The Accidental Assassin

by Jan Toms

  He caught the ferry from Portsmouth. As the grey stone of Southsea Castle and the red brick of the barracks faded away, he went on deck to watch the shipping. It was a busy waterway, everything from container ships to tiny dinghies criss-crossing the ferry’s path. The whole was bathed in a soothing crystal light, calming him, focussing his thoughts.

  From Fishbourne he drove to Shanklin, cutting across country and through narrow, hedge-lined lanes. En route he passed through the village of Havenstreet. Before he left London he had checked out the Isle of Wight and discovered that there was a steam railway there. He stopped just long enough to glance over at the metal monsters lined up in the marshalling yard.

  A thrilling shriek from one of the funnels sent a tingle along his spine. Trains had been his passion since boyhood. If he hadn’t taken up his present profession he might well have been an engine driver.

  Arriving at Shanklin he located the road where the phantom Vincenzo Verdi was supposed to be living. It looked innocuous enough but hardly the place where an international assassin was likely to find anonymity. Even as he watched, a flutter of lace at the neighbouring window alerted him to the dangers posed by nosy spinsters. His best source of information would be the office of the local newspaper, the Clarion, so he made his way there.

  The reception area of the newspaper office provided tables and chairs where readers could scan various editions of the publication. Vincenzo sat quietly, making notes from different dates. Here he found a wealth of incredible speculation. It seemed that using the English version of his name, Vincent Green, the mysterious assassin had dropped initially from a tree onto a local thug. His name and address had even been conveniently printed in the paper. ‘Princess Alice Cottage, Queen Victoria Avenue.’ He had heard that Queen Victoria had once taken refuge on this Island and the locals seemed to have taken her to their hearts. Looking in his local map book, he checked out all the major roads to and from the town, just in case he needed to make a speedy exit.

  As he was writing, a man came in to place an advert in the Friday edition of the paper. He clearly had time to spare.

  ‘What’s new then lad, have they found the Angel of Death yet?’ he asked the cub reporter at the news desk. The youngster, spotty, gangly, was happy to oblige.

  ‘It’s all true, what they say. This Vincent Green who killed Tommy Hewson has been seen in the vicinity of all the jobs – and he’s got a white poodle.’

  ‘Has he now? He’s really a hitman then?’

  ‘Sure as eggs.’

  The visitor asked, ‘Why haven’t the police picked him up then?’

  The reporter leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Evidence. I’ve heard they haven’t actually got any proof that he’s done anything wrong.’ He nodded to show the significance of this discovery. ‘Must be bloody clever, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Makes you wonder if any of us are safe in our beds.’

  Vincenzo chose that moment to leave. His thoughts disturbed him. Was it really possible that someone using his name was successfully carrying out a series of killings and making them all look like accidents? He wandered aimlessly along the High Street. Another thought occurred to him. Who was paying this guy? Was it the Pretty Boys, or the Blues Brothers, or even both? He’d done jobs for both of them in the past. His face grew taut. Was some bastard ripping him off, taking a fee that should be coming his way? If so, he was one foolish cat, one very foolish cat indeed.

  A familiar sensation began to spread through him, shutting him off from the outside world, focusing his mind on a single objective. There was a job to do here. He turned in the direction of the car park where he had left the Mercedes, honing his thoughts until they cut through everything except the need to take decisive action – so decisive that there was no going back.

  Groping Joe Windsor called round at the Department Store to see if he could catch Dodge, but he was not there. He had always felt a sort of proprietorial interest in young Dodge ever since he was a toddler. There had always been something soft and malleable about the boy. Groping Joe’s fingers fluttered at the thought of finally getting to grips with that young flesh, although he had to be careful. His was an unfortunate affliction – this need to cosset and cuddle young boys and men. They were hardly ever willing, so he had developed an additional strategy for getting his own way by simple force of intimidation. In its own way it added another piquant dimension to the pleasure. This wasn’t a risk he could take with Dodge, however, in case he grassed to one of those brothers of his. Pity.

