made him go weak at the knees.

  He was actually on the way to the door when there was a knock. Cursing, he opened it with the words, ‘I’m just going out,’ but they fell on the deaf ears of Groping Joe Windsor , who barged his way past him.

  ‘You’ve heard about what’s happened to Gruesome?’ Joe started.

  ‘I read about it in the paper. I’m sorting it.’ Roger felt a familiar unease at the sight of Joe, oily, limp-wristed, his fingers always fluttering as if they were longing to reach out and grab him by the balls. When he was younger he had quickly learned to keep away from Groping Joe, had even shyly confessed to Randy how the older man took every opportunity to get him alone, but Randy had said, ‘’Fraid you’ll just have to keep out of his way, Dodge. Reggie won’t hear a word against him. He’s one man he can rely on to do whatever is needed.’

  Groping Joe said, ‘You’ve got to get down to the nick and see Reggie. Fast. Get those brothers of yours to sort something out.’

  ‘It’s already in hand,’ he said with an authority he didn’t feel.

  Joe took a step nearer. ‘If this is the start of some rumble then I’m out. I’m getting too old for this. Besides, I like the softer things in life.’ He looked Dodge over meaningfully.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m fixing it.’

  Groping Joe came right into the kitchen and a potent aroma of stale French scent wafted around the room. Dodge wrinkled his nose and stepped back.

  ‘Joe, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important meeting.’

  ‘He’ll wait.’

  ‘He won’t!’

  ‘Then find yourself another boyfriend. There’s plenty more out there.’ Joe looked him up and down again in a way that was the stuff of Roger’s nightmares. Alarmed at what Joe was suggesting, he added, ‘How do you know I’m not meeting a girl?’ Although meeting girls was way outside of his comfort zone.

  But Joe was still preoccupied with the way that things were going.

  ‘What you gonna do about this problem then? How you going to protect us?’ With each question he moved forwards and Dodge retreated until his back was up against the washing machine. He squeezed to the side.

  ‘I’m hiring someone.’

  ‘You know they’ve got Vincenzo Verdi? Who’s going to outwit him?’

  Dodge didn’t say anything about his plan to offer Vincenzo more money, in case Joe pooh-poohed the idea for he had no alternative plan. Meanwhile, the minutes were ticking by.

  ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. It will all be sorted by then, I promise.’

  Joe eyed him with a predatory gleam. ‘Yeah? You gonna look after me then?’ He gave a high-pitched giggle.

  All the time Dodge edged towards the door, repeating, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.’

  Reluctantly Joe stepped back out onto the pavement, looking up and down the street with exaggerated care, as if expecting an ambush, then, with a last lascivious look at Dodge, he scuttled away down the road, sticking to the shadows as he went.

  With a sigh Dodge hurried over to his car, a vintage red Jaguar that he had bought because he was a fan of Inspector Morse. He unlocked the door, slipping into the driver’s seat and turning the ignition key. The car gave a cough and then nothing happened. He tried again with the same result.

  Swearing loudly he scrambled out and lifted the bonnet, looking helplessly inside, for he really had no idea how the thing worked. Hopefully he got back inside and tried again, but it was no good. It was only at that moment that he realised that he had left the lights on and that the battery was stone dead.

  Still cursing, he got out and began to run down the road. It was a good mile to the Chine. He’d never make it on time. He’d never make it.

  He ran until his lungs heaved like bellows and a sheen of sweat covered his face and chest, soaking his armpits. At last he drew near to the hollow leading down to the entrance, in his hurry nearly knocking over a startled looking little man with a ridiculous white poodle. The dog yelped and the man picked it up and glared at him, but he ignored them. A little further on he turned, reached the gate and stopped to get his breath. As he went to walk on, he realised that there was something wrong. People were gathering along the pathway and pointing into the water. Seconds later he heard a police car and, with an instinct born of a lifetime’s experience, he turned tail and hurried home to another sleepless night of indecision.

  At seven forty-
five, Victor and Fluffy arrived at Shanklin Chine. It was the Chine that had made Shanklin famous, turning it from a remote, fishing village into the place that adventurous Victorians loved to explore. Privately owned, a deep chasm in the cliff opened up to reveal a steep-sided wonderland where a waterfall rushed in its hurry to reach the sea. Green and glistening, visitors stopped in awe to experience the wonders of nature. The entrance kiosk was not manned so Victor walked straight in, keeping a grip on Fluffy’s lead in case he slipped over the edge and into the ravine. His old fear of heights was back with a vengeance and he kept well away from the edge. The footpath had become a favourite shortcut from the village to the beach below but at this time of the evening it seemed narrow, poorly lit and secluded. The only evening walkers were likely to be lovers, looking for a bit of privacy. Feeling a little nervous, Victor wandered along until he came to a bench and a good view of the waterfall. He sat down, keeping Fluffy close in case he should go exploring too near the edge and fall into the rushing water. He imagined himself diving in to rescue the dog, a brave effort as he could barely swim. Local Hero Saves Pet from Certain Death!

  A boy and girl walking hand-in-hand passed him. They were whispering and the girl giggled as they went by. He wondered if they were talking about him but then decided that he was being paranoid. Sitting back, he listened to the breathless tumble of the water. As he surveyed the lush foliage clinging to the sides of the chasm, the poet in him was stirred. This torrent started somewhere in the Downs, gaining momentum until it plummeted over the waterfall and raced to its extinction, mingling with the restless water of the sea below.

  As he was trying to compose a verse, he became aware of a man creeping along, clinging to the shadows. He was big, shuffling, and he carried what looked like a sack. Victor sat very still, his heart beginning to thud. The evening gloom hid his presence. Fluffy was on his lap and he held him tight.