The Accidental Assassin

by Jan Toms

  As he stepped outside clutching his greasy parcel, he bumped into a lady walking past on her way to the Co-op.

  ‘Whoops, sorry!’ He reached out to steady her and realised that it was Edna Fairgrove.

  ‘Edna, I…’ He remembered that last evening he had gone round to explain about Charity being at home only to find Edna with another man, and a different pain claimed him. He had no right to feel affronted. Edna was a free agent. She could invite home whomsoever she liked, but he had still felt insulted. At the memory of her cooking, the prospect of cod and chips suddenly lost its appeal.

  ‘Alan?’ Edna looked flushed. Perhaps she was embarrassed and didn’t want to have to speak to him.

  ‘Just popping out for a fish supper,’ he offered, stating the obvious as the aroma of grease and vinegar encircled them.

  ‘How’s your daughter?’ Her voice sounded brittle.

  ‘She’s —, well, actually, she’s not here at the moment.’ He wondered for the thousandth time if she would ever come back, wanting the reassurance that she was safe and at the same time trying not to think of the gloomy prospect of having her permanently with him.

  ‘How are you?’ he added. Then he brazenly asked, ‘And how is that man. Is he still coming round to your house?’ Perhaps he had already moved in, they might even be engaged.

  ‘Oh, Harry.’ She gave a shaky little laugh. ‘He’s my brother-in-law. I feel I have to invite him over occasionally. My sister died and I owe it to her to keep in touch – not that I have anything in common with him mind, but well, you know how it is.’

  He did know how it was. He felt a glimmer of warmth in his cold and anxious heart. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as he feared. Perhaps he’d get home and Charity would ring or even turn up. Perhaps Edna…

  ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he started and she smiled.

  ‘Just on the way to the Co-op.’

  He wanted to say, ‘Do you fancy popping in for a drink, or perhaps a coffee?’ but the smell of his supper made it impossible.

  ‘Well, I suppose I had better get rid of this,’ he glanced at his greasy burden.

  ‘Well, nice to see you Alan.’

  ‘You too, Edna.’

  He watched her walk away, afraid to say anything. Perhaps one day…

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Alan had just opened his parcel of fish and chips when the doorbell rang. Cursing, he wrapped it up again and went to see who it was. For the merest second he thought that it might be Charity until he remembered that she had her own key, then he panicked in case it was one of his colleagues, sent round to break the news that her mangled corpse had been found on wasteground somewhere. He opened the door. It was Victor.

  Alan struggled to hide his irritation. ‘Victor? I thought you had gone back home.’

  ‘I just came to see if you were alright,’ he said, stepping over the threshold and wiping his feet on the doormat. He had the little poodle with him and Alan eyed it malevolently.

  ‘I’m just having my tea,’ Alan announced, returning to the parcel. Somewhat grudgingly, he asked, ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I’m fine thank you.’ It was Victor’s way of saying that he hadn’t but Alan ignored him.

  Victor sat at the other side of the table and Fluffy began to explore the room. For a terrible moment Victor thought that he was going to pee against one of the chair legs, but by calling his name, Victor distracted him and after that he seemed to forget about it.

  ‘There’s something very important I wanted to talk to you about,’ Victor started.

  Alan immediately looked on his guard. ‘It’s about Charity.’

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  Victor shook his head. ‘No, it’s something else. I – I’ve been getting anonymous letters.’

  ‘What sort of letters?’ Alan was interested now. He tore off a piece of battered fish, popped it into his mouth and added a chip for good measure.

  ‘Well, it started after my accident – with the man and the tree.’

  Alan nodded, encouraging him to go on.

  ‘Well, I got a letter telling me to go to Shanklin Chine and later on I got another one in different writing to go to Rylstone Gardens – and every time I went, no one turned up but there seemed to be some sort of an accident.’ He placed the pile of letters on the table and Alan grabbed a tea towel and wiped his hands so as not to get grease on them.

  ‘The last two,’ Victor offered, ‘arrived this morning. What do you think I should do?’