  Groping Joe was often at a loose end these days. Ever since Reggie had been banged up he hadn’t been called upon to do any work. He and Reg understood each other, not that Reg was any more interested in his advances than Dodge seemed to be, but they had a healthy respect for each other’s little foibles.

  Being at a loose end, Groping Joe decided that he would go and case the house owned by Vincent Green, see if he could come up with any information that might be useful to the Blues Brothers – and earn a few bob for himself in the process. With each recent accident he had grown more in awe of this Vincent’s skill in disposing of unwanted obstacles, and he really wanted to see this legend for himself. Who knows, he might even be one of Joe’s ilk – what he always thought of as the brotherhood. His imagination went into overdrive.

  He walked up Queen Victoria Avenue and strolled past Princess Alice Cottage, glancing covertly up the path. The house appeared to be empty and Joe had a vague notion that Vincent worked as a tax officer, clearly a masterly cover for his real activities. An idea occurred to him, and, looking up and down the lane to see if he was being watched, he scuttled up the drive. For a moment he wondered whether he should simply ring the front doorbell, but then he decided against it. Princess Alice Cottage was screened by a tall hedge that separated it from Empress Frederick Cottage next door, so with little risk of being seen, Joe opened the back gate and stepped into the garden. He found himself in what was almost a caricature of a cottage garden, tiny lawns, herbaceous borders, heavily scented roses, honeysuckle; every sort of flower that he thought of as old-fashioned. It was all looking rather overgrown and for a wild moment Joe wondered if Vincent Green might not like to hire him as a gardener. Joe would almost be willing to come round here voluntarily – and who knew, perhaps he and Vincent might develop a relationship?

  Breaking away from the fantasy, Joe looked through the kitchen window, forming a tunnel with his hands to cut out the glare. He could see very little and inside everything appeared to be quiet. He sidled towards the back porch and turned the handle of the door. It did not respond to his push and clearly it was locked.

  Just as he was standing back to scour the upstairs and see if there was a handy window that had been left open, all hell broke loose. With a shrill yapping noise, a cloudy white blur flew through the cat flap in the back door and raced towards him. Caught off guard, Groping Joe made a dash towards the gate, but before he got there he felt a sharp pain in his right ankle as the small dog sank his teeth into him. It was the last thing that he remembered.

  Vincenzo Verdi, alias Giuseppi Milano, alias Vincent Green, drove towards Queen Victoria Avenue, parking in a side road called Duchess of Fife Close with which it formed a junction. He had a troubling feeling that what he was about to do was disastrous. In the past he had always made it a rule to plan out his strategy, to spend as little time as possible in the location of a crime and to be absolutely certain that no one would remember seeing him. Already, he had broken several fundamental rules. What he was about to do was not planned. He had already spent time at the offices of the Clarion where he would be remembered. It was broad daylight and anyone might have witnessed him park the Mercedes – after all, it was a top of the range model and, as such, very noticeable in this modest little community. There was still time for him to change his mind but every nerve, every fibre, was now filled with the thought of the task ahead.

  He willed himself to be invisible, sticking to the shadows of the ove
rhanging hedges, gliding silently along the deserted lane until he was back at the address he was looking for. Right opposite was the entry to a footpath, overgrown and clearly very little used. Quietly, he backed between the two hedges and surveyed the cottage opposite. It gave him a perfect view of the pathway and the fence into the garden beyond.

  In the lime tree in the front garden, a wood pigeon was cooing contentedly. Looking at its lopped branches, Vincenzo thought that this must be the very tree where the so-called Vincent Green had dropped onto Gruesome Hewson and taken him out. He grew tenser, listening for anything untoward. The curtains at the window next door were drawn. Further in the distance the drone of a lawnmower broke through the background hum of insects. Vinnie breathed deeply to calm himself, slipping his hand into his pocket. Carefully he withdrew the latest, state-of-the-art revolver, ridiculously slim, conveniently fitted with a silencer and telescopic sight. He kept it secreted under the flap of his jacket while he watched, all the time his senses honed to recognise any change in the background sounds of the neighbourhood. Everything was quiet.

  Then, he saw what he was looking for, a man in the back garden of Princess Alice Cottage. He wasn’t what he expected. He looked grubby, shifty, all the attributes that would mark him out as a suspect. He had expected the so-called Vincent Green to resemble himself. There wasn’t time to dwell on it though, for here was his chance to act and be away from the town within the hour. He withdrew the revolver and raised it in the shelter of the hedge, taking careful aim.

  Just at that moment a commotion broke out in the back garden. A little white dog came flying out of nowhere and the impostor Vincent Green began to run towards the gate. Too late. Vincenzo had him in his sights, his finger was on the trigger and he squeezed.

  He did not wait to see more than his victim topple forward. Hastily slipping the gun back into his pocket, he strolled nonchalantly back towards the main road and to the safety of the Mercedes. Mission completed.

  Charity was late. She had slept badly thinking of the evening with Victor. Following her little subterfuge she was now convinced that he was not the hitman, but this left her with a dilemma. She recognised that part of his attraction had been an element of danger, a fantasy that he was more than he seemed, instead of a rather puny tax officer. This being the case, she made up her mind to dump him. She realised now that she should have said something to him last night but she hadn’t, and now she felt that she had to fulfil her promise and go and take Fluffy for a walk.

  Walking round to the cottage she noticed a rather stunning Mercedes parked at the side of the road. What caught her eye was the registration plate, CAG 27. This happened to be her initials, Charity Alice Grimes, and her age. She imagined owning a car like that – not that she had actually learned to drive, but even so. The driver was sitting inside, holding the steering wheel and staring ahead. Charity gave him a second look. Dressed in a dark polo neck, he looked like the hero in a TV advert for chocolates or coffee, slim, handsome, with beautiful dark wavy hair. She gave him a third look and thought: Yes; that is a bloke I would definitely dump Victor for. At that moment the car pulled away from the kerb, a smooth purring sound that equally had Charity purring inside.

  She wandered along Queen Victoria Avenue, daydreaming about having a handsome, suave, sophisticated boyfriend with plenty of money. As she drew near to Princess Alice Cottage she could hear Fluffy barking. It occurred to her that the sound must drive the neighbours crazy. It was amazing that no one had complained. She turned into the drive and called out to the dog. ‘Fluffy, hush!’ The poodle was by the gate, jumping up and down, growling and yapping alternately. ‘Fluffy, what are you barking at?’

  As she opened the gate, she saw exactly what Fluffy was barking at. Charity screamed.

  NINETEEN

  Victor was having a bad morning at work. He had arranged to interview Mr O’Shaughnessy at 10.30 and the Irishman arrived both peeved and late. Remembering Robbie’s black eye, Victor escorted him to the interview room but left the door open a fraction so that in the case of trouble, those in the outside office would hear. There was also a panic button under the desk, although until this moment he had never expected to use it.

  ‘And what the Divil would all this be about?’ asked Mr O’Shaughnessy. ‘Are you saying that I’m lying, is that it?’

  He shoved his tax return across the table, challenging Victor to find fault with it.

  ‘Of course not, but there do seem to be one or two discrepancies,’ Victor glanced nervously at his notes. ‘For example, this claim for running two cars for your business – how many men do you employ?’

  ‘Now you know very well I’m not employing anyone. Who do you think I am? I work for meself, don’t I? I’m just a simple labouring fella.’

  ‘Then I don’t quite understand why you need two cars.’

  Mr O’Shaughnessy looked at him as if he was truly an idiot. ‘And what’s me wife supposed to do while I’m at work, sit at home all day?’

  Victor took a deep breath. ‘You are only entitled to claim for a vehicle you actually use for work, not for your wife’s runaround Mr O’Shaughnessy. The same goes for tax, insurance, running costs. You can only claim those for your work vehicle.’

  ‘Well me wife works too, isn’t it herself who looks after me books?’

  ‘But she does this from home so she hardly needs a second car. Which brings me to something else. How come the salary you pay her is nearly as much as what you claim to earn? And while I’m about it, I assume that Mrs O’Shaughnessy fills in her own separate tax return as well?’

  Mr O’Shaughnessy sat fulminating on the other side of the desk. He looked as if at any moment he might explode. To break the tension, Victor drew his attention to the notes that accompanied his tax form. ‘These are meant to help you,’ he suggested.

  ‘And how am I supposed to be understanding all that?’

  ‘I thought that was the reason why you employed your wife to do it for you.’

  Victor immediately wished that he hadn’t taken this opportunity to score a point, for O’Shaughnessy growled, leaned across the deck and waved his fist in Victor’s face.

  ‘Are you suggesting me wife’s thick?’

  ‘Thick? No, of course not. I simply assumed that she must have some knowledge of tax self-employment, otherwise, why would you employ her to do your books?’

  To Victor’s great relief there was a knock at the door and Pamela poked her head into the room.

  ‘So sorry Mr Green but there is an urgent call for you.’

  Excusing himself, Victor hurried from the room. ‘Who is it?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘A lady. She sounds very upset.’ Did he detect an edge of sadness in Pamela’s voice at the thought that he might have a woman at home?

  As he walked over to the desk Victor thought that perhaps while Charity was out, Fluffy had slipped his lead and been crushed by a car. Naturally she would be very upset.

  ‘Hello?’

  Rather than being merely upset, Charity sounded hysterical. ‘Victor, you must come home. Now! There – there’s a dead man in your garden.’

  ‘What?’ He automatically sat down, not quite believing what he was hearing.

  ‘There’s a dead man in the garden. I think Fluffy has killed him.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes! There’s blood on the path and on Fluffy’s coat. He must have mauled him.’

  ‘I’ll come straight home.’

  To Pamela, he said, ‘A bit of a crisis. I think my dog has attacked someone.’

  ‘Oh dear Victor, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

  He reached for his jacket on the back of his chair by his desk. ‘Well, you can get rid of Mr O’Shaughnessy for me. Just tell him to take his form home and read the notes before he sends it back. And thanks, Pamela.’ He gave her a smile and she blushed pleasingly. She had taken her glasses off and really looked quite pretty.

  Victor hurried f
or the bus stop. Fortunately, the number 2 came along in a few minutes and he was home within half an hour. Charity was at the gate and as he turned into Queen Victoria Avenue she came running to meet him.

  ‘Oh Victor, it’s terrible. He’s just lying there. His eyes are wide open and he looks terrified. There’s a black spot on his forehead where he must have hit his head on something, and there’s blood on his leg.’

  Victor put his arm around her shoulders, trying to calm her. He still felt that this must be some kind of mistake.

  Charity had shut Fluffy indoors and the garden looked peaceful. It wasn’t until he reached the top of the path and looked over the garden gate that Victor realised Charity was right. A man was spreadeagled across the lawn, gazing into infinity. He was indeed, clearly dead.

  Victor felt helpless. To Charity he said, ‘Why don’t you go and phone the police, or for an ambulance – just dial 999 and report what’s happened.’

  ‘But what about Fluffy? Won’t you get into terrible trouble for keeping a savage dog?’

  He nodded sadly, brave in the face of adversity. ‘We must still do the right thing,’ he said, and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

  As soon as Charity was indoors, Victor moved closer and looked at the man. He had never seen him before. He wondered if he was an opportunistic thief who had realised that the house was empty and came in to take his chance. Well, if that was the case then one could hardly blame Fluffy for attacking him. He had only been defending his territory after all.

  He looked closer at the mark on the man’s forehead – a hole situated right between the man’s eyes. He frowned. Slowly, shockingly, a series of television police dramas flickered through his mind. Crooks were shot, taken out by professional gunmen. There was a sound like a whack and then the victim fell forward with a black hole between his eyes. This stranger lying in his garden had been murdered!