  Alan looked at them all several times. He had no idea what might be going on but in view of the number of recent deaths he felt that it should be taken seriously. ‘Have you got the envelopes?’ he asked. He knew that in the CID they always asked for the envelopes and did some sort of test to establish where they had been bought and where posted. There might also be fingerprints.

  Victor shook his head. ‘To tell the truth they began to upset me so I threw them away – only I kept the letters just in case…’ He wasn’t sure in case of what.

  This was a mystery. The last two letters from two different sources were asking Victor to go somewhere but not to do anything violent. He glanced across at Victor sitting upright with his knees close together. Unless he was totally mistaken, the most violent thing Victor might do would be to stamp on an ant.

  ‘I think you should leave it to me,’ Alan said. At the back of his mind he wondered whether he could unravel the mystery of what had been happening on his patch. He imagined rounding up both the Blues Brothers and the Pretty Boys and the Chief Constable sending round his commendation. He had learned only today that the notorious twins Reggie and Randy Rodriguez were back on the street. That could only mean trouble.

  ‘I suggest you forget about it,’ Alan continued. ‘If you get any more letters just hand them to me and I’ll sort it out.’

  Victor was absurdly grateful. He felt that Alan was the perfect father figure, strong and knowledgeable, someone on whom he could rely.

  Alan went to the fridge and brought out a couple of bottles of lager. ‘One for you?’

  Reluctantly, Victor nodded. He was not a lager fan. It was too gassy and you had to drink such a lot of it, not like a nice glass of red wine, or even better a small sherry.

  Alan handed him the bottle without a glass and cautiously he sipped from the edge, wiping it carefully first.

  ‘So Charity has dumped you?’ Alan started.

  Victor wanted to argue that it was he who had decided to end the affair but as this was Charity’s father, he simply nodded.

  ‘Upset, are you?’

  He thought carefully before answering. ‘Well, I am rather sad, but I can see that…’ He could hardly say that he wanted his own ordered, cosy life back and not to be dominated by an opinionated woman who almost told him when to blow his nose.

  ‘I met someone recently,’ Alan volunteered. ‘She’s a nice woman. I think Charity thought it was disloyal to her mother’s memory so I stopped seeing her but…’ Again the unfinished statement. Sometimes it was best not to say exactly what you were thinking.

  Alan had already emptied his bottle and went for two more. Victor eyed the second one with alarm. One he could just about force down but two!

  ‘Tell me, Victor,’ Alan said. ‘What do you think has happened to my daughter?’

  ‘I – I don’t know but honestly Alan, she sounded really happy on the phone. I think she might not have wanted to speak to you because you might insist that she comes home – and perhaps at the moment she doesn’t want to.’

  Alan nodded, absorbing the wisdom of the remark. ‘It wouldn’t do any good me telling her what to do,’ he offered, ‘she can be a bossy little madam.’

  You can say that again, thought Victor, but he remained silent.

  Alan took a deep intake of breath. ‘Do you know, Victor, when she first disappeared I wondered if you might have – done something to her.’

  ‘Me?’ The thought shocked him into wakefulness.


  ‘Well, all those recent deaths. I wondered if Charity was on to you and you had to get rid of her.’

  ‘Alan, I —,’ He had no idea what to say.

  Alan patted him paternally on the shoulder. ‘I realise now of course that the idea was ludicrous, as if you…’ Alan shook his head. ‘Let’s just say you couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding, shall we?’

  What was that supposed to mean? That he was a weakling? He didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved that he was no longer a kidnap suspect.

  ‘Anyway, as you assure me that you have spoken to her and that she is safe, I’ll stop worrying – for the moment.’ He gave a burp and leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, I think I’m going to go to bed now, Victor.’

  On the way over, Victor had wondered whether to ask if he could stay for the night. In view of recent events he was nervous about being on his own, but now he didn’t feel that he could ask.

  ‘I’d better be going then,’ he said, standing up. In response, Fluffy dragged himself off one of Alan’s armchairs, leaving a potent smell of dog in his wake. Victor thought that the odour probably came from his close association with the huge Alsatian.

  Just as he was about to leave, Victor remembered that he hadn’t asked Alan about the money. He realised that the cheques put a completely different complexion on the story he had told so far. Cautiously, he asked, ‘Alan, what would you do if you were to receive some anonymous payments of money?’

  Alan thought, his lips pushed into a sort of upside down U. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t know where it came from I’d probably hang on and see if anyone asked for it back.’

  ‘And if they didn’t?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’d be within your rights to keep it.’

  The next morning, Victor paid the third cheque into the bank.

  Barry and Dodge sat in the El Sombrero holding hands under the table. This had become their place, the Barry Manilow song that blared out from an old-fashioned jukebox several times in an evening their tune. They were both silent, lost in their cosy little world of togetherness.

  Barry remembered that at one time there had been some talk of the Pretty Boys taking over the El Sombrero. ‘What would we want dealing with a load of poofs?’ Harry had objected. ‘It’s a nice little earner,’ Gary had suggested, but in the event it hadn’t happened.

  Barry thought that he would like to take it over himself and make it a happy place for gay couples to go, not a knocking shop but a sort of family place where partners and friends could relax and eat and drink without fear of trouble. He had enough money of his own so that he could afford to buy it. The idea appealed to him. For the moment, though, there were more immediate plans to make.

  ‘Right,’ said Barry. ‘We’re decided, are we? On Monday, when both our lots get together, we’ll make the announcement?’

  Dodge nodded. A nerve twitched in his cheek and Barry reached out to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there. When they see we both mean it they’ll have to give in.’

  Dodge nodded uncertainly. He could imagine Reggie’s scathing laugh, feel humiliation being heaped upon him, upon them. He was going to have to be braver than he had ever been in his life but then his very life depended on coming out, telling the world that he and Barry were an item, bound together by ties of love to the grave.

  ‘It’s not as if we’re doing anything illegal,’ he said.

  ‘No, we’re not. All we have to do is make the boys accept it. Believe me, Dodge, it’s going to be a piece of cake. I’ll do the talking and you stand next to me and show that you agree.’

  Dodge nodded again, trying to fight down the abject terror in his stomach. Only two more days to go and it would all be settled – one way or the other.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Victor invited Pamela to go to the cinema with him on Saturday evening. He had checked to see what was on and there was a special Musical season at the Regal. They were showing The Sound of Music. Victor had seen it before and as far as he could remember there was nothing untoward – certainly not on a par with Last Tango in Paris.

  Pamela turned up wearing a very full floral skirt and white blouse with puffed sleeves. On her feet she had white sandals and ankle socks with lace around the tops. She reminded him of a little girl going to a birthday party, all marshmallow and sponge fingers.

  They sat through the film without touching. During the film something strange happened to Victor. At a stroke he had gone off the idea of courting Pamela but he cautioned himself to see how it went, not to rush to end anything before it had begun. It was best just to see what turned up. With Charity things had happened too fast. Perhaps a more prolonged courtship was wise.

  After the film, he walked Pamela home. He noticed that she was wearing cotton crocheted gloves. He hadn’t seen a pair of those since the Christian Sisters’ Union had taken away his mother’s effects to raise money for the poor.

  At her gate he wondered what was expected of him. Uncertainly, he said, ‘Well thank you for coming, Pamela. Perhaps, tomorrow we might go for a walk with the dogs?’ He quite liked the idea of taking Fluffy out with another poodle, someone of his own kind that he might relate to.

  ‘Thank you Victor, that would be very nice, but I go to church in the morning and then cook mother her lunch.’

  He declined the offer to join her at church and they arranged to meet at three.

  Victor didn’t think that Pamela would start to take off her blouse and skirt there at the garden gate but he did risk giving her a peck on the cheek. He felt her flinch. Her proximity and the smell of Ashes of Roses made him risk a second kiss, working his way round to her mouth. Her lips were clamped in a tight line. He wondered what was expected of him so he tentatively touched her breast just to see if she was expecting something more. She jumped back as if he had stuck a pin into her. ‘Victor! Whatever do you think you are doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Clearly, judging all women by Charity was not a good idea.

  He backed away, trying to make it look as if the touch had been accidental. Raising his hand in farewell, and with a quick ‘see you tomorrow’, he beat a retreat. As he walked home he pondered on the mystery of life. There was no getting away from it, Charity had awoken something in him, turned him into a man with ‘needs’. He guessed that it might be a very long time indeed before those needs found an outlet with Pamela.

  The next afternoon, wearing his Safari Sun chinos and Cairo Nights shirt, he presented himself at Pamela’s front door. That morning Victor had given Fluffy a bath because he still had a distinctive doggy odour that assailed his nostrils at every turn. Shampooed, towelled dry, brushed out, Fluffy looked like a soft toy version of Larry the Lamb. Together they walked across town to the rendezvous.

  Pamela’s front door flew open almost before he rang the bell and she scuttled out like someone in The Great Escape. ‘Ssh! Don’t disturb mother.’

  Pamela was dragging a rather rheumy eyed, brown version of Fluffy behind her. At the sight of the bitch, Fluffy grew two inches taller, his head erect, his tail trembling with emotion. Victor and Pamela got into a bit of a tangle as they tried to negotiate the front gate, Fluffy having woven his way around their legs prior to introducing himself to Fifi, who snapped a warning at him.

  Once they were sorted out, they set off along the road in the direction of the seafront.

  ‘Lovely day,’ Victor offered.

  ‘We had such a lovely sermon at church,’ Pamela replied. ‘You really should have come with me, Victor.’ She began reciting the details of a convoluted story, the moral of which he never quite unravelled.

  Victor liked to spend his Sunday mornings doing his housework. To be honest, he didn’t really like his routines interrupted and the idea of fitting in a couple of hours at church on top of everything else failed to appeal. However, he listened politely.

  As they walked, Fifi was up ahead, glancing anxiously over her shoulders every now and then, while Fluffy
trotted closely behind – perhaps too closely.

  ‘I don’t think Fifi likes to be sniffed,’ Pamela offered, as Fluffy’s pink nose came into contact with Fifi’s rear end.

  Fluffy, on the other hand, was enjoying himself enormously. They descended the steep slope to the Esplanade and Victor persuaded Pamela that they should take the dogs onto the beach.

  ‘I’m not sure that is a good idea. They’ll get covered in sand. Besides, suppose they wander into the water and drown?’

  The tide was a long way out, a large expanse of smooth, damp sand inviting them to leave their footprints in its virgin surface.

  ‘Come along Pamela, let’s take our shoes off and paddle, it will be fun.’

  Regarding him as if he was suggesting the preliminary to skinny-dipping, reluctantly she began to remove her sandals and ankle socks, while Victor did likewise.

  Stuffing his socks in his pockets, Victor let Fluffy off the lead and the dog gave a good impression of a greyhound, racing around in circles, scuffing up the sand and waiting for Fifi to join him. Clearly against her better judgement, Pamela released Fifi from captivity and the pair increased their athletic dashes. The call of black-headed gulls and the whoosh of the waves were drowned out by a duet of high-pitched barking.

  Victor led the way along the beach, his feet up to the ankles in seawater. It felt exhilarating. ‘What do you do for your holidays, Pamela?’ he asked, for something to say.

  ‘I usually take mother to Eastbourne, although once we went to Worthing, but we like Eastbourne best.’ As an afterthought, she asked, ‘And what about you?’

  Victor realised that he hadn’t been on holiday for several years and even then it had been something similarly mundane, in his case a week in Bournemouth. In a wild moment, he said, ‘I like to go mountaineering, or take in a few days in Paris.’

  ‘Really?’ Pamela risked a toe in the water, looking impressed